Despite myself, I was interested. “Why in silver?”

“It will add to the mask’s durability.” She smiled. “We’ll paint it, fit it with the attachments that will secure it to your face, and voilà! You, monsieur, will have a new face.”

Although I tried to avoid it, my fingers flew to my cheek, to the rough pits and gouges. “And the old face?”

“It’s still yours, monsieur,” she said quietly. “A memory of a time when you were stronger than what you were fighting. A reminder that you came home.”

I exhaled. “I think I’m ready to begin.”

With a quick smile and a nod, she led me over to a low chair, backed against a table. “If you’ll sit, please, I’ll make you comfortable.” She brought a stack of bed pillows to the table and covered them with a spotted sheet. “Lean back against these.”

I settled back as she draped me with another sheet, from the neck down. “I feel like I’m at the barber for a shave.”

She picked up a bowl of something pale and creamy. “Nearly.” She scooped up a fingerful. “It’s Vaseline. I’ll rub it on your face and—”

“Please…” Suddenly my jokes didn’t feel so funny. Just nervous conversation, as they often were. “May I?”

“What, rub on the Vaseline?”

I held out my hand for the bowl.

Instead she set it down and leaned against the table. “Monsieur, I know you are sensitive to your condition, but, to help you, we must touch your face at times. Please let us.”

“No one does.”

Of course, the doctors in the hospital had touched my face, when it was still raw and oozing. Surgeons had cut it and stitched it up again. Mabel had washed it and changed the dressings. But since leaving the hospital, since it had begun healing, pink and tight and itchy, that all stopped. Even I avoided touching what had become of me.

Until the first day I came in the studio, and Clare so unexpectedly put her fingers to each side of my face, feeling the scars of the last four years, feeling everything she’d missed, no one had touched me with such gentleness. I didn’t trust that anyone else could.

“I’ll do it.” I took the bowl and, closing my eyes, began smearing the Vaseline onto my face.

“Be sure you get plenty in your mustache and brows. And along your hairline, if you please.” I kept rubbing until I heard her say, “That’s enough.”

I opened my eyes to lashes stuck together.

“You can keep them closed if you’d like. I’ll prepare the rest of your face for the plaster.” She pulled a wad of cotton wool to stuff each ear. “We don’t want any plaster to drip in there.” And a soft, thin piece of fabric twisted into a rope, snaked along my hairline and was tucked behind each ear.

“Is this how it feels to be packaged in a crate, I wonder?”

“I see your humor has returned.”

“At least until you start.” Through my gummy eyelashes, I saw a bowl on the table, filled with a thick white soup of plaster. “That’s what you’ll put on my face?”

“Yes, but quickly, before it begins hardening.” She gave it a few more stirs as I settled back deeper into the stack of pillows. “There. That should be ready. The quills and then you can close your eyes.”

“Quills?”

She held up two hollow sections of quill, cut short. “Now this will only be uncomfortable for a moment.”

The two quills went in my nostrils, so it was more than a little uncomfortable, and it definitely was longer than a moment.

“Close your eyes now.”

The first few drops of plaster hit me as heavy and cold as mud. She dripped it across my face, then up over my forehead. I felt it spatter on my eyelids, and squeezed them shut even further. “Relax,” she said firmly, and I tried to oblige. Wet plaster slid along each side of my nose and I inhaled sharply through the quills. “Relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled, but she pressed a damp finger to my lips. I flinched.

“Still, now. Please.”

Plaster covered my mouth. If I tried to scream, it would fill my mouth, roll down my throat. I dug my fingernails into my legs.

I wasn’t getting air. Those two quills in my nose, I knew they weren’t enough. I breathed so fast I could feel them quivering. I need…I need…I couldn’t even tell her.

“You’re fine, monsieur,” she said calmly. With the cotton in my ears, her voice was wavy, like I was underwater. Or maybe I was faint. I was blacking out, hurtling into the void, going to die. All of those stones in the old well were falling down on me. The ceiling of the quarry was closing in. I’d be buried alive.

And still she wasn’t stopping. I could feel the layers on my face getting heavier and heavier. Surely the weight would crack right through my skin and seep into my blood. I wanted to tell her to stop, to tell her that was enough, that surely she could make a mask with what she had right now, but when I tried, my lips tasted like plaster.

So heavy, and hot. How long did she say it needed to stay on? It had been at least a few minutes, more than a few, many agonizing minutes. So hot; was I burning?

“You’re fine,” she said again, and I tried to shake my head. “No!” I said. Or maybe it was her, because she was pinning me down, holding my head still. “You mustn’t move. Monsieur Crépet, no!”

But I had to move, I had to escape, I had to find a place to breathe. How could they do this to a man and say it was for his own good? My throat tightened. Oh, God, it was closing up. I was dying. I reached up, to touch the mask, to tear it away. I had to.

Then through the fog, a voice broke through, “Pascalle, no!” Commanding. “You can’t hold him down like that.” The weight on my chest eased, let go. “He’s terrified of small spaces. Oh, Luc.”

Like an angel, Clare was there. “Louise, open the window.” Light fingers unbuttoned the top of my shirt. Cool air reached my chest. “Pascalle, that wet cloth.” She was speaking English, in a tumbled rush. “Luc,” she said in a low voice, “I have you.” Quickly, quietly, she repeated that over and over until my breathing slowed. She took my hands, sticky with plaster, in hers. “I have you.”

A chair squeaked and she sat next to me, still holding my hands. “Do you remember, Luc, all of the wood violets that grew around the chestnut tree? We’d step right over them and the air always smelled sweeter. I was so silly, but I used to take a handful up to my room and pretend that you picked them for me.”

I squeezed her hand.

“And all of the cicadas! Their song was our symphony that summer.” Her hands were warm. “Remember the fable of the cicada who spent all summer singing rather than storing food? La Fontaine, wasn’t it? You told me that’s why you never hear cicadas singing in the city. Parisian cicadas would never forget their larder.” She laughed. I’d forgotten her little peal of a laugh, so rare. “I understand that now.

“And do you remember the time Bede went missing? Marthe packed us a bag with oranges and brown bread and cheese, and we hiked all day through the pines looking for his footprints. And when I fell and bumped my head, you ran to the stream and carried back the water in your two hands for me to drink. Hardly a few drops by the time you found me again. Did I ever tell you how vile that water was? Muddy and dank. But I drank those palmfuls of water because you brought them.”

My lips moved against the inside of the cast. I wanted to tell her that, yes, I remembered. That I would’ve gone to the Amazon and back for water if it would’ve made her feel better.

“Here we go,” she said, and I felt other hands on the side of my face, easing the plaster cast off. When it lifted, my eyes found Clare’s. “Do you remember what you said to me the day we met?” she asked.

I remembered her standing in the front hall of Mille Mots like a lost fairy queen. She looked so sad and scared and defiant, all at the same time. I’d offered my hand and ended up giving up my heart.

“You are safe with me,” she said.

Mrs. Ladd had urged a morning off. “You are tireless, Miss Ross.”