“Mademoiselle Oliphant. It translates to ‘Point zero of the roads of France.’ In other words, it’s the point from which all other distances in France are measured.” St. Clair clears his throat. “It’s the beginning of everything.”
I look back up. He’s smiling.
“Welcome to Paris, Anna. I’m glad you’ve come.”
chapter nine
St. Clair tucks the tips of his fingers into his pockets and kicks the cobblestones with the toe of his boots. “Well?” he finally asks.
“Thank you.” I’m stunned. “It was really sweet of you to bring me here.”
“Ah, well.” He straightens up and shrugs—that full-bodied French shrug he does so well—and reassumes his usual, assured state of being. “Have to start somewhere. Now make a wish.”
“Huh?” I have such a way with words. I should write epic poetry or jingles for cat food commercials.
He smiles. “Place your feet on the star, and make a wish.”
“Oh. Okay, sure.” I slide my feet together so I’m standing in the center. “I wish—”
“Don’t say it aloud!” St. Clair rushes forward, as if to stop my words with his body, and my stomach flips violently. “Don’t you know anything about making wishes? You only get a limited number in life. Falling stars, eyelashes, dandelions—”
“Birthday candles.”
He ignores the dig. “Exactly. So you ought to take advantage of them when they arise, and superstition says if you make a wish on that star, it’ll come true.” He pauses before continuing. “Which is better than the other one I’ve heard.”
“That I’ll die a painful death of poisoning, shooting, beating, and drowning?”