“Noah told me you’re both professors?” I said, changing the subject.

Noah’s mother smiled. “Oui. I am a scholar in français and the Romance languages, and Luc is one of the most celebrated historians in Canada.” She rubbed her husband’s arm. “Actually, your father just started doing research for a new book. It’s very different.”

Noah spooned a heaping pile of potatoes onto his plate. “What’s it about?”

His father leaned back in his chair and swirled the wine around in his glass. “A forgotten female scientist who had a peculiar obsession.”

Noah’s mother gave him a coy smile before going to the kitchen to bring out more wine.

“Go on,” Noah said.

“Bon,” his father said, clasping his stubby hands together. “Her name was Ophelia Coeur. And she was obsessed with water.”

Ophelia Coeur. The name sounded familiar somehow. “Who was she?” I asked, trying to remember where I knew her from.

“She is the Marie Curie of Monitors. The Mother Teresa of Monitors. The Christopher Columbus of Monitors!” his father said, spilling his wine as he gesticulated.

“But what did she do?” Noah pressed.

“Many, many things. She was the first person to study the effects of water on the dead.”

I frowned. I definitely didn’t know her name from that.

“She started her career as the school nurse at St. Clément, then moved to the Royal Victoria Hospital in 1894 just after it was taken over by the Plebeians, where she rose to become the head nurse of the children’s ward.”

“The Royal Victoria?” I repeated, my eyes darting to Noah’s. “The children’s ward?”

“Oui. She revolutionized the entire hospital.”

I coughed, my mind racing. Noah gave me a knowing glance. “Then what?” he asked.

Noah’s father dunked a piece of bread into his sauce and stuffed it in his mouth. “After a few years, Ophelia Coeur quit nursing and dedicated her life to science,” he said, his words muffled as he chewed. “She went to every body of water in North America to study drowning victims and the way the flesh and soul reacted to being submerged in different kinds of water. She was the first person to figure out that water has a ‘muffling’ effect on dead beings.”

Noah’s mother leaned over and wiped a speck of food from Luc’s chin. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand.

“She spent most of her time studying the Great Lakes, with special attention to Lake Erie. She claimed that the water in that lake muffled the dead even more than usual.”

“Lake Erie?” I said.

“Oui. . .” Luc said, clearly confused by my interest. “She was the first one to set foot on many of the islands in the lake. Some of them were even named by her.”

Little Sister Island. That was where Miss LaBarge had been found, dead.

“But I believe her greatest contribution was when she identified all of the lakes that had briny properties, or properties that mimicked those of salt water. That was, oh, in the early 1900s—”

“Where was she buried?” I demanded, and then shrank back when I realized how urgent my tone sounded.

Noah’s parents didn’t seem to notice. “Probably at sea, like everyone else,” Noah’s mother said, nibbling on a string bean.

“Oh,” I said. A part of me expected the nameless headstone to be hers.

“Actually, I wasn’t able to find any records of her death,” Luc corrected. “But back then, our record system wasn’t what it is today. Even now, though some of her research papers have been preserved in the archives, we know very little about her background. She was very private about her past. She rarely made public appearances, and only published her scientific findings sporadically. All we know about her past was that at some point in her childhood she was badly injured in a fire.”

By then, both Noah and I had stopped eating.

“It’s odd, non?” Noah’s mother said, gesticulating with the carving knife.

“How do you know about the fire?” I asked.

“Because much of her face was covered in burns.”

“Do you have images?” I asked, a little too eagerly.

Noah’s father seemed a little taken aback by my abrupt request, but then smiled. “There’s a spark in you,” he said, and winked. “I like that. After dinner, I’ll bring one out.”

I felt Noah’s foot touch mine beneath the table, and I blushed.

It was a long, hearty dinner. One course and two bottles of wine later, Noah’s father was a little pink in the face, but otherwise just as lucid as when he had answered the door. We finished the meal with a platter of soft, smelly cheeses, which Noah’s mother ate as if they were dessert, scooping up the Camembert with one finger and licking it off like frosting. His father smiled, admiring her.

“So, are you interested in history, then?” Noah’s father said to me through a mouthful of blue cheese.

“It used to be my favorite subject,” I said slowly.

