Flowers of Darkness Tatiana Rosnay (chromebook ebook reader TXT) 📖

startled cat dashed under the sofa. Andy bent over to pull him out gently, settling him on her knees. He calmed down as she patted him.

“Is he getting used to it here, Mums?”

Clarissa picked up Andy’s backpack, jacket, and sneakers and put them in her office. She told Andy the cat seemed happier, that she wasn’t worried about him. But she was. She kept this to herself. She couldn’t work out if he was the strangest cat ever, or if there was truly something about this apartment that unsettled him. She often found him staring up at the ceiling, transfixed. And yet there was nothing to be seen. At other times, he appeared petrified, ears back, his body shuddering. She was never able to pick out what could have alarmed him to such an extent. Did the cat see things that humans did not? Was there a ghost here? She did not believe in ghosts. She believed in what walls remembered, how places harbored past emotions, past memories. But these walls were new, brand-new. She was the first person to ever live here. Could the cat be afraid of what had happened on these premises long ago? Was his behavior to do with the attack? Was he picking up suffering and pain from the scarred land the residence was built on? Was the cat crazy? Or else, there really was something here. Someone. Something. She had felt it, too. She had picked out the tiny cameras in each room, like little black eyes, always following her around. It made her as uneasy as the cat. Maybe that was why she hadn’t been sleeping well, nothing to do with being alone. Who was watching her? What for? What could she do about it? Whom could she complain to?

“Mums!” called Andy. “Can I wash my hair in your fabulous shower?”

Clarissa found Andy in the bathroom.

“That Mrs. Dalloway of yours. She won’t do anything for me. She won’t even answer.”

Clarissa smiled.

“She only responds to me. She’s been programmed to react to my voice and nobody else’s.”

“Well, what if something happens to you and I need help?”

“I guess you use your phone.”

Andy shrugged.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said grimly. She came to stand next to her grandmother, pasting her cheek to Clarissa’s.

“Why didn’t I get eyes like yours? They’re so blue, it’s unfair.”

“Yours are lovely.”

“Green, like Mummy’s. Yours are really something. You don’t even need makeup, with those.”

Then reaching up to touch Clarissa’s braid, she asked, “What’s your real hair color, Mums?”

“When I was your age, it was auburn. Then I dyed it redder when I was in my forties. But now it would be all white.”

“Don’t you want to try it all white?”

“Nope. I don’t mind being an old lady, but there is no way I’m going to have white hair. I’m sticking to being a redhead.”

“There is nothing old ladyish about you, Mums. Even if you happen to be my granny.”

“Hop into that shower, missy. Otherwise, we’ll miss the hologram event. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Tonight was the worldwide event everyone was waiting for, the lighting up of the hologram representing the Tower. At ten o’clock sharp, when night had fully fallen, all eyes would be riveted to the spot the Tower once stood upon. Clarissa was lucky to be able to see the whole thing directly from her window, and not on television. The hologram was to be projected barely three hundred meters away from the residence. The president was going to speak, as well as the mayor of Paris. While Andy showered, Clarissa laid the table in the kitchen.

“Mrs. Dalloway, turn on the television. Find the hologram Tower event, please.”

“Coming up, Clarissa.”

The built-in screen lit up part of the kitchen wall.

“Which channel do you prefer, Clarissa? They’re all broadcasting the event.”

“You choose, Mrs. Dalloway.”

Clarissa was aware she couldn’t avoid the president’s speech. She was going to have to look at the president’s face, listen to her voice; she was going to have to endure all of it. Like most people she knew, Clarissa had not voted for her. That woman had come to power again after having been designated a first term. With the slow crumbling of Europe, a drawn-out, inexorable calamity, and above all the unparalleled violence of the attack targeting Paris, already a decade ago, there had been nothing to prevent the indomitable young woman with the low voice from being elected. During the last presidential elections, Clarissa had prayed with all her might that she would not be reappointed. But she had been, by far. When the second victory was announced, Clarissa thought for a time she might return to live in London, as she had dual nationality. But the disturbances left in the wake of Brexit were still not smoothed over, and the subsequent attack against London, so soon after the Paris one, had also left indelible scars. She had decided to remain in Paris, alongside her daughter, her granddaughter. And her husband.

Her husband. While she stirred the soup, she thought back to the long texts received this morning from François. He said she was on his mind all the time, every day. He missed her so much. They had to find a way to work this out, to talk it over. They couldn’t just end it all like this. It was impossible. Every morning, he opened her closet and buried his face in all the clothes she’d left behind. He breathed in her perfume. He cried. Yes, he had done wrong, yes, he had acted so badly, but their marriage couldn’t be over. She had to give him another chance; she had to let him explain, excuse himself. He was begging her. He was down on his knees. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Jordan wouldn’t talk to him. He had tried to reach her. She didn’t pick up. What did Jordan know? Did she know everything? He was full of shame. He missed Andy, too. He had seen that kid grow