V.

Cécile had not entered her father's workshop after she had cleared it of the half-finished suits he had left behind. Once she had decided conclusively to give up the Blandine business, once she had made the phone calls and sent the e-mails and attuned to the possibility that Luc was going to be hanging around, whether she let him into her bedroom or not, she had begun to leave that part of her life in the shadow. But then, reasonably enough, the Waterman Institute of Art and Design had asked for a portfolio in her application. Sketches, swatches of cloth. Cécile wondered wryly if the competition was really that fierce—it was the inner-city, though she had become fond of its look on website and through the leaflets they sent in the mail—but she was determined to do her best. For once in her life, she thought, let this be meaningful.

Most of the sketches were her father's. She knew that in looking for the archival paper, the colored pencils, the HB .03 lead and the crow quill pen sets and India ink, she was going to run across her father. And the memories would be good ones, rather than the ones that had been surfacing more and more in the months after his death. She would remember his passion at designing suits, his skill at the sewing machine, his dexterity, his creativity. She had always wondered if she'd inherited any of that genius, that knack for knowing what looked good, or if all she'd gotten was experience threading needles and cutting fabrics. She was going to find out.

At the bottom of a cardboard box was a small swatch of purple fabric. To anyone else, it wasn't worth scavenging. It could have been from the lining of a wool raincoat or a theatrical costume for amateur theatre. But she knew the coat it came from so very well.

The doorbell rang, and with a sigh, Cécile stuffed the sketches and swatches under her arm and went to answer. Luc never rang the doorbell, he usually didn't even bother to knock. It had to be another acquaintance of her father's, tardily paying his respects, curious to see the specimen of the daughter, how she was coping. She threw the pile of relics on the chair nearest the door and turned the handle.

It had to be Luc, thought Cécile, clearing her throat in irritation, because whoever had rung the doorbell had disappeared. There weren't even footsteps receding through the rue St. Denis. She had led Luc into her bed, the night they'd gone to the club, but they hadn't consummated anything. His hands dipping below the waistband of her jeans spooked her; she couldn't let anyone see the scars there, the scars the Joker had somehow guessed were there. So Luc had left unsatisfied and, she reflected, kept on coming back.

She shrugged and bent to pick up the large mailing envelope left on the doorstep. Luc was the romantic type, no matter how many piercings he had, but not even he would have dared leave roses for her. What was the point? she wondered. There wasn't any identifying mark on the padded envelope, not an address, not even a handwriting sample. She pulled the cord and tore through the slightly soggy cardboard paper.

A series of postcards and newspaper clippings fell into her lap. She had to slam the door shut as a huge blast of wind threatened to take the curious package away from her and into the street. She leaned against the door, a cold sweat developing at her brow. She picked up the topmost clipping, immaculately cut from a newspaper with the precision of a razor blade. She shivered as she read the headline: No clue to hijackers' motive in Greyhound bus attack. The article was short, and Cécile skimmed it with ease and a slowly mounting sense of nausea. A Greyhound bus had been stolen from a depot in Watertown, New York, apparently hijacked by an armed gang. It had disappeared, only to be found abandoned in the suburbs of Gotham. There was no sign of the hijackers, and only the testimony of a very scared little boy. "It was a gang of clowns," the boy asserted to the police and the paper. The boy's comic had been taken but he was returned otherwise unharmed to his traumatized mother.

The very reason for its being clipped for her left Cécile in doubt as to who the head clown had been. She knew that the Joker robbed banks—or at least he hadn't denied it—but for what reason could he have hijacked a Greyhound bus? She picked up the next object in the pack, and to her surprise she found it was a sheet of thin paper, torn from a magazine. It had an illustration on it, garishly reproduced and poor in quality. It depicted some sort of man's figure wearing a cap and cowl and stood in some absurd action pose. Cécile tried to think what on earth the Joker was trying to get at by including this with the chronicle of his own crimes. It was a clue she had somehow failed to unravel.

The next clipping in the pile was similarly cut with a razor blade from a newspaper. It said Apartment tenant held hostage for 16 hours. Cécile read on, seeing that this article was reported from an apartment complex on the outskirts of Gotham city, some godforsaken flea-pit by the description in the article. Why would the Joker want to hold a drug dealer hostage? Part of her wondered why the man, duct-taped and left with the relics of a smile painted on his face, was still alive by the end of the article. Somehow she couldn't see the Joker sparing anyone—though he spared you, said a voice in her head. Certainly the hostage had gone to a psychiatric ward and wouldn't be able to identify his attacker if he tried.

