stared in shock at its epitaph.
Ici Repose
Mason Caldwell
1864–1889
“It was all her acrobat friend could afford,” Garrett said, “but I rather like it. The simplicity of it seems to fit Mason so much better than all these gaudy monstrosities.”
Mason was staring at the headstone, stricken. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t thought about it, but of course they had to bury that poor woman from the bridge somewhere.
It was bloodcurdling, seeing her own name in a cemetery, set in stone. It seemed to give a permanence to what she’d considered only a brief charade.
As they stood there, he offered her his hand. “Will you join me in this quest, Amy? As my partner? Will you help me give Mason the immortality she deserves?”
Mason had left the cemetery in a kind of a trance. She hadn’t taken Richard’s hand and had made no commitment to him. Numb with shock, she’d babbled, “I don’t know…seeing Mason this way…I have to go think.” Then she’d turned and reeled away from him, nearly running up the stairs.
But in this traumatic moment, she’d made no effort to pull off her mask the way she’d steeled herself to do.
How could she? It would ruin everything. He wouldn’t understand. He was so wrapped up in the glory of her tragic young death that he’d be appalled by what she’d done. The truth would rob him of something he considered exquisite and profound. He saw her death as noble, epic, mythic. It almost seemed to be the thing about her that he loved the most.
There was no question in her mind now that, if she told him the truth, he would walk away and never forgive her.
And she would lose everything she’d always wanted in the process.
But what was the alternative? Take his hand? Be his partner? Remain Amy Caldwell?
It was impossible…just impossible.
Hours passed. She walked the streets, wrestling with her dilemma. She knew where she wanted to go, but she was trying to resist its lure. But eventually, it became too much of an effort. She couldn’t stay away.
She crossed the Seine and headed down the Left Bank until she reached the Champ de Mars and the fairgrounds. The work crews had just left the various construction sites for the day. The cordoned-off area, with its signs warning her not to enter, stretched out before her like some sort of half-finished fairyland. And here—among all this rising splendor, in the midst of the glass-domed Palaces of Machines and Fine Arts; the reconstructed Cambodian village and Egyptian Bazaar; the exhibition halls; gardens and restaurants representing countries from all the corners of the earth to accommodate the culinary, scientific, and artistic appetites of the 32 million people expected to attend the fair—Richard Garrett wanted to construct a temple dedicated entirely to the art of Mason Caldwell.
Think what that would do for the family name. All those nasty people who’d looked down their pious noses at the Caldwells. How could she possibly say no? Didn’t she owe it to her mother, if nothing else?
But how could she possibly say yes?
To do that, she’d have to be willing to stay dead, assume the identity of this nonexistent sister, paint in secret, pretending that whatever new work she finished had been a discovery from the past. Not just for two weeks, not just for a month, but for the rest of her life! To never tell the man she loved who she really was. To always have to lie to him, trick him into believing what he needed to believe.
And then there was the matter of the policeman, Duval. Who knew what he suspected? If she stopped now, if Amy disappeared and Mason resurfaced, she could likely get away with what she’d done. But if she continued the deception and got caught, as surely she would…What had Lisette said? The toughest fraud laws in Europe. Ten years for a minor offense. More shame. More humiliation. More scandal for the Caldwells of Massachusetts.
No, no, no.
It was out of the question. To even think about continuing this perilous game was madness. It would require nerves of steel. The cunning and confidence of a master criminal. The acting skills of a Sarah Bernhardt.
But if she didn’t do it…
She would lose this miraculous opportunity, this answer to her prayer for help that night on the bridge. And she would kill any chance of keeping the only man she’d ever met who she knew could fill the empty space in her soul.
Mason…or Amy?
An impossible choice.
But…What if she could do it? Take the risk and seize it all. The thought gave her a tingling sensation of daring.
She walked past a Mediterranean-looking building and crossed to the middle of the plaza made by the four corners of the Tower’s base to stand directly beneath it. She’d never been so close to it before. From a distance, there was no way to appreciate the massive scale of it. She looked up and felt it soaring above her, the tallest structure on Earth. The naysayers had all declared that it would never stand, that the forceful winds of the Île-de-France would send it toppling to the ground before it could be finished. But here it was, flying in the face of their ridicule, a symbol that anything that could be imagined could be accomplished.
Tomorrow, England’s Prince of Wales would officially inaugurate the monument and would be granted the honor of being the first to ride the elevator to the top. Crowds would gather to celebrate the occasion. A grandstand had been built where speeches would be made and the royal party would enter the elevator.
But tonight, the Tower was hers alone.
Darkness was descending. Mason was looking all around her, marveling at the network of iron girders, at the grace and beauty of the crisscrossing ribs, when her gaze came to rest on the stairway that zigzagged its way from the north base of the Tower just behind the grandstand all the way up to the first level. Seized by an impulse, she walked to the base and found that the stairwell was unblocked. She stood there a moment, pondering it. Do I dare?
She stepped to the opening and looked up. It was growing darker and she couldn’t see very well, but it didn’t look especially intimidating. Why not go up and have a look?
She began to climb the metal stairway, her heels making a hollow, clanging sound. It was a steep incline, but scaling the Montmartre butte every day for five years had made her legs strong, and she effortlessly climbed higher…higher…back and forth as the staircase shifted direction at regular intervals.
Finally, she emerged on the first observation level. It was deserted. She was amazed that she’d made it this far. Was there no one to rush out and arrest her for trespassing?
She stepped to the rail and looked out on the view of the Champ de Mars below her and the dome of Les Invalides to her left. It was completely dark now and stars were beginning to sparkle in the sky. She felt positively wicked being here. Then the thought hit her.
Could I go even higher?
She looked around until she saw the entrance to the next level of stairs. This was a narrower spiral staircase that wound almost straight up. Feeling even more wicked, she began to ascend the staircase. Higher, higher, higher…She was breathing hard now, but it was strangely fulfilling. She lost all
