Floats the Dark Shadow Read Online Free

painting of Matthieu was no more successful than her first. She felt a pang of dismay.
    Before her father left for Italy, he’d seen her working on the first portrait. He’d urged her to submit it to the Salon, claiming it was certain to be accepted. But the longer she worked, the less she’d liked its bland pastel prettiness. Theo had taken the finished portrait all the way to the door—and stopped. She’d worked hard to please her father. Acceptance by the Salon would have been proof she was worth the upkeep of her studio and her lessons at the Académie Julian.And it had not been only for her father that she had struggled with the portrait. She wanted her work displayed. At the Salon de Champs de Mars, her painting would be viewed by twenty thousand people a day.
    Not this painting. Theo had carried it back and scraped it down.
    She waited tensely for some probing question from Averill and was grateful that he said nothing. Turning around, she found him still leaning in her open doorway, artfully insouciant, a wicked little smile hovering about the corners of his lips. “I have an invitation for you.”
    “An invitation?” she prompted.
    He sauntered over. “To the Gates of Hell…and beyond.”
    A riddle. La Barrière d’Enfer. Theo knew Hell’s Gate was what they called the old southern toll gate out of Paris. And beyond? The guillotine had once stood nearby, but no longer. Then, beneath? “The catacombs.”
    “ Exactement .”
    Theo smiled, feeling a shiver race along her spine—apprehension, but anticipation too. Wandering through a labyrinth of ancient bones wasn’t her first choice for an evening out in Paris, yet Averill made the darkness alluring. Life was more vivid when contrasted with death. Theo had been promising to go to the catacombs ever since Averill said he was writing a poem about them. To illustrate it she would need to see the beauty in their desolation, as he did.
    “Casimir is playing his violin in a midnight concert tomorrow—at midnight on April 1st. We are all invited.”
    Casimir Estarlian, baron de la Veillée sur Oise, was Averill’s oldest and closest friend among the Revenants, the group of poets—and one California artist—who’d joined together last year after the performance of Oscar Wilde’s Salomé . Their magazine, Le Revenant , had created quite a stir in the literary world. “A revenant is a ghost that is not only visible but tactile,” Averill had explained to her that night. “Sometimes even a corpse risen from the grave. A ghost that feeds upon emotion. Upon desire.” Averill had written four poems, all highly praised. Theo had illustrated them for him in the intricately twisted style he favored. Those illustrations had won her praise as well.
    “A midnight concert in the catacombs?” She tilted her head, considering. “How can I resist?”
    Averill smiled with such boyish delight that this time her answering smile was unforced. He had challenged her. She had accepted. It would be an adventure, and however forbidding the territory, she would be with him.
    “It will be unique.” He looked at her intently, frowning slightly now.
    “What?”
    Reaching out, Averill smoothed back a strand of wet hair sticking to her cheek. Then he broke off a cherry blossom from the branch she’d put inside her jacket and tucked it behind her ear. He nodded toward the easel. “You should do a self-portrait— The Bedraggled Amazon .”
    Theo sputtered with laughter, amused and embarrassed. The Revenants had dubbed hertheir Amazone blonde. Sh e was skilled with horses and weapons. Her nickname was masculine and she often wore trousers instead of skirts. That choice was daring. Illegal. They applauded her for it, their bold American. But sometimes she felt she was permitted her brashness because she was from California, a name they pronounced with the same exotic savor as Trinidad or Madagascar. She was something not quite tame. At times, Theo felt more like a mascot than