There were words in the article underlined in green pen. "Makeup" and "face cream" and "ruin." There was a sad face drawn on the last line of the article, a sad clown-face in green, radioactive around the words, "The assailant, calling himself 'the Joker,' was forced to flee the premises and leave a bottle of green hair dye behind." Cécile tried not to smile at the last observation, but against all reason, she did better than that—she laughed. She folded the clipping and added it to the pile.

There was another article, the one in accent fonts, no doubt rescued from some kind of Gotham gossip rag. There was a photo with this one, too, of a young woman dressed in a smart black suit. The headline said Rachel Dawes—heartbreak imminent for DA's main squeeze? The text of the article was idiomatic and, what was more, inflated and absurd, so Cécile found the English slow-going. She really had no idea why the lovelorn assistant district attorney for Gotham would interest the Joker—unless he was trying to kill her? But what for? And why notify Cécile about it?

The grainy, pixelated photo of Rachel Dawes showed a young woman caught in a moment of doubt, frowning angrily into the distance. Obviously not captured at her best. Three words in the text were circled in red pen. "Why . . . so . . . serious . . ." Cécile wondered what the Joker wished to achieve. Carve a face onto Miss Dawes? Why? She wasn't an anonymous citizen to be intimidated: from the article, it looked like someone in society was watching her every move. The Joker had threatened to improve Cécile's smile—was that the connection? Ladies the Pierrot of the Underworld wished to improve by mutilation, and for apparent obscure titillation motives, known only to him?

Last in the pile of offerings was a small, cheap postcard, printed in the palette of a bygone era. The reds and oranges were sunny, the blues vivid—the 1940s artist had succeeded in making Gotham City appear an oasis of delights. Overhead the old headquarters of the Wayne Building were the words "Wish You Were Here."

Cécile flipped the postcard over to the back. It was blank. There was space for an addressee and a message, but there was nothing, not even a conspiratorial smiley face. Cécile had to quickly re-examine her feelings of disappointment. What did she expect, an endearing personal message? An address including what abandoned warehouse he was calling his base? She looked again at the words "Wish You Were Here." Did he really mean that? Or was it an over-involved joke at her expense? When was anything not a joke with him?

She sorted the clippings and fed them back into the soggy envelope, examining it a second time even though she knew there was nothing on it. Was the Joker back in Québec? She opened the front door, not expecting anything. She couldn't prevent herself from walking into the darkening street, knowing looking was like trying to find her father's ghost. The street was silent. The lamp flickered, almost a murmur, almost a sigh.

No, he'd just hired someone to pitch the package at her door. He loved to make his entrances—if he was in Trois-Rivières, he would make sure she knew. Something would be on fire, or something would be broken. Then why bother? What was he trying to say? To taunt her? He must know that she'd taken the American money, he must know that he had that on her now. Was that why he'd sent her a cosy package? Or was he really trying to lure her to Gotham?

Cécile was nineteen and standing in front of a full-length mirror in the fitting room. Her father was busily tacking traces to take cuffs and hems up on the mannequin, a muted blue suit with a gold tie. It was only a Montréal businessman, but for all his self-importance, he could have been the Prime Minister. But he wasn't especially interested in his suit. He was standing behind Cécile, forcing her gaze into the mirror and the heel of his hand against her thigh. She tried to twist her head back to call her father, though the way he guiltily ducked his head told her he knew. She closed her eyes in disgust. She was going to bite the insides of her cheeks until they bled, but she wasn't going to disrupt her father's business. Oh, no. She was too much of a good girl for that.

The businessman—LaRoc—had just moved his hand to her lower back when the door to the fitting room slammed open. Cécile, not prone to jumpiness, dodged out of the way and spread herself against the wall. LaRoc cursed colorfully in patois, and Blandine turned grey. Cécile straightened up. The Joker was shuffling a new deck of cards, flitting them in and out between his purple gloves with dizzying speed. His entirely nonchalant posture showed him to be completely involved in the shuffling of the deck, as it were the only thing of interest to him in the whole room. But his brown eyes kept betraying the craziness of his makeup job, kept straying to LaRoc with contempt and rage.

"Anyone wanna see a party trick?" he asked loudly.

"Who is this clown?" asked LaRoc in French, thinking he was witty.

