The Adventures of Mademoiselle Mac 2-Book Bundle by Christopher Ward

me.
    â€œThis won’t do,” she whispered, and proceeded to light some candles, switch off the overhead bulb, and clear a space on the tiny table.
    â€œTea, Rudee?” She seemed to be offering, but it was Rudee who scurried about, lighting the kettle and digging through drawers for some prehistoric tea bag. I wondered how long it had been since Sashay had been at Rudee’s place.
    After the emotion and relief at seeing both of them again, I was ready to tell my story. There was no way to downplay what had happened to me, so I didn’t really try. Sashay and Rudee listened intently, and I could read their reactions as I gave them the details — alarm at me being scooped up backstage at the club, anger at the Shadows driving away with me, and astonishment at my terrifying turn around La Roue de Paris. They pressed me for everything I could recall about the Shadows’ car and their appearances. My revelation about the dark side of Luc Fiat seemed to surprise them, but I had the feeling they believed me. I wanted to talk about his twisted plans for the city and just what he might do, but these questions were pushed aside quickly by a wave of Rudee’s hand.
    â€œLittle Mac, none of this matters. Your adventures have curtains now. I promise to take all of this to Magritte. It’s time to get you back to your friends and home to your family trees.” Rudee read my disappointment and tried to offer some consolation. “Don’t worry, you have to come to the Bastille Day party. You must see the Hacks perform, of course, but then it’s back to hundred-watt California for you, little one.”
    Sashay gave me a sympathetic look. “You know, Rudee’s right. Nothing will happen to our beautiful city, and it’s not worth taking any chances with you, ma cherie .”
    I knew that everything they said made sense. We drank our tea, and talk turned to the upcoming celebrations and plans. I found myself suddenly overcome with fatigue and just made it into my bed. I thanked the little wooden angels for looking out for me before tumbling into a deep sleep.

Eighteen
    I woke to the loudest sound I’d ever heard. My turret room vibrated wildly, the windows shaking in their frames, the lamp dancing on the table. It took me a moment to realize that what I was hearing was music, but then I threw my clothes on and climbed down to Rudee’s. A note on the kitchen table told me to follow the passageway at the top of the stairs and through the skinny door at the end. He’d added a shh! , but I could’ve screamed “Fire!” and someone standing beside me wouldn’t have heard a thing.
    I followed the note’s instructions and, if possible, the music got even louder. As I opened the door at the end of the passage, the power of the wind alone made me hold on to the doorframe. I looked along the balcony of the Église Russe at the majestic gold pipes of the huge church organ. They gleamed blindingly in the Sunday morning light streaming through the stained glass windows. Behind the middle section of the organ, I saw hands flying above layers of keyboards then a familiar sight — the coil of Rudee’s hair bouncing happily.
    The music stopped abruptly, and I heard murmuring from below, first a single voice, then many voices chanting in unison. I looked over the balcony and saw that the early morning service was underway. Rudee caught my eye, grinned, and waved me over, indicating that I should keep my head down. I sat beside him on his bench as he whispered to me, pointing out the details of the enormous instrument he was in charge of. On the top of the middle section, perfect gold carved angels seemed to be dancing the shimmy. Rudee was obviously following the proceedings below, because at one point, he motioned me to one side and started to play something appropriately solemn. As the piece went along, he became more and more animated and ran his elbow the