Aimée did not release me from her friendship the following day, nor the day after. In fact, I was her acolyte for the full week of her stay at Servane's inn. She often left little James with me and ventured empty-handed into the town; each time she returned, disheveled, she had a few coins clutched in her hand.
The child took an immediate liking to me, though I daresay he was a good-natured enough creature that his wet smile was bestowed on anyone who took a moment to coo over him or complement his china-white skin and thick, silky curls. In all the hours that he was in my care he never howled like some patrons' babes; instead, his wide black eyes would fill with tears and he would turn the most pitiful expression on me, his rosy lips trembling, until I acquiesced and fed him. Aimée witnessed this once and laughed, telling me her child, like his mother, already knew how best to get what he wanted from others.
Before Aimée came to the inn I had hardly spent any time with women my age, much less borne the responsibility of upholding a new human life. Yet Aimée had trusted me completely with the safety of her child the first time she went off alone. I had hardly dared move him from my lap for the first hour, until I smelled that he had soiled himself and carried him delicately across the garret room to the washbasin. He squirmed so much beneath my hands that I was forced to tighten my grip, realizing then that his bones, though small, were not as brittle as I had imagined. By the third day of Aimée's stay at the inn, I was unafraid to carry the child down to my stool before the hearth and sit with him on one knee, letting the patrons dote on him and, occasionally, on me. The attention of those who thought me a mother was the most surprising revelation of all: I had never been looked at with respect until baby James was in my arms. I knew that motherhood created a meaningful bond between the parent and her child-sometimes even after her death, as in my case-but I'd never considered that playing the role of a devoted wife and mother might raise my own status in the eyes of others. With James on my knee, I wasn't just the spinster urchin of Montreuil-sur-Mer, but a woman. It was a status I had never considered reaching, nor had I been aware that I lacked it.
Aimée and I proved to be surprisingly good companions for one another. She loved nothing more than to regale me with stories about her life-she had a way of spinning even mundane daily events into an entertaining tale, her expressive face and voice injecting humor in unlikely places-and I in turn loved nothing more than to listen. Though she was only eighteen, Aimée had already lived more stories than even old Mademoiselle Duchamps. I learned about her wretched mother, a servant who had caught the eye of a gentleman one day when she had accidentally exposed part of her leg to him, and how she had left her daughter to raise herself when she was hardly old enough to stand. She knew little of her father, but she invented a hoary professor with eyes that rolled freely in their sockets and a mouth that was twisted into an eternal snarl. Seeing her contort her face as she described him always sent me into fits of undignified hysterics.
The images that held my attention the most were her descriptions of Paris, the city of her birth. In stories about my mother, Servane had always described it as a war-torn place full of intrigue and murderous traitors, but in Aimée's eyes, it was a noble city with elegant limestone buildings and hulking palaces lining a broad, slow river that was dotted with all manner of barges. She described a city with winding streets choked with well-dressed people and peaceful carriages, of neighbors calling happily to each other from upper windows and cafés filled with lively students who spent more time eyeing women than books. I had grown up on the edge of Montreuil-sur-Mer and thought it a big city, but Aimée opened up the rest of the world for me. She described Paris; she had traveled; she had known companionship and employment and true, complete homelessness.
It was not hard to see why Aimée persisted in calling me "Enfantine".
I noticed at once that my new friend-for indeed, I had finally dared to think of her as such-only spoke of Paris, of companions she had left behind, and of lovers with whom she had parted ways. The story of James's father and her life in England remained untold. The subject, like the suitcase crammed beneath the bed, was closed and mostly hidden.
I did not ask. I never asked. When the story of Mademoiselle Duchamps and her broken engagement had reached my ears, I had turned away from it and buried it. I knew the old woman as she presented herself. The person she had once been was irrelevant.
It was the same with Aimée: she was my first real friend, a passionate, open woman with an easy laugh and an expressive face. I only sought to identify her as my friend, as the woman who was staying in a garret room at Servane's inn and who insisted I stay with her. The stories of her childhood in Paris were interesting only because they presented a new view of the famous city; I did not think they had anything to do with our friendship. Nor did I wonder about James's father and the life Aimée had led in England.
I was young then, and I was foolish. It was not the first time I would ignore blatant warning signs about the person in whom I had put my trust, and I'm ashamed to say that it wasn't the last time either.
At the end of the eighth day of Aimée's stay at Servane's inn, I awoke to the sound of the door being thrown open. Aimée had left for the evening and I had been charged with James; the infant had dozed off in my arms and, loathe to wake him, I had simply curled around him and fallen asleep myself. When the crooked wooden door slammed into the wall I awoke with a start. James opened his dark eyes and stared gravely at his mother, who was standing over the bed with her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. In a sliver of starlight I saw a frantic expression on her face.
"Lie down," she hissed. "Lie back down and go to sleep. If he comes in, this is your room, do you understand? That is your child."
