The Collector of Dying Breaths Read Online Free Page B

Luc arranged for the cremation, invited guests to the memorial and hired caterers and florists and musicians. All to Robbie’s specifications. And then on Wednesday, it was Luc who hosted the celebration downstairs in the formal rooms of the house—the memorial Robbie had requested instead of a funeral.
    That morning Jac showered and then dressed in a simple black sheath with black pumps, her grandmother’s pearls and the watch she always wore, her mother’s. Ready far too early, she sat in her rocking chair and stared out her window at the courtyard with its barren trees and sleeping flower beds. She heard the first guest arrive. Was aware from the growing noise level that more guests had gathered. Finally it was time for her to go downstairs. But she couldn’t. Instead she rocked back and forth in the antique rocker, staring at the naked tree branches swaying in the March wind. At some point Luc knocked on her door and told her everyone was there and waiting for her. In a quiet voice, she told him to start without her. That she’d come down soon.
    But she never did. She never left her room. Never stopped staring at the lonely courtyard. Jac didn’t want to hear them eulogize her brother. Didn’t want to interact with the people who’d offer her condolences and try to reassure her with all kinds of meaningless platitudes.
    Robbie had promised he wouldn’t leave, and he’d never broken a promise to her before. Maybe if she just waited, stayed in that rocker long enough, he’d come back to her.
    That evening, when the house was finally still and quiet, Jac attempted to meditate herself into one of the hallucinations that had plagued her since childhood. These fugue states took her out of the present and into dreams of unknown origin where she was someone else, living another life in another time.
    If she could go there now, she could escape the pain of missing her brother for just a while. She longed to disappear into someone else’s life, someone else’s history, and get some relief from this unrelenting loss.
    She closed her eyes. Slowed her breathing. Imagined a dot of light between her eyes. Her third eye. Focused on the place ancient mystics believed was the portal to altered states.
    Jac waited for the warm air and infusion of scents that accompanied what Malachai called “memory lurches.” But she couldn’t summon one any better than she could prevent one when it came unbidden.
    On the Monday following Robbie’s funeral, Jac began attending to business. In the morning she dealt with the bank and at noon sat down for lunch with Luc, his two brothers, George and Marcel, as well as Monsieur Corlaine, the family solicitor. It was the first meal she’d shared with anyone since her brother had died.
    Jac had asked the cook to make a simple lunch of cold soup, roast chicken and salad with a fruit tart for dessert. Just choosing the menu had been an arduous effort. Even the most mundane tasks were suddenly more difficult.
    She met her guests in the living room, where navy silk jacquard curtains with white stars and moons and gold suns draped windows that looked out onto the courtyard. Created in the early 1900s for her great-great-great-grandparents, the motif was repeated all over the formal downstairs rooms. There were gold stars painted on the night-sky-blue ceiling. Astrological signs woven into the gold carpet. The furniture was a mix of pieces from different eras arranged artfully. Classic but comfortable.
    As she was about to lead everyone into the dining room, Jac’s cell phone rang. Glancing at the LED screen, she asked her guests if they would mind waiting a moment. The call was from Detective Marcher of the Paris police department.
    Almost two years before, a journalist had come to the L’Etoile workshop to interview Robbie about a new perfume line. Robbie quickly realized the reporter wasn’t who he purported to be. He knew nothing about the industry. Robbie guessed the man was there to steal