I must have looked confused, because Noah’s father said, “Ah, well I just thought since you were so interested in my new book.”

“What are you interested in?” Noah’s mother asked.

“I—I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe teaching the Undead? Helping them in some way?”

Noah’s mother let out a laugh as if I had made a joke. When she realized I was serious, she said, “Help them? But why?”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

“Well, they have no souls; they cannot be helped.”

I felt Noah trying to catch my eye, but I refused to turn to him.

“That’s not true,” I said. “At Gottfried—”

At the mention of my old school, Noah’s mother groaned. “Oh, that place. We’ve been trying to get them to shut it down for years. Teaching the Undead to be human. Impossible! Enfants terribles. That’s all they are.”

I clutched the cheese knife, my knuckles white as I opened my mouth to respond. Noah cut in before I could. “A lot of her friends are at Gottfried,” he said. “She’s very close with them.”

Incredulous, I wiped my mouth with my napkin. So he thought my opinions on the Undead were just biases that I had toward my friends?

“Sometimes I wonder,” I said impulsively. “Are Monitors really saving humans from the Undead, or just killing people?”

Noah’s mother coughed and put down her spoon as the table went quiet.

“There’s an art to what we do,” she said finally, her voice less friendly.

“But how is it different?” I said, trying not to sound too argumentative.

“We’re civilized. We have courts and schools, we have a system. The Undead, they’re—”

“They’re what?” I said, anticipating what she was going to say. “They’re monsters? They’re murderers?”

“Okay!” Noah’s father said. “Are you ready to see the portrait?” He glanced between me and his wife, patting a napkin to his head nervously.

“Sure,” I said, trying to compose myself.

Grasping the arms of his chair, Luc hoisted himself up and disappeared into another room, returning with a large envelope.

“Are you okay?” Noah whispered.

I picked at my cheese. Why hadn’t he said anything when his mother talked about the Undead like that? Did he agree with her? “I’m fine.”

Noah’s father pushed the plates out of the way, slid a portrait out of the envelope, and placed it on the tablecloth in front of us. It was a faded black-and-white sketch from the shoulders up, its lines dulled from age.

A woman stared back at us, her eyes wide and black. Or was it a woman? It was a hard to tell. She looked more like a creature: an anomaly of nature, beautiful in her deformity. Scalloped white welts climbed up her cheeks, layering themselves on top of each other in an odd, sloping pattern, like the feathers of a bird. Her expression was grim and focused, as if she were studying me. Her lips were pursed, somehow giving me the impression that she knew something I didn’t.

“This was drawn after her first scientific publication. She must have been in her thirties or forties.”

She looked much younger than that, I thought, though it was difficult to guess her age. “She’s…terrifying,” I said in awe.

“Oui,” Noah’s mother said, resting her head on two fingers. “C’est incroyable.”

“They look like waves, no?” Luc said, touching her scars with his fingers. “I think this will be the cover of my book.”

“What will you call it?” I asked. “Your biography.”

“Mal de Mer.”

Seasickness.

Before we left, Noah ran upstairs to collect a few clean shirts for school. Halfway up, he peered down at me through the balcony railing. “Well, come on.”

On the walls lining the stairway were photographs of Noah and his sister growing up. A five-year-old Noah standing in front of St. Clément in an oversized shirt and tie, as if he were already preparing to attend. A ten-year-old Noah posing in front of a cemetery with his sister. A somber thirteen-year-old Noah holding a shovel beside a small plot in the backyard. “That was my first pet,” Noah said, suddenly standing behind me. I thought I felt him touch a lock of my hair, but I must have imagined it, because in no time he was on the second floor, leading me down the wallpapered hallway that led to his bedroom.

“Do you think Ophelia Coeur was the ninth sister?” I asked when we were out of earshot.

“She worked at the Royal Victoria—” he said.

“She could have put the riddle in one of the rooms she worked in,” I said excitedly. “And Lake Erie—that’s where Miss LaBarge was found dead. Maybe she knew about the riddle,” I said, thinking of the letter my mother had written to her about “the lost girl.” “Maybe the last part of the riddle is hidden on Little Sister Island, and Miss LaBarge was going there to check on it.”