IX.
"Oh my God, are you okay?" Cécile was expecting her father, or some strange phantom in black, or even Luc to be at her side when she exploded from nightmarish unconsciousness. Not Carly Ann.
She was draped over a couch in a neglected-looking apartment, the bright light from an imitation Tiffany lamp blaring against her eyeballs. She tried to sit up, prevented more by Carly Ann than her own swimming head. Who was it needed aspirin? "Don't get up. Were you really saved by Batman?"
"Quoi?" Cécile murmured. She looked past Carly Ann to a man with dusky brown hair and a moustache with the most tired eyes she'd ever seen. His face was familiar though foreign, and behind him a dark-haired, motherly woman with the same air of fatigue.
"Oh, don't mind my manners," said Carly Ann. "Cécile, this is Mr. and Mrs. Gordon. This is my friend Cécile Blandine, we have classes together." Carly Ann raised a warm wash rag to Cécile's mouth. "What happened to your face?"
"It's not—" Cécile rudely pushed away Carly Ann and sat up, eyes narrowed, at Gordon. "Did Batman—?"
"You're very lucky, Miss Blandine," said Gordon, with a kindness Cécile could tell was not feigned.
"I don't remember . . ." Gordon nodded, as did Mrs. Gordon, and they were gone.
"It's just shock," Carly Ann soothed. "You need to sit down and rest . . ." Cécile waved her impatiently away, annoyed that Gordon was already leaving. She must have collapsed at the warehouse site? Had Batman driven—or flown?—her to Gordon's? Why not her own apartment? Her skin crawled. Do-gooder Batman might be, but carrying her around while she was passed out was something even the Joker hadn't done.
"I'm sorry," she said, grabbing weakly for her bag. "I've got to get home."
"I really think you should sit down. Mr. Gordon said that—"
Cécile clutched at her temple, muttering curses in French under her breath. "It's Luc. I've got to make sure he's all right." The simplicity of the statement stunned her. There it was, as bold as could be: she did care about him. It gave her courage and warmth, and she couldn't wait to tell him. Her indifference was a combination of many things, she thought, going through the motions and giving her fare on the bus even as Carly Ann ran after her, pleading with her not to go. But the indifference of a lifetime could be sloughed away. She could redeem herself to Luc.
The elevator was broken when she got to the apartment complex, and it was almost dark. She had no idea how long she'd been in the getaway taxi or indeed how long she'd been out in Batman's clutches. She took the stairs, heart pounding with every level she breached. "Luc!" she cried out to the darkness of their apartment. But no one answered.
"Glass of wine? It's the least I can do."
Cécile felt the same wintry indifference creep up on her that had preserved her her entire life. She balanced on the edge of the sofa in Rachel Dawes' living room with caution, as if something much worse than her day already could befall her. She acceded to wine with a fidgety nod. She was balling her fists, unable to meet the attorney's eyes. What had she come to tell her? She could scarcely say.
Rachel, who was in another smart suit, this time with a dark maroon skirt in silk matching a fancy, elaborately-collared blouse of ivory, handed Cécile the wine and put her own on a coaster. It was a good red, Cécile had to concede. Rachel sat down on the sofa beside her, smiling that soft, dimpled smile of kindness and belief in the best in people. In a way, Cécile could understand the Joker's derision. "So," she said, "do you have any idea where your boyfriend could have gone?"
My boyfriend. No one, not Cécile, not even Luc, had ever said "boyfriend." She had introduced him to people just as "Luc." The hollowness of her own heart hurt her, enraged her that it hurt. She squeezed the stem of the wine glass as hard as she possibly could. "N-no," she muttered. "There was no note. He didn't know anyone in Gotham."
"But surely he had some work friends? Maybe he's staying with them?"
Cécile knew she was being kind because it was in her nature. " 'E didn't work," she explained. " 'E went out at night to clubs. But he would have told me." She shuddered. Anyone else would have snapped at her that it was her own fault, that she should have been less self-absorbed. Not this Rachel person.
"Wow," said Rachel. "To have your boyfriend disappear the day after you're put in a terrifying hostage situation—it's gotta make you real glad you moved to Gotham."
Cécile attempted a smile—she was referring to when they had met earlier on campus. "I'm okay," she whispered.
"That's good, because we're going to need you to make a statement so the police can catch the guys who did this," said Rachel.
Cécile swallowed her wine, lips barely moving. "Do I have to?" she asked, voice brittle. "I was blindfolded the whole time." She had decided that this was the line she would take, the lie she would tell, in order to preserve her father's memory, the estate, her sanity, her existence. If she gave a blow-by-blow account of what really happened in the car—and with the only other witness conveniently dead—she would have to look into the pit. In her own mind, she would be vile, and in the eyes of the law, her activities, and her father's, would be questionable at the very least. Vile, for having let things get this far. And viler still, for the tiny sliver of her that wanted him to carry on with what he'd threatened to do. But she couldn't let Rachel Dawes, who was the Joker's intended plaything for some reason, walk into the situation unawares. That was why she was ostensibly in the attorney's apartment.
"That is why you came to see me, isn't it?"
"To be honest," said Cécile, taking a huge gulp of wine, "I didn't think you'd even let me in. You don't know me from anyone off the street."
"Well, you let me use your cell phone without knowing who I was, you're a friend of Gordon's, I think you're okay," said Rachel cheerfully, kicking off her high heels.
