Today will be an autopilot day, I reassured myself as I threw on some jeans and a sweater and made my way blearily to the breakfast table. Papy was already sitting there, dressed for work and reading his morning paper. “Up so early?” he asked, lowering the paper to meet my eyes.

“Exactly why my teacher insists on a lesson at nine a.m. on Saturday, I don’t quite get. But I know better than to keep him waiting,” I said, pouring myself some grapefruit juice and grabbing a croissant off the counter.

When I had (somewhat hesitantly) told Mamie and Papy that Vincent had gotten me fencing lessons for my birthday, they were delighted—to my astonishment. I hadn’t realized how popular the sport was in France, or that it had aristocratic connotations. My grandparents weren’t pretentious, but working in the art-and-antiques world gave them an appreciation for anything grounded in history. And what was more historical than swordplay?

Papy went all out and bought me my own suit and épée. I didn’t explain to him that Vincent’s gym housed a fully stocked armory, or that fencing was just one component of my fight training. He would have to buy a battle-ax, quarterstaff, and a half-dozen other weapons to keep up with Gaspard’s training regime.

My grandfather gestured toward a vase of flowers on the hall table. “Found those in the vestibule when I picked up my paper this morning.” A brightly colored nosegay was nestled in a small round vase, with a gift-wrapped package sitting next to it. I opened it and pulled out a book entitled Le Langage des Fleurs. “The Language of Flowers,” I whispered to myself and, opening it, saw an inscription on the title page:

For Kate. You’re already fluent in two languages. I thought a third wouldn’t hurt. Your homework assignment accompanies this book. With affection, Violette de Montauban.

Glancing at the tiny bouquet, I flipped through the pages to look up yellow roses and purple hyacinths and, grinning, shoved the book into my bag and called “Au revoir” to Papy.

Once out the door, I looked around for Vincent, my heart beating a little faster in expectation of seeing him waiting for me, leaning up against the park fence like he usually did. Which is why my heart dropped when I saw Jules there instead. I quickly rearranged my look of disappointment into a careful smile, but he noticed anyway.

“Sorry I’m not your boyfriend. And I mean that in all sorts of ways,” he said with an amused smile as he leaned forward to kiss me on each cheek.

“Where’s Vincent?” I asked, taking the arm he offered as we headed toward his house.

“He’s off doing something for Jean-Baptiste,” Jules said, glancing down at the sidewalk as if he was afraid I would read his mind.

Which sent warning bells off in my head.

I thought back to the awkward stare-down between Vincent and JB at the house meeting, and then to Vincent’s elusiveness last night when I asked what it had been about. There was definitely something going on that he didn’t want me to know.

“And he didn’t think I could find my own way to your house?” I asked, feigning nonchalance.

“Yeah, um . . . Vincent’s been a bit jumpy lately. About your human vulnerability. With the numa poised to attack at any moment, it’s kind of got him spooked.”

“Do you think he’s overreacting? About my vulnerability, that is,” I asked, looking sideways at him. Okay, I was fishing. But I was hoping I could get more information out of flirty Jules.

“Kate, you are totally kick-ass. But you are still made of flesh and blood. Non-reanimating flesh, that is. So I have to say that I get where Vincent’s coming from.”

I nodded, wishing with all my might that I was as indestructible as them. If I were Charlotte. Or Violette, for God’s sake: fourteen years old, and everyone treated her like she was made of steel. Respect, I reflected. It’s hard to demand respect when something as tiny as a bullet could remove you from existence. Permanently.

“So am I going to get an escort to and from school?” I asked, wondering how far Vincent would go with his paranoia.

“Non,” Jules laughed. “It’s just that Violette got a tip-off yesterday that the numa are on the move. She’s worried that they might be monitoring our house. It’s only because you’re coming to our place that Vincent thought you should have an escort. Don’t worry: After this morning, you can fend for yourself.” And he mock-punched me in the arm. I hit him back . . . hard. “Damn, girl, you pack a mean punch,” he teased me, which set off a mock scuffle that lasted the rest of the way to La Maison.