The Joker cocked his head in the direction of the businessman, his tongue darting out of his mouth, but said nothing and made no other indication he'd even heard.

Blandine got off his knees at the mannequin and came to somewhat mincingly shake the Joker's hand. "Am I . . . inter-rupting anything?"

LaRoc was tall and broad, so marching up to the somewhat hunched and frayed-looking creature, he made quite a spectacle. "Actually, yes. I am not sure what you are doing here, but this was my private fitting." This was spoken in excellent English, without a trace of an accent.

The Joker grinned and looked at Cécile. "I think I almost got the gist of the frog's retort, Marie-Cécile." He backpedalled away from LaRoc, holding out the sides of his purple coat so that the stunning yellow-orange lining gleamed in the light. There were other things gleaming, too, and Cécile was never quite sure if the Joker had meant to expose the workmanship of the coat or make bald the threat. "As you can see, Mawn-sewer, my reasons for being here are just as transparent as your own." He sniffed and looked at Cécile again. This time LaRoc looked, too.

"Blandine, am I to understand this man is a . . . client of yours?"

"No, you don't wanna do that," said the Joker, with his overly nasal accent. He tried to lean in confidentially to LaRoc, who pulled away in barely concealed disgust. "The tailor is sadly mute. The daughter gets all upset if you make a big deal out of it." LaRoc frowned at Cécile, who was studying the carpet with feverish intensity, unable to lift her eyes to give LaRoc her full opinion of him. "Do you like painting froooooowns on pretty girls' faces, Mr. Montréal? Maybe your taste runs more to bruises and welts?"

LaRoc colored slightly and gave Blandine an angry, contemptuous stare. He then made a point of looking at his watch. "I seem to be late for an appointment. I will resume this later." He gave Blandine a curt nod, but spared nothing for either Cécile or the Joker. Cécile dug her high-heeled shoe into the carpet. She'd stayed silent for nothing: if they'd lost LaRoc's patronage due to the Joker's interference, there wasn't any reason she shouldn't have made him pay for every slimy advance and stolen touch.

The Joker was standing between Cécile and Blandine and making a great show of awkwardness, scratching at his greasy scalp with a self-conscious glove. "Oooh. He didn't have a very good sense of humor, did he?" He shuffled the cards one last time and then slammed them down on the nearest table. "The suit is ready, isn't it?" He showed his yellowed teeth. "I hate disappointment."

Blandine looked at Cécile and snapped his fingers. Cécile chewed her lip. "Fine, then, I'll go fetch it." As she moved toward the door, the Joker caught her arm. She shrank back against the wall, looking again to her father for protection and again not receiving it. The Joker picked the topmost card off the discarded deck and held it up against her cheek. "I feel really discriminated against."

Cécile laughed incredulously. "What?"

The Joker made a false face of regret. "You must have stayed with Mr. Montréal to help measure the cut of his coat and the turn-ups of his trousers. And yet you're always running away when I'm here for fittings. One has to wonder at your taste, Marie-Cécile."

He dropped the card, then, and it floated to Cécile's feet. It wasn't the joker card, like she was expecting, but the queen of hearts. She pushed past him with a deep breath. "And don't forget the hair dye," he cackled behind her.

Cécile knew that Luc had had nothing to do with the clippings. But something perverse in her wanted a co-conspirator in what had been bestowed on her doorstep. "Did you drop off my package, Luc?" she asked in a voice so charged Luc sat up, more used to her tones of indifference.

"What package?" He was playing some online game on her computer, listening to her, listening to the game's sound effects, sipping a glass of wine.

"It must have been hand-delivered," Cécile went on mysteriously. "It didn't have any address on it."

"Well, it wasn't me."

Cécile masked her annoyance; he wasn't interested in playing along. She dumped the soggy parcel on his lap. He muttered in disgust, then was forced to empty the clippings. "What does this mean, Cécile?"

"Remember," she said, unusually coy, "when you said about—"

Luc sighed as he began reading the articles. "I see. I see who it is. This is from Gotham."

"Evidently," she said with more venom than she meant.

"From the place you want to go to design school in. From your—from the Joker."

"So it would appear."

"I see," said Luc. "So you won't go beyond an innocent peck with me, but for this guy you'll go to Gotham."

Cécile's face turned sour, and Luc looked away, retreating into his computer game. "That has nothing to do with it. I've applied other places than Gotham anyway." Luc nodded slowly. "I should be really angry with you," Cécile went on, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't ask for anyone to send me a package—I don't even know that it was from him."

