The Collector of Dying Breaths Read Free

promised him I would achieve that goal. But to succeed I would have to escape with two items.
    Beneto may have thought he had erased all traces of my master’s work.
    But the notebook holding the unfinished formula I needed was hidden under a loose stone in the floor. Serapino never trusted anyone but me with it. And in my hand was something I’d been clutching when Beneto barged into the cell, the bottle I’d never let go of, the bottle that held Serapino’s dying breath.

Chapter 3
    THE PRESENT
    THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 28
    PARIS, FRANCE
    “Go to Melinoe Cypros in Barbizon . . .” Despite how weak he was, Robbie’s voice was insistent. “Collect my books . . . our grandfather’s books . . . Ask her to show you . . .” His voice drifted off. His eyes fluttered closed.
    Had he fallen asleep again? Jac L’Etoile didn’t know, so she did what she had been doing for days: she watched and waited. After almost ten minutes, just as she was about to go get the nurse they’d hired, Robbie reopened his eyes and resumed the conversation as if no time had passed at all. Perhaps for him it hadn’t. For her it had been interminable. Every moment of his illness had been.
    How was it possible that her baby brother, who weeks ago had celebrated his thirtieth birthday in perfect health, could suddenly be so sick?
    Robbie ran the family perfume business on his own, practiced meditation daily with Zen masters, hosted fetes that were the talk of Paris, and was on the board of one of the foremost fragrance museums in the world.
    The man in the bed could barely string more than two or three sentences together.
    “You need to finish my work with her . . .” he said haltingly, then stopped.
    What work was Robbie doing in Barbizon? And with whom? He seemed to think he’d explained it to her, but he hadn’t. And she didn’t want to press him.
    “You have the talent to . . . You doubt yourself, Jac. Don’t.” Every word came out on the edge of a ragged and labored breath. He closed his eyes once more.
    Although he was two years her junior, Robbie had always been there to help her. Was the wiser of them, who, since childhood, had calmed her and showed her the way. The Zen sage who reminded her that the path would reveal itself if she was only patient. Now, at his most vulnerable, even if nothing he was saying made sense, he was still trying to teach her.
    This time he was quiet for so long, Jac was certain he had fallen asleep. She fingered the thin scarlet cord tied around her left wrist. There were things Jac should do, calls to make, family to inform, papers to take care of, but she didn’t get up. Couldn’t leave Robbie’s sickbed. There was nowhere she wanted to be but with him. To be with her brother while he fought this disease that the doctors didn’t understand and couldn’t control.
    “Why are the drapes pulled?” Robbie asked ten minutes later, suddenly awake and smiling, more energetic than he had been all day. “People always pull the drapes and keep the lights dim when someone is dying. Open the window . . . I want to smell . . . the garden.”
    “You aren’t—” She couldn’t even say the word.
    “I am.” The burst of energy was spent. His voice was fainter already. “It will get easier to accept, Jac.” He fastened his eyes on her. “I promise it will.”
    As Jac unbolted the mullioned windows and looked out at the damp March day, she wished that there were more flowers blooming for him. And then felt the sting of tears. She took a deep breath. No. She would not cry, not yet. There would be all the time in the world to miss him later, if the worst happened.
    But it wouldn’t. They would figure out what was wrong with him. The doctors would find a drug to administer in time. They had to.
    Turning back, she forced a smile to match Robbie’s.
    Her brother, who was so fit and handsome, was drastically withering and aging while everything around him had stayed the same. The bedroom, which he’d always