The Paris Key Read Online Free

remember why we’re here.”
    Genevieve fell silent. The cold salt air stung her cheeks, and her stomach growled. But she didn’t complain. She knew she was supposed to feel sad for the man, but the truth was she hoped there would be more protests, that this would become a regular mother-daughter event. It felt special, grown-up, even magical to be outside in the middle of the night, stars sparkling overhead.
    No reprieve was granted. At 12:13 a.m. an announcement was made: The man had been put to death. A few protestors lingered, gathering in prayer circles or making statements to the press, but most shuffled back to their cars in silence.
    Angela had driven them home, her cheeks wet with tears. It was only as they were nearing the farm that Genevieve realized she didn’t know what the man had done to earn his death sentence. The sad, distracted look on her mother’s face kept her from asking.
    She was sorry, now, that she hadn’t. There were so many things she wished she had asked her mother when she had the chance.
    â€œWhat had they done, the prisoners in the Bast-ee?” Genevieve asked her uncle.
    â€œOffended the king in some way. They were political prisoners.”
    â€œWere there a lot of them?”
    â€œGood question!” Dave chuckled and shook his head. “Actually, turns out there were only seven prisoners in the Bastille at the time, but it was a symbolic victory. And never underestimate the power of a symbolic victory. Now, see that river, right there? That’s the famous Seine.”
    The river was a black expanse in the rapidly fading light. A series of small bridges lit by ornate streetlamps straddled the water, leading to yet more bleak buildings on the other side.
    â€œAnd here we are, home at last,” Dave said as he turned onto a tiny street with cobblestone sidewalks.
    Genevieve looked up just in time to catch sight of a small plaque on the side of a building. Craning her neck, she made out white letters against a faded blue background.
    â€œVillage Saint-Paul?” she read.
    â€œVillage Saint-Paul,” Dave repeated with the French pronunciation. “One of the oldest neighborhoods in all of Paris. Full of nooks and crannies, little lanes and courtyards with no cars allowed, just the occasional bicycle. We’re known as the antiques district, people come from all over to shop, and we have a few big outdoor antique fairs every year.”
    â€œOh.”
    Dave looked at her with amusement. “You don’t like antiques?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œI’ll tell you a secret,” he said in a whisper. “I don’t care much about them, either. Not antiques per se, anyway. But I do love antique keys and the old houses they belong to.”
    Dave stopped the car in the middle of the street, killed the engine, and got out, circling around to get her suitcase and bag out of the trunk. Genevieve followed suit. It made her nervous that they were blocking the way, but there weren’t any other cars on this narrow side street. In fact, there seemed to be no life at all.
    â€œThis is it,” he said proudly, gesturing toward a storefront. The lights in the shop were out, so all she saw was a display window in the anemic glow of a streetlamp that barely cut through the cool mist of the evening. A wooden sign over the window read : UNDER LOCK AND KEY.
    â€œIt’s in English.” The one thing Genevieve had been prepared for upon her arrival in France was not to be able to understand anything.
    â€œYep, I keep meaning to come up with a better French name but never quite got around to it.”
    â€œDo people here speak English?”
    Dave chuckled. “Not so’s you’d notice. The younger folks more than the older ones. But I went with the English saying because the French word for locks,
serrures
, was hard for an old country boy like me to pronounce. And besides, after the war Americans were pretty popular