Free The Collector of Dying Breaths by M. J. Rose Page B

focus on the space she was in. Only minutes had passed, but a story had begun unfolding in her mind, and she’d become aware of another layer of time. She knew—because it had happened to her many times before—that she’d just experienced an impossibility. She wished she could still convince herself that these manifestations were an abnormality of her brain, some story-telling psychotic episode. Madness would be a relief. But she knew better because she’d discovered the tales that spun out, these fragments of someone else’s life, were in fact provable. The people she saw and heard had lived. She’d researched them. And when she couldn’t find proof of them—because they’d lived too long ago—she’d found other details in the story, confirming she wasn’t imagining it.
    Putting her hands on the edge of one of the shelves, she let her mind settle. She’d seen a man in clothes that suggested a long-lost era. Bent over a table, by the light of a candle, he was mixing a formula. Measuring out drops from small amber bottles that gleamed in the light. Was he blending perfume? Medicine? Intent on his task, he didn’t look up, never blinked, his lips pursed.
    “Are you all right?” Serge asked. “You didn’t seem to hear me just now. I asked if you wanted to pick out a bottle of a wine for lunch.”
    Jac knew from previous episodes that what seemed like hours to her had passed in only seconds in real time.
    “Sorry. I was just stunned by all this. There must be a thousand bottles of wine here.”
    “Yes, and worth a small fortune. The whole collection came with the house actually. Part of the estate sale. Melinoe hasn’t even gotten around to having it appraised. Over here”—he pointed to one set of shelves—“some bottles even date back to the time of the French Revolution. Worthy of a museum. Would you like to see one?”
    “How amazing. Of course.”
    He pulled out a bottle and handed it to her gingerly.
    The unlabeled bottle was handblown and much more squat than she’d expected. The glass was a dark, dull green, and Jac could see there was still liquid inside.
    “How is it possible it was all left here?” Jac was already wondering if there were other items left in the house from the 1700s. Perfumes perhaps?
    “The house is like a time capsule into past centuries. It was in the same family for the last two hundred and fifty years. That’s one of the reasons Melinoe bought it.”
    “What do you mean?” Jac asked as she handed the bottle back to him.
    “There were collections here she wanted to own. The house was just the way to get at them.” His laugh was slightly off-key. “Shall you pick your bottle and go upstairs? It’s not that pleasant down here. Too damp. Red or white?”
    She chose red, and he showed her to a section of the racks. Jac inspected the bottles, taking too much time, she knew. But the scene she’d seen a moment ago shimmered here still.
    He led her away and she followed, but hesitantly. At the door she turned and looked back.
    Serge was talking, and she refocused.
    “But it wasn’t just the collections. Melinoe’s always been attracted to buildings with legends attached to them. The first project we worked on was a castle in Germany not far from one of Ludwig’s masterpieces. That took four years to renovate. From there it was a convent in the Languedoc. After that it was a palazzo in Venice. She’s especially drawn to anything that’s remained relatively untouched over the years. Somewhat intact but falling apart is fine.”
    It was a perfect description of how she felt—somewhat intact but falling apart. In need of renovation. Jac had the odd thought that, upon meeting her, Melinoe might see that and want to restore her too.
    “Have you always worked for her?” she asked.
    Jac and Serge had reached the upper hallway.
    “No. I was on my own for a few years after I graduated, and then she bought her first castle . . .”
    They rounded the corner.
    “But