Path of Night by Sarah Rees Brennan

Author:Sarah Rees Brennan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.

Ambrose spun down the Rue Crémieux at the golden hour of evening, the last and warmest sunshine splashing on each of the vibrantly colored houses in turn. Walking down this narrow cobbled street was like dancing along a string of colored glass beads, light infusing each color with brilliance so the beads transformed into a ruby, an emerald, a topaz, or a pink pearl.

The entrance of one house boasted a painting of a cat stalking birds, which made Ambrose imagine a hunting lioness. He cast a look over his shoulder at Prudence, ravishing in a black Audrey Hepburn–style dress and ornate earrings in the shape of guillotines.

Trompe l’oeil, he told her. “It means ‘deceives the eye.’ Art that uses perspective cleverly enough to give an illusion of reality. You almost expect the cat to move.”

Prudence murmured under her breath. For a moment Ambrose believed she was admiring the sight.

Then the artistic illusion of the cat leaped up and consumed a fluttering bird in one bite. A spray of red paint on the cat’s whiskers was all that remained.

Prudence stalked away down the street.

Ambrose was beginning to get the feeling Prudence might be annoyed with him.

“Prudence, can I make something clear about our last night in Florence?”

Prudence was adjusting her black lace gloves and didn’t spare him a look. “I have something to say about that night as well.” She spoke with perfect sangfroid. Prudence already had an air of belonging in Paris, as though her arch loveliness granted her automatic citizenship. “Thank you.”

There wasn’t much gratitude in her tone.

“Ah, yes, you’re welcome.” Ambrose directed a quizzical look at a lamppost. “For …?”

“As a daughter of the Church of Night, I do disport with dark carnality, ruin men for anyone else, cause them to die wasting away with longing for another glance from my brilliant eyes, and so on.” Prudence waved her gloved hand. “You know, the usual.”

“I do know the usual,” said Ambrose. “I thank all the tiny imps in hell for dark carnality.”

“This isn’t the time for it.” Prudence spoke with finality on carnality. “What was that absurd poem you were reciting?”

Ambrose brightened. “You’d like to hear the poem again?”

“I wouldn’t,” Prudence declared. “‘The lioness, you may move her, to give o’er her prey.’ Nothing moves me. I must dedicate myself, body and soul, to my revenge mission.”

“Would it be inappropriate to say that’s very hot?” Ambrose asked.

Prudence sighed, exasperated, in the direction of Versailles. “I don’t wish to be distracted by irrelevant nonsense. You may be a romantic fool, but I’m not. Frankly, given your lurid family history, I’m concerned you might become fond of me. I can’t imagine anything more inconvenient or unwelcome.”

She shook her head with the expression of a woman who wished to hold her nose but was trying to conceal her distaste.

Ambrose murmured: “Wouldn’t want that.”

He was dispirited for the length of several streets. Then he reminded himself that the idea of softer feelings must be strange and new to Prudence. Still, they were in the City of Lights.

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