I nodded and obeyed, still drowsy enough to accept this turn of events as though it was a continuation of a dream. Aimée dropped out of sight, and after a moment I heard the long scrape of something being dragged across the floor. I lifted my head just enough to see her dark, unbound hair as she rifled through the suitcase that I had never dared mention. By the dim light of the moon, Aimée stripped off her dress and dragged on a men's undershirt, then stood to put on a pair of baggy trousers. She crammed her dress back into the suitcase and caught up her hair under a top hat, which fell a little too low on her brow, resting on her ears and bending them beneath its brim. To my surprise, after retrieving a vest from the suitcase she latched it and hurled it out the open window. I gasped and sat up-the window looked out onto the street, and though it was late at night I expected to hear a passerby cry out. Aimée shushed me and pushed me back onto the bed. She held me there for a moment, straining to listen against the silence of the night. I thought I heard a dog barking in the town and the eternal noise of crickets in the tall grass outside, but nothing else.
Aimée was not reassured. She began buttoning the vest and pulled a cravat from the breast pocket, which she tied with practiced ease. I was fully awake now, but the vision of my new friend dressed as a scrawny gentleman was so unexpected that I still felt disoriented.
"We have time," she whispered, "but he's downstairs. He'd see me. Give me James."
I sat up, moving away from the child so that she could scoop him into her arms and transfer him to his basket. "Take him," she said urgently, shoving him against my chest. "Don't let anyone see him. Wait for me by the road."
"What are you-?"
"He's here," she said again, her voice rising to a hiss. "Don't let him see my baby. He's downstairs. Go!"
I adjusted my grip on James's basket and, grateful that I had not changed out of my dress before falling asleep, stepped into my slippers and went out into the narrow hall, but we had delayed too long. The bottom stair creaked beneath an intruder's weight; the wooden rail whispered beneath someone's palm. I backed into the room again. "Aimée?"
She shushed me, but it was too late. At the sound of my voice the boots on the staircase broke into a run. Unsure what to do, I took the baby into the furthest corner from the door and dropped to a crouch, hunching my shoulders and letting my loose hair fall forward in an effort to hide the child from the intruder's sight. Aimée had not told me from whom we were hiding, but the emergence of the suitcase full of men's clothes had been explanation enough.
A moment later, James's father was standing in the doorway.
I must admit I was surprised. He was a small man with narrow shoulders-I realized then why the men's clothes from the suitcase fit Aimée so well-and a curly crop of hair that glowed bright orange in the dim light from the open window. His skin was as white as his son's, but covered in splatters of freckles. Despite his charming complexion, the man's expression was frightening.
"Amy!" he shouted, his voice thinner than I expected. His pale eyes roamed across the room and came to rest on me. He said something else in English; I could only gape at him uselessly. "I know she's here," he said in heavily accented French, advancing on me as I huddled over his child.
I shook my head, unsure if Aimée had meant for me to lie to him. She had spoken to me a moment ago, but now I realized that I didn't see her in the cramped room. Had she thrown herself out of the window after the suitcase and left me to face her Englishman alone?
In a few strides he was upon me, his face now a dark shade of red that clashed with his hair. At the time I thought him a man grown, but in my memory I realize that he was only a few years older than the mother of his child. Here was one of the creatures about whom old Mademoiselle Duchamps had warned me: a thin, graceful young man with blackness in his heart and a cowering woman before him. I may have been afraid, but I was not surprised.
The Englishman caught my chin between his fingers and forced my head back, glaring into my eyes. He said something else I couldn't understand when he realized what was in my lap, twisting my hair roughly out of the way. As he leaned over the basket, pushing me against the wall, I heard little James shriek for the first time since I had met him, an angry howl that was almost inhuman.
Then, an instant later, the Englishman was wrenched over backward, the glow of a white sleeve wrapped around his neck. Aimée had reemerged and was practically hanging from the man's back, both arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He spluttered, prying futilely at her wrists, and for a moment I thought she would succeed. Then the Englishman bent forward, hoisting Amy partially off the ground, and took two off-balance steps backward, ramming her into the doorway and collapsing against her with his own weight. I heard her sharp intake of air as she slipped to the floor, trying to regain the use of her lungs. The Englishman stood up, adjusting his collar and clearing his throat experimentally, the purple tinge of his skin fading back to white.
As for me, I could only watch the scene unfold before me the way I had listened to the horrid stories that old Mademoiselle Duchamps told before the fireplace. I hunched over James's basket again as his father approached once more, muttering something in his native tongue.
Even if I hadn't just watched this man batter my only friend against a wall, even if he had simply strolled into the inn and politely asked to hold the babe in his arms, I would not have surrendered James to him. This child had been in my care for the better part of a week, and I had already come to know his moods and expressions. He had smiled at me once, and when I put my hand into his basket he grasped at my fingers and laughed. I adored the child, perhaps even more than I did his mother, and would not have passed him to a stranger for any price.
My thoughts were scrambled as the Englishman advanced on me; I told myself that I could put the basket aside and leap upon him once he was close enough, that I could drag him to the ground as Aimée had done and crush at his throat with my elbow. I steeled myself as he rose an arm, perhaps to strike me, but before he had the chance Aimée was between us again, and she landed a blow directly in the middle of his face.
