Excerpt from Crossings by Alex Landragin, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

I was, at first, lost for words, but I managed to blurt out one final question before she disappeared. "How is it that you know of this—of Jeanne, of me, of what occurred between us?"

My host stopped at the threshold of the room, still turned away from me, and replied, "I shouldn't have to explain. You already know."

And then she was gone, leaving me to return to my apartment with the help of Giacomo. For all the laudanum I swallowed, I could not sleep that night, but was plunged into a labyrinth of memories that, since my departure from Paris, I'd done my best to forget. Now, they returned with such force that I feared they might consume me altogether.

* * *

The following morning, I was woken by a nightmare. I rang for Giacomo, who once again assisted me to rise from bed, bathe, and dress. He pushed me in my chair on wheels to a deserted drawing room and poured me a cup of tea. This room was furnished in mahogany and velvet, and as exuberantly decorated as the dining room of the previous evening. Outside, yesterday's snow was beginning to melt in the late winter sunshine. I sat in my armchair, sipping my tea, excited by the prospect of seeing Madame Édmonde.

When she arrived several minutes later, she was, once again, veiled. Her dress was as dark and sumptuous as the previous evening's. As we bade each other good morning, she sat on an armchair beside mine, still moving with that satin grace I'd noticed before. Giacomo poured her a cup of tea. I noted how her veil was a source of power, for it made it impossible to discern precisely where her gaze was aimed. My desire to observe my host was due not to morbid curiosity but to the fervid meditations of the previous, sleepless night. With that veil, such observation was impossible.

It was only when Giacomo had retired from the room that she resumed the conversation. "Are you feeling better, Monsieur Baudelaire?"

"Decidedly not. I barely slept and can hardly move without the assistance of your manservant."

"What, pray, was the cause of your insomnia? Is the bed not to your liking?"

"My restlessness had nothing to do with the bed, which is in fact the most comfortable I have ever known. Rather, it was the riddle you posed me yesterday."

"It was less of a riddle and more a statement of fact."

"It was a riddle, and I spent the entire night seeking its answer."

"Then I fear you wasted your time. The riddle is its own answer."

I felt a sudden wave of ill temper wash over me, a lifelong habit that has worsened with age. I let it pass before continuing. "You said everything Jeanne ever told me was true. Surely not everything?"

"I said all of her stories were true. Jeanne was not incapable of lying, but about certain things her word was her honor."

"If you know all you claim, you also know how fantastic her stories were."

"I am aware of their nature."

"Jeanne believed in the transmigration of souls."

"Yes. She called it crossing."

"And yet you insist her stories are true."

"Evidently."

"You will excuse me if I ask you for proof of your knowledge."

Madame Édmonde sighed. "Where to begin? Shall I tell you about Koahu and Alula, and how they loved one another? Or about the island of Oaeetee, the chief Otahu, and the sage Fetu? Shall I tell you about the Solide, its captain Marchand, the surgeon Roblet, and the sailor Joubert?"

I was in disbelief. "What about the albatross? What do you know of that?"

I had the distinct impression that, with that question, I had managed to launch an arrow of my own through her veil. Her head drooped down. "Ah, yes. The albatross. You mean the story of the owl and the tern." Her head lifted again.

I could not hide my astonishment. "How is it that you are so familiar with these tales?"

"Oh, Charles, if I tell you, will you not react with your customary disdain?"

Excerpted from Crossings by Alex Landragin. Copyright © 2020 by Alex Landragin. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.