Page 47 of Intersect

Once I’m in a cab, there’s more waiting to endure. The highway is hopelessly clogged by morning rush hour, and only the motorcycles manage to make headway, whizzing through the narrow spaces between cars. It takes nearly an hour before we are finally in central Paris, with its maze of tightly lined streets, and another ten minutes to Montmartre. The bell tower of Sacre-Coeur looms ahead of us the whole way, a jagged cutout in the blue sky. I wish the sight didn’t feel as ominous as it does.

“Vous êtes pres,” the driver says. I don’t speak French, but I can guess what he’s saying. And I wish he were wrong, because 37 Rue des Trois Freres is not a hotel like I assumed. It’s not even a business as far as I can tell—merely a bright red doorway with a street number beside it, otherwise unmarked.

I came here solely because we’ve run out of options, and staring at the simple, unassuming building makes me realize what a fool’s errand this has actually been. If Sarah isn’t on the other side of that door, and I doubt she is, we are fucked. I thank the driver and climb out with my overnight bag in hand, preparing myself for the possibility—a dwindling possibility—that I’m about to meet Quinn’s aunt.

Everyone wants something, I remind myself. Even a murderous time traveler. I just need to figure out what she wants more than Quinn’s spark. If it’s in my power, I’ll give it to her.

I knock, and after a moment there is shuffling, and the door opens. The woman who answers is old and stooped. She is definitely not Sarah, and seems an unlikely partner-in-crime for a time traveler bent on destruction.

“Bonjour,” she says. “Souhaitez-vous que je vous lise les lignes de la main?”

I’m ill-equipped to have the conversation I need to right now. I nod, though I have no idea what I’m agreeing to. I just hope to God she doesn’t start to undress.

She opens the door and I follow her into a small shop. Tiny drawers line the walls, along with thousands of glass vials, leading me to wonder if witches are her customer base, because this definitely looks like someplace a witch would shop. Painstakingly I put together a sentence.

“Je suis désolé, je suis ici parce que...” I am sorry. I am here because… This is all I have. I don’t know how to say search or look or need to find in French. I sure as hell don’t know how to say time traveler. I begin fumbling with my phone, looking for a translation when she stops me.

“Why don’t we speak English instead?” she asks. “Your accent is atrocious.”

I laugh and sigh in relief at the same time. “Yes, I know.”

She’s still scowling. “I mean, it’s truly, truly terrible. I barely even understood you. You should work on that.”

I nod, torn between laughing and rolling my eyes. “I will.”

“A foreign child on this soil for one day speaks better French.”

I see she’s getting hung up on this, so I decide to nudge her along to something I actually care about. “So the reason I’m here is that—”

“You want a reading, yes? Of your palm?”

In my sleep-deprived haze it takes me a moment to understand what she is asking. A palm reader? Why the hell would Sarah need a palm reader? Can’t she just jump to the future and find out for herself? “Well, not exactly. I—”

“Let me read your palm first. You can clearly afford it.”

I’m obviously not getting any help unless I comply, so I slump into the chair she points to, letting my laptop bag sag to the ground. I’m so tired I could fall asleep right here. I hold out my hand and she takes it, smoothing her calloused fingers over the lines.

“You’re American,” she begins, and I once more contain the urge to roll my eyes. I wish Quinn was here. She’d be every bit as cynical about palmistry as I am, even now that we’ve both watched people vanish in front of us.

“You’re a swimmer.” Lucky guess. Lots of people swim. Maybe she smells the chlorine. “And you’re in love,” she adds. Again, lucky guess. She had at least a fifty percent chance of being correct with anyone she said that to.

“A girl you’ve loved through many, many lifetimes.” This feels like slightly less of a lucky guess. Her eyes brighten. “She is carrying your child. No, wait. I see two children.”

Shock has me attempting to withdraw my hand, but she holds it in her tight, clawlike grip. “That’s not possible,” I say quietly.

She laughs. “Oh, I’m afraid it is, papa. As for the tumor…” I stiffen. Not a lucky guess. There’s no fucking way she could have known. Her face grows sad and she withdraws her hand. “You never know. That’ll be twenty euro. Vingt euro. You still need to learn French. You’ll be spending a lot of time here, Nicholas.”

My eyes widen. “How did you know my name?”

She looks at me reprovingly. “Well, I had to figure it out since you so rudely failed to introduce yourself. I am Cecelia, by the way.”

Cecelia is definitely a hell of a lot more than a mere palm reader. I hand her a bill and with it, the photo of Sarah I got from the hospital security cameras. “I’m looking for this woman. Her name is Sarah Stewart. I saw something indicating she might visit you.”

Cecelia slides the photo toward her, peering at it with a blank expression on her face. She nods. “Amelie, yes. She’s picking up a shipment.”

My hand flexes against the edge of the table. “Amelie? The woman I’m looking for is named Sarah. She’s not French.”

Cecelia nods. “Amelie Bertrand, oui. She is French.”