Blood burst from beneath her fist, and the Englishman crumpled backward on the floor, his jaw lolling.
Aimée seized my shoulder with her clean hand and barked, "Go, get up, now! Outside!"
I obeyed after stealing another glance at the unconscious Englishman: he finely-shaped nose was misaligned and his face was covered in a half-mask of blood. A dark pool of the stuff was even forming under his head like a pillow; I noticed that he had collided with the corner of the doorframe as he fell. I dared not linger. I leapt over the Englishman's oustretched legs, clutching James's basket to my chest, and thundered down the wooden stairs of Servane's inn, aware that Aimée was just behind though I dared not turn my head. We cleared the upper hallway and second staircase in an instant. The front room of the inn had never seemed to small as I left it behind and made for the road. A moment later Aimée was at my side, her battered suitcase swinging in one fist and her blood-covered hand balled against her stomach. "The coach to Paris," she gasped at me. "You can leave us at the coach!"
I had not run freely down the streets of Montfermeil since going to live at the Gagnier farm, but it seemed that none of my stamina had deserted me over the years. The tall grass was a blur as I moved through it, only the steady drum of my feet against the ground and my ragged heartbeat filling my thoughts.
I didn't stop until Aimée tripped and seized me by the arm in an attempt to catch herself; I had the presence of mind to fall on one side, still curled around James's basket to protect it from the impact. For a long moment we lay next to each other as we had fallen, our chests heaving as we raggedly gasped for breath in the thin autumn air.
Even when my heart had slowed and Aimée's panting had subsided, we remained there unmoving. I stared at the star-specked night sky, my vision framed by the tall yellow grass that must have hidden us from the view of the road, one hand resting in James's basket to verify that the child, though quiet, was unharmed.
I saw the grass near my feet rise gently back into place. Our trail was gone. If the Englishman had regained consciousness and tried to follow us, he couldn't know which way we had run.
It was Aimée who spoke first, her voice as low as the chilly wind that rustled the wild grass.
"I forgot the money."
I turned my head away from the fading stars at last.
Aimée was lying flat on her back, unmoving, her dark eyes round. Her blood-stained hand was still balled against her stomach, though the blood itself had dried to a dark brown color that matched her stolen waistcoat. With her other hand, she clutched at a few strands of grass so tightly that her knuckles were white in the gloom. When I offered no answer, she turned her stricken expression on me. "The money. I had a bag of coins to pay the coach to Paris. It was all the money I had. When I packed the suitcase I forgot to add it. I left the money under the bed."
I began to understand, but I could still think of nothing to say. I had no money of my own to offer her.
"I can't make it to Paris unless I go back, but I know he'll wait till morning to pursue me. He'll still be at the inn. The disguise won't be enough."
"I'll go," I blurted.
As soon as the words had been said, an expression I had never seen before seeped into Aimée's eyes. "Enfantine," she murmured, sounding out the nickname as though we had never met.
I pushed James's basket over to her and scrambled to my feet, brushing futilely at the dirt stains on my long grey dress. There was a smear of the Englishman's blood on the sleeve where Aimée's wounded hand had brushed me during our fall, and another where she had seized my by the shoulder at the inn.
Aimée giggled, her voice ragged. "If ever you visit me in Paris, little one, I shall buy you a modern frock. No one will ever believe you were once the spinster urchin of Montreuil-sur-Mer after I've finished with you!"
"Then I shall visit you in Paris one day," I assured her with a smile.
The walk back to the inn took much longer than I expected. We had been moving fast when we made our escape, propelled by panic at the sight of the Englishman's blood. The sky behind me was streaked yellow by the time I reached the outskirts of Montreuil-sur-Mer. The lengths of chain securing the sign above Servane's inn creaked gently in the cold breeze, but other than that, everything seemed quiet. There was no sign of the Englishman.
The front room was empty. I crossed over to the hearth where I had been born and crouched over the embers, thinking to blow them to life and warm my hands before I continued upstairs.
A floorboard creaked and, still skittish after the night's events, I leapt to my feet and spun around.
It was only Servane, a battered housecoat pulled on over her shift and her greying hair hidden beneath a nightcap. I greeted her and started to turn back to the fireplace, but she stood where she was and stared at me. Her face was in shadow; I could not make out her expression.
"Did we wake you?" I asked cautiously. "When the man attacked Aimée, did we-?"
Servane turned to the kitchen and propped the door open with her back. "She's here!"
A police sergeant appeared at her shoulder with a pastry in one hand, shadowed by a soldier who could not have been much older than I was: his round face still marred by acne. I had seen the sergeant loitering on street corners for years; he was an old man with plump, low-hanging cheeks and a face encircled by a white beard like a lion's mane. He pushed the young soldier forward.
"Yes sir," the boy said, marching importantly across the floor of the room and starting to seize my arm. He balked, then called over his shoulder, "She's even got the late gentleman's blood all over her dress!"
"So don't wait! Arrest her!" the sergeant replied.
Grinning, the boy rounded on me and seized me by my other arm. "Come with me."