Gaspard was waiting for me in the gym, doing some kind of tai-chi-looking stretching exercises. He finished his movement, gave me a slight bow, and then chatted with Jules while I went to put my padded fight outfit on. It was made of a type of slate gray Kevlar that protected me from the more extreme blades in the revenants’ armory. I felt a bit guilty about the expensive, classic-white fencing costume Papy had bought me, which hung untouched in the armory closet. But this higher-tech suit, although it made me look scarily like Kate Beckinsale in Underworld, kept me from getting the nicks and cuts that didn’t bother the revenants.

Jules whistled appreciatively as I walked over to them and took the sword Gaspard held out toward me. “Kate, you look positively . . . lethal,” he murmured.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I smiled, knowing that the outfit emphasized my good points. Too bad I never wore it outside of the armory. I’ll have to be a vampire slayer for Halloween, I thought.

“As much as I’d love to stay and watch you in action,” Jules said, grinning, “I’ve got to run. Be back in an hour to pick you up.” And he jogged up the stairs, closing the door behind him.

I should have jogged right out the door after him. Because the next half hour was unquestionably my worst training ever. Not only was I distracted by thoughts of what Vincent could be up to, but I was used to training with both him and Gaspard. Without Vincent there, ready to jump in every few minutes to let me catch my breath, I finally had to signal Gaspard to stop. “Time-out,” I called breathlessly, as he lowered his sword.

I staggered to the edge of the room and slid down the wall, putting my head between my knees as I tried to catch my breath. When I looked up, Gaspard was standing above me, holding out a bottle of water.

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s a lot harder when Vincent’s not here to pick up my slack.”

“Is that all it is, my dear? You seem rather . . . distracted today.”

I looked at the older revenant, guessing that he would have a hard time flat-out lying to me. “Actually, I was wondering what Vincent was up to this morning. Jules didn’t seem to know. Do you?” I asked as innocently as possible, feeling a little bit guilty for prying.

Gaspard eyed me cautiously. “I really can’t say,” he responded in his formal nineteenth-century style.

Can’t, or won’t? I thought. Gaspard and Jules know something I don’t. And Vincent says it’s not important enough to talk about. I suspected that Vincent was trying to protect me. To shield me from a situation he didn’t want me to know about. I could only imagine that it was something I wouldn’t like or there would be no reason for this subterfuge. I trust him, I thought. So why does this one case of secrecy make me want to scream?

“Okay, I’m ready,” I said, pushing myself up off the wall. Gaspard smoothed his hair off his face and readjusted his short ponytail before arranging himself into a fighting stance. I picked up my sword and, with my newly acquired frustration-driven energy, began hacking away at him as if he were Lucien resurrected.

“Now that’s more like it!” my instructor exclaimed with a smile.

We fought for another half hour, until I backed away from the fight and hung my sword on an empty hook on the wall. I held up my hands and gasped, “That’s it for me!”

The sound of clapping came from the stairway. “Brava!” called Violette. She was perched on the steps in a comfortable position that made it look like she had been there for a while. “You are really very good, Kate!”

I smiled and, catching a towel that Gaspard threw me, swabbed the sweat from my face. “Thanks, Violette. Although I have a feeling that with your centuries of experience you’re just saying that to be nice.”

She smiled coyly, as if I had caught her, and said, “Not at all. For the little training you have been given, you must have natural talent.”

“Exactly my point of view,” Gaspard affirmed. “So, Violette—do you need me for something?” he asked.

“No. Jules wanted to go to his studio, so I told him I’d walk Kate home and sent him on his way,” she said. “Take your time, though.”

“Thanks,” I said, peeling off the top of my fight suit and exposing my “I Heart New York” tank top beneath. I had been sweating so much, the heavy fabric was starting to make me feel claustrophobic. “And thanks so much for the book and the flowers.”