"I don't really know Gordon," Cécile said. "He just said, since I wasn't being 'cooperative' with the investigation, that I should speak to you first." Before Rachel could take up this line of reasoning further, Cécile glanced over at a framed photograph on the coffee table. She recognized it as Harvey Dent. She remembered that newspaper clipping as if the soggy envelope were in her lap at that moment.
"Hey, don't get any ideas," said Rachel, picking up the frame and holding it at arm's length. "One look at your French sophistication, and it's goodbye Gotham Girl Friday from Harvey Dent!"
"You flatter me," said Cécile, uneasy at how to take the compliment. No one had ever claimed she was pretty. She bit her lip, hard. "You must love him a lot."
Rachel stared at her, taken aback. "Yes, but it isn't always easy." She replaced the frame. "You must know that, with Luc." Cécile felt pale, transparent, used up. She nodded quickly and put down her empty glass. She couldn't tell Rachel she was in danger without revealing everything. She'd have to figure out some other way to warn her. "Look," said Rachel. "I don't normally do this, but . . . There's a fundraiser for Harvey's campaign. It's an invitation-only event, put on by my friend Bruce Wayne. You have heard of Bruce Wayne in Canada?"
"Of course."
"Well, why don't you come? Luc will let you know what he's doing very soon, I'm sure, and maybe by then you'll feel up to giving us a statement about your . . . experience?" Cécile nodded. Could Rachel Dawes actually be this nice? Or did she, like everyone else, have an ulterior motive? What was she hiding behind her sighs? She loved Harvey Dent, that was clear, but in her warmth and winning ways, there was melancholy, too. There was a schoolgirlish optimism that grated on Cécile's nerves and, guiltily, she empathized with the Joker's feelings on that point. But that was no reason to allow Rachel to be exposed to danger. She would tell her, and if that meant she was going to be locked up, well, that she could handle. She would leave her father and Luc out of it.
"Just remember, they don't allow smoking indoors," said Rachel, as she, Cécile, and Harvey Dent pulled up at Bruce Wayne's penthouse. Cécile wanted to stay in the car, to look up at the glowing glory of parties to which she had never been invited. Now she understood how Luc could spend so much of his time staring out the window at Gotham by moonlight. There was something about it, in its sordidness, its unearthliness . . .
"Believe me, Cécile," said Harvey, pulling at his collar as if it were a hangman's noose, "if taking up smoking would get me out of this tonight, I'd be right beside you on the balcony." Cécile smiled because it was the polite thing to do. "Besides, Bruce Wayne is far too fastidious—"
As Harvey helped Rachel out of the car, she slapped him playfully on the shoulder. "This is your host, Harvey, be nice." Dent took Cécile's hand and helped her out. She had found out in the few minutes during which she'd been introduced to Gotham's "White Knight" that he was everything Carly Ann had described him as, every inch a hero, brave, humorous, intelligent, tenacious. But she could tell almost immediately that he didn't like her. He cracked the jokes because it was his nature, just as Rachel Dawes' nature was to radiate trust and goodness. But she hoped the evening would present an opportunity to get Rachel away from Harvey, so she could confess and keep the saccharine attorney from harm.
Rachel was stunning, sophisticated yet demure in her gown, its dark green layers looking almost black, her hair coiffed impeccably, and though Dent claimed to be uncomfortable in his "monkey suit," Cécile could see he fitted it out like a dream. She wistfully wondered what Luc would think. With his piercings he would make an unlikely debut, but she much would have preferred his arm to Dent's. Rachel assured her that the missing persons unit of G.C.P.D. was searching for Luc. Cécile knew, if he were still alive, he would show up when he wanted to. She must manage herself when he did, so that she didn't hurt him. She was so bad with hurting the people she loved.
"Cécile Blandine, may I introduce my best friend, Bruce Wayne?" Their host was, if possible, even more handsome than Harvey Dent. He murmured enchanté over her hand as he kissed it, then forgot about her in light of his friends. She didn't blame him. She was a nobody. In purple and silver tulle, she hadn't been trying to win any beauty contests. The other Cinderellas at the ball were in pastels and jungle colors, peering down their noses at a woman they didn't know. Threatened, Cécile thought. She studied their gowns, knew which ones had come off the racks in the department stores and which ones had been tailor-made. She was more interested in the gowns than the champagne, which Mr. Wayne's butler noted with a sardonic smile.
As Rachel bid her farewell and encouraged her to mingle, Cécile stood awkwardly in the foyer of the Wayne penthouse. Her hands were itching for a cigarette as she went over and over in her head what she was going to say once she got Rachel alone. She halfway made it to the balcony to smoke before turning around again. If Harvey Dent was nervous, she could hardly blame him. These were the men for whom her father had made the majority of his suits. Rich men, powerful men, with few scruples. In context, with so many beautiful women, she was relieved that no one had singled her out for attention. She couldn't have borne that in addition to the anxiety about Luc, about telling Rachel. Worrying how she might have been able to prevent the bank robbery, the death of the man in combat boots, even her father's death, if she'd just told Duplessis the truth.
Harvey Dent's voice carried from the kitchen. "You don't trust her, do you? She's holding back for a reason."
"I know, Harvey," said Rachel's honeyed yet conflicted voice. "Jim Gordon asked me to keep an eye on her, and I think everyone deserves a second chance . . ."
So. They didn't trust her, and they were right not to. Cécile seized the glass of champagne, now cold and flat, and drank it in one unladylike gulp. Rachel was in between dances, and, best friend or not, Cécile could see Bruce Wayne edging in toward the attorney. Cécile moved across the foyer into a corner to grab Rachel when she walked by. Instead, someone grabbed her.