“Maybe you should put on The Hat,” I say. He asked me to carry it before we left. I chuck my bag into his lap, perhaps a little too hard. St. Clair oofs and jerks forward.

“Watch it.” Josh bites into a pink apple and talks through a ful mouth. “He has parts down there you don’t have.”

“Ooo, parts,” I say. “Intriguing. tell me more.”

Josh smiles sadly. “Sorry. Privileged information. Only people with parts can know about said parts.”

St. Clair shakes the rest of the leaves from his hair and puts on The Hat. Rashmi makes a face at him. “Real y? Today? In public?” she asks.

“Every day,” he says. “As long as you’re with me.”

She snorts. “So what’s El en doing tonight?”

“Ugh. El ie’s attending some terrible costume party.”

“You don’t like costume parties?” Mer asks.

“I don’t do costumes.”

“Just hats,” Rashmi says.

“I didn’t realize anyone outside of SOAP was celebrating Hal oween,” I say.

“Few people are,” Josh says. “The shopkeepers tried to turn it into a commercial thing years ago. It didn’t catch on. But give a col ege chick the chance to dress up like a slutty nurse, and she’s gonna take it.”

St. Clair lobs a chunk of chèvre at Josh’s head, and it smacks his cheek. “Arse. She’s not going as a slutty nurse.”

“Just a regular one?” I ask innocently. “With a low-cut dress and real y big br**sts?”

Josh and Rashmi crack up, and St. Clair tugs The Hat down over his eyes. “Ughhh, I hate you all.”

“Hey.” Meredith sounds hurt. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Ughhh, I hate you all but Mer.”

A smal group of American tourists hovers behind us. They look confused. A bearded guy in his twenties opens his mouth to speak, but Rashmi

interrupts him. “Jim Morrison is that way.” She points down the path. Bearded guy smiles in relief, thanks her, and they move on.

“How’d you know what they wanted?” I ask.

“It’s what they always want.”

“When they should be looking for Victor Noir,” Josh says. Everyone else laughs.

“Who?” It’s frustrating being in the dark.

“Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte,” St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pul s The Hat up off his eyes. “The statue on his grave is supposed to help . . . fertility.”

“His wang is rubbed shiny,” Josh elaborates. “For luck.”

“Why are we talking about parts again?” Mer asks. “Can’t we ever talk about anything else?”

“Real y?” I ask. “Shiny wang?”

“Very,” St. Clair says.

“Now that’s something I’ve gotta see.” I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. “Where’s Victor?”

“Al ow me.” St. Clair springs to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him.

We’re both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into a guard. He frowns at us from underneath his military-style cap. St. Clair gives an

angelic smile and a smal shrug.The guard shakes his head but all ows us to pass.

St. Clair gets away with everything.

We strol with exaggerated calm, and he points out an area occupied with people snapping pictures. We hang back and wait our turn. A scrawny black

cat darts out from behind an altar strewn with roses and wine bottles, and rushes into the bushes.

“Wel . That was sufficiently creepy. Happy Hal oween.”

“Did you know this place is home to three thousand cats?” St. Clair asks.

“Sure. It’s filed away in my brain under ‘Felines, Paris.’”

He laughs. The tourists move on to the next photo opportunity, and we’re both smiling as we approach Victor Noir. His statue is life-size and lying flat on the ground above his tomb. His eyes are closed, his top hat beside him. And despite the fact that his gray-green patina is clothed, his pants have a

remarkable bulge that has, indeed, been stroked to a shiny bronze.

“If I touch it, do I get another wish?” I ask, remembering Point Zéro.

“Nope. Victor deals strictly in fertility.”

“Go on. Rub it.”

St. Clair backs into another grave. “No, thank you.” He laughs again. “I don’t need that kind of problem.” My own laughter catches in my throat as I get

his meaning. Shake it off, Anna. That shouldn’t bother you. Don’t let him see how it bothers you.

“Wel . If you won’t touch him, I will . I’m not in any danger of that.” I lower my voice to a mock whisper. “You know, I’ve heard you actually have to have sex to get pregnant.”

I see the question immediately pop into his head. Crap. Maybe I was too hasty with my joke. St. Clair looks half embarrassed, half curious. “So, er,

you’re a virgin, then?”

ARGH! ME AND MY BIG MOUTH.

My overwhelming desire is to lie, but the truth comes out. “I’ve never met anyone I cared about that much. I mean, I’ve never dated anyone I cared about that much.” I blush and pet Victor. “I have a rule.”

“Elaborate.”

The statue is stil warm from the previous visitors. “I ask myself, if the worst happened—if I did get knocked up—would I be embarrassed to tell my child who his father was? If the answer is anywhere even remotely close to yes, then there’s no way.”