Marie Antoinette, Serial Killer Read Online Free PDF Page B

quiches sometimes because they were pretty simple — a bunch of eggs in a pie crust.
    But, with all due respect to my mother’s cooking, her quiches were nothing like the one in front of me. This one was orangey golden, its surface a perfectly burnt brown, flecked with the green of the spinach. The crust was crispy but buttery. I cut a slice and took a bite.
    “Oh,” I said, my mouth full of food. The rich salty, cheesy flavor hit my tongue. “Oh my word.”
    “Is it good?” Pilar asked, eyes wide. She’d let Hannah peer-pressure her into ordering a salad.
    I scooped a bite onto my fork and handed it to her. When she popped it into her mouth, her eyes closed, and she made a happy little hum sound.
    “You two act like you’ve never seen food before,” Hannah said, carving at the grilled fish on her plate.
    “I haven’t,” I said. “Not food like this.”
    She looked at me archly. “Just be careful — you don’t want to fly home with your belly hanging over your waistband.”
    “My belly already hangs over my waistband,” Pilar said. “Can I have another bite?”
    I put half the quiche on a bread plate and handed it across to her, and we ate in near silence, relishing the flavor. Hannah clearly disapproved, but she didn’t say another word about it.
    Even she couldn’t resist the dessert plate made up of cookies and macarons , colorful French pastries with a sweet filling sandwiched between two fluffy discs. Delicious and completely addictive. And then the waiter brought over a tray of cheese — soft, melty, creamy cheese that practically collapsed on itself when you sliced it — and we all ate that, too.
    By the time the meal was done, Hannah had the same food-glazed look in her eyes that Pilar and I did.
    “I’m totally not sorry,” I said, heading back toward the stairs.
    “Me, neither,” Peely said. “But I’m taking the elevator.”
    “Who am I kidding?” Hannah said, laughing. “I’m not sorry, either. I’ll start my diet tomorrow.”
    When we got to the room, Hannah suggested we sneak out to some local cafés. But Pilar was already changing into her pajamas, and I couldn’t stop yawning. So we decided to call it a night, and a few minutes later, I was snuggled under the covers of the pullout couch.
    Despite the fact that I hadn’t slept in more than a day, I lay awake for a while, staring at the ceiling. The French ceiling , I thought. I didn’t want to waste one minute of my trip not remembering that I was in Paris — that the food I ate was Parisian food, that the people I met were actual French people, and that the ground I walked on was the most magical and romantic ground in the world.
    The only thing that wasn’t absolutely perfect was a tiny, nagging sense of unease about something — but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. So I turned onto my side and closed my eyes, resolving to put any unnamed worries out of my mind for the next eight days. “WHO ARE WE waiting on?” Madame Mitchell asked.
    We were in the hotel lobby, ready to walk to the Saint-Michel station, where we’d catch a commuter train to our first official French destination: the royal palace at Versailles.
    “Hannah and Pilar,” Audrey said. “Surprise, surprise.”
    Although the way Audrey presented herself to the world physically was cringe-worthy, you had to admire the way she spoke her mind without worrying who she ticked off.
    Madame Mitchell turned to me, pushing her reading glasses up onto the bridge of her nose. “Any idea when they’ll be down?”
    As if I had any influence over them? I shrugged.
    It had taken me about fifteen minutes to get ready — I wore a gray sweater, a cream-colored corduroy skirt, a pair of gray tights, and knee-high dark-brown walking boots. Based on what I’d observed on the street yesterday, I kept my hair simple, pulling it back in a low bun, and my makeup minimal — pale-brown eye shadow, light blush, and pink lips, no mascara. My only accessories were a