"Oh, it was from him."

"Okay, so? I can't control what crazy people dressed like clowns do. He tried to burn my face with a cigarette, Luc, did I tell you that?"

Luc ruffled though his hair. "Yes, you did."

"It wasn't fun, you know? I didn't get off on it." She shrugged. She waited for him to touch her. He always touched her after her outbursts; she shrugged off physical contact, but he always leapt to supply her with it. She'd grown used to refusing or indifferently giving in. When he didn't offer it . . . "He always said horrible things about my father."

"Yes," said Luc, clearing his throat. "But maybe they were true."

Cécile resisted the urge to slap him. Her fingers grew taut, then relaxed. "I know you don't speak to your parents anymore—"

"It has nothing to do with my parents, Cécile, I just want you to think about your father's culpability. He was human. We're all human."

Cécile cocked her head. "You never told me what you fell out over, you and your parents. Was it the piercings? I don't—"

"It's just like you," he said bitterly, "to change the subject. When you don't want to talk about something, it's 'back off,' but when I—"

"Maybe you're right," she sighed.

"What? You really mean that?"

She touched his shoulder. "I'm going to go to the University where I get accepted."

"Yes, okay." He sighed. "It's your life."

Cécile took Luc's arm. It was her life. She'd been seeing things through a haze for so long. She pulled him to her, got on her knees, leaned over, kissed him. She didn't want to say that she'd like it if Luc came with her. She groped her way through the dark, winding shadows, passing the cobwebs of regret and all the time lost. In this she valued Luc's simplicity, the youth in his demands. She forgot the silence of the house, the house where her father had died. She forgot the hand-delivered package and the snow turning to rain outside.

Luc left her bedroom in the morning not because he wanted to, she knew, but because he knew that's what she expected. He was the cuddling type, despite all the piercings—that had been interesting, she hadn't quite known how not to get entangled—the posturing. His youth, his callow sweetness, it betrayed his outward outlandishness every time. It was quite the opposite with the Joker, Cécile thought. He was rotten inward and out.

She could start the summer session of her two-year degree at the Waterman Institute of Art and Design, if she wanted, the letter on heavy cotton-weave paper, signed in fountain ink, told her. A separate letter giving her all the financial aid she'd asked for came later. It was all like clockwork, and even if she had sincerely wanted to stay in Trois-Rivières, such a deal couldn't be ignored by anyone with sanity.

Cécile never allowed herself to get excited over anything. She mistook the feeling of intensity and anxiety in her stomach for sickness and laid off the cigarettes for a day. She was lazy and a coward, and she dreaded telling Luc, if she could really claim to ever feel dread. In the end she just handed him the letter and battled with the sensation of tears. What was she afraid of? "Okay," he said. "You're going?"

She sighed. A real smile. Why . . . so . . . serious? "Yes. I'm going."

Luc clicked the log out on Windows. He rubbed his tongue over his lip piercing, causing Cécile to feel strange, elated, tainted. "Then I'm going too."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Cécile sputtered.

"You don't want me to go?"

"You're just going to quit your job?"

"Cécile, it's Gotham. My English is good. I'll find a job."

She threw up her hands. "You're really going to follow me? Where will you live? Oh, you stupid boy—"

"Does that really matter? Look, you can't really stop me—even if we have to take separate trains, I'm going." His voice grew small. "I don't want to be where you aren't, Cécile."

She was baffled and strangely touched. He would never admit to loving her if she didn't say it first. They had been "going out" for several months, but she'd never imagined—that he could feel so deeply—or . . . Maybe he was just bored, she thought. Maybe his life was hanging on a thread in Trois-Rivières, too, and this was the impetus to break it. Chaos, she thought. A dose of the unexpected. Tipping the balance. Yes, perhaps this was the best thing to ever have happened to Luc. And when the feeling had cooled, when he had realized how boring, how manipulative and selfish, grey, "asthmatic" she really was, he would have something to fall back on. He could move on.

"The semester doesn't start for a few weeks," she said, troubling to keep her voice even. "We have some time to pack. You can give your two weeks' notice."

Luc grinned. "You try not to be sweet, Cécile, but I've got news for you—"

"I'm a regular choux-choux, n'est-ce pas?"

A/N: "Choux choux" literally means cabbage but is a term of endearment in French-speaking locales. Don't ask me why.