"It'll still be fun," Colette assured him. "Maybe more fun. Do you have candles?"
While we all went in search of light, Elodie took Nisha upstairs to find a dress. Then Luc led us through his family's apartments, into a passageway that looked like it should be for mail deliveries, and onto an elevator. And when we got out-
"Bon anniversaire!" Luc said, and it echoed through a hall the size of a football field. Moonlight filtered in through frosted glass, but other than that and the candles we all held, throwing erratic shadows over our faces, everything was completely dark and silent. I could still tell exactly where we were, and a smile crept onto my face as Luc said, "I got you the Louvre!"
CHAPTER 24
This is Julien," said Luc. "It might appear that he's trying to kill that goose, but they're best friends. They are having dancing lessons."
We were standing in front of a gleaming marble statue nearly as tall as me, of a little boy and a bird. Luc had stories he'd made up as a child about every piece of art in here, and he was giving us a personal tour.
We'd come through a side entrance to the museum and made it halfway up this hall, ducking into galleries along the way.
The Louvre was all ours for the night. No guards. No alarms. For as much time as we'd spent in Paris, and even in this complex, the only time I'd actually been inside the museum was when Jack and I were looking for Napoleon's diary. And then we were being chased, dodging tour groups and blending into crowds. I tried not to think about the fact that this time here could be my last.
"This one"-Luc spun, his dress shoes clicking across the checkerboard floor to a statue of a cherub reaching to the heavens-"this is Felipe. Doomed from an early age to go into politics because of his family name, but his real love is opera."
He cut off when the wail of a siren started up nearby, and then another, and another, a mechanical chorus. We all glanced at each other.
"Felipe sings in the shower," Luc continued defiantly, his candle spotlighting the cherub's cheeks, "and one day, he was discovered by a famous singer walking by his window, and now he's onstage every night in Vienna."
My arm brushed Stellan's. We were standing close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off his body.
Luc ran across the room, his candle flickering dangerously. "Here!" he said. Elodie grabbed Colette's hand and twirled her in the moonlight. Colette's hair clip fell out, letting her strawberry-blond curls loose. They'd both already ditched their shoes, and were barefoot in their formalwear.
"One of my favorites!" Luc's voice echoed off the stone arches. "Sven, the butcher."
Stellan took my arm lightly in his hand. As Luc rushed ahead, he whispered, "Can I show you something?"
I glanced after the rest of the group and followed him into a dark gallery. "My favorite in this wing," he whispered.
The statue was of a man, larger than life, his torso twisted, emerging from a block of stone.
"The Rebellious Slave," Stellan said, setting his candle at its feet. "No one knows why it's not complete. Some people say it's on purpose, the juxtaposition of beauty and roughness. Some say Michelangelo abandoned it when he couldn't achieve the perfection he wanted."
From the next room, music started up, something jazzy and old and scratchy. Stellan reached out and touched the rough chisel marks at the statue's side, thrown into greater relief by the small, flickering light at its base. I couldn't help touching it, too, the marble cold under my fingers.
"I like it because it's unfinished," Stellan said. "I like that you can see the chisel marks. See where it came from. It makes it so much more."
The music had been getting farther away, and now there was a shriek. We jumped, and Stellan picked up his candle. But the shriek was followed by a burst of laughter.
Stellan's face relaxed, and he held up his candle. It bathed me in soft light, his eyes tracing over my dress, the little buttons, the lace. The flowers in my hair, fragrant enough that I could smell them every time I moved my head. Especially by candlelight, I must have looked like a Jane Austen heroine. The sultrier version-the one where lace and buttons weren't quite so prim and proper. If I had been trying to wear something he'd like, I could tell I'd gotten it right.
"You clean up okay," he said huskily. "Not that covered in blood isn't a good look for you . . ."
I smiled down at my flickering candle, then brushed a tiny piece of lint from his jacket. "You don't look terrible, either. I guess."