“Arthur behaved so badly the other day, I felt it was up to me to make amends. Did you figure out the message?”

“Yes,” I said, pulling off the trousers and adjusting the gray jersey gym shorts I had worn underneath. “Purple hyacinths say ‘sorry’ and yellow roses, ‘friendship.’”

“Very good,” she said, delighted. “The hyacinths were in hopes that you will forgive Arthur his insensitivity, and the roses my wish that you and I can be friends.”

Even though I didn’t want to seem overeager, I couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across my face. Charlotte had been gone barely over a week, and already I was suffering girlfriend withdrawal. I had Georgia, of course. But she was so busy with her own social life that it left me with a lot of free time—which Vincent usually didn’t mind filling. But now that he was off doing whatever . . . “Hey, instead of walking me home, do you want to grab some lunch with me once I’ve showered?” I asked.

“Yes!” she exclaimed brightly. “Grabbing lunch”—she faltered at the modern colloquialism—“would be lovely. I will wait for you upstairs.”

I practically skipped to the shower, where I speed-washed and dressed. “Thanks, Gaspard!” I called as I ran up the steps to the ground floor.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said, smiling slightly as he performed a stiff little bow, and went back to cleaning the various weapons he had pulled off the wall.

Before I could get halfway down the hallway, Arthur appeared, his face buried in a book as he barreled out of a doorway. “Vi,” he called, and then looked up and saw me. His face went from normal to freaked out in a second flat, and his forehead scrunched up in a dozen little lines.

“Yes, dear. You were calling me?” Violette glided up behind Arthur, smiling as if no previous weirdness had happened between us and we were all just there for a pleasant chat.

“I just found something in Heidegger that I thought would interest you,” he said in a monotone, glancing between me and Violette.

“Kate and I are going out for lunch. You’ll have to show it to me later,” she said, taking my arm and staring at him, as if daring him to say something.

She wants him to apologize, I thought.

Arthur gave Violette a look that couldn’t be translated as anything other than a glare.

“Come on, Kate. We should go,” Violette said. I left arm in arm with my defender, but couldn’t help glancing back at Arthur. He stood immobile in the hallway, glowering.

“Do not mind him,” Violette whispered. “He can be so terribly temperamental. Sometimes I love him dearly. Other times I wish he would . . . how do you say it . . . buzz off?”

I laughed out loud as we walked through the foyer and out the front door.

We sat across from each other in a tiny restaurant, eating steaming bowls of French onion soup while gazing through the window at the covered market outside. The aroma of flame-grilled chicken hung deliciously on the air. And the market stalls were a visual delight, filled to overflowing with seafood, vegetables, and flowers. Behind them, vendors called out to the Saturday afternoon shopping crowd, extolling the virtues of their fruits, while holding out samples for people to taste.

“I do not think I have ever been here before,” Violette admitted, after primly wiping a strand of melted cheese from her lips with her napkin.

“It’s the oldest market in Paris,” I said. “I think it was around four hundred years ago that it was transformed into a market from an orphanage that dressed its children in red. Which is why it’s called the Marché des Enfants Rouges.”

“Market of the Red Children,” Violette mused in English.

“You speak English?” I gasped.

“Of course I do,” she responded. “I learned it quite a while ago, although I have not had much of an occasion to use it recently. But if you wish, we can speak in your mother tongue. It will be good practice for me.”

“Deal!” I said enthusiastically, pausing when I saw her look at me quizzically. “And I’ll try to stay away from using slang”—I smiled—“to make it easier on you.”

“No, no!” she insisted. “Charlotte was right when she said I needed to be in step with the times. Where better could I learn twenty-first-century language and mannerisms—in English—than from a twenty-first-century American girl?”

“Actually, if you really mean that, I have an idea. Do you like films?”

“Are you referring to the cinema?”

“Yes. Besides reading and hanging out in museums, going to the movies is my absolute favorite thing to do.” I scraped the last spoonful of the delicious soup from my bowl and finished off my glass of Perrier.