Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Impossible.”
Mirror Bleed was now affecting more than reflections. Gideon’s network was pulling past into present through sensory channels, using scent as anchor the way it used light and reflection.
Knowing that didn’t stop the memory from surfacing.
The scent pulled him under.
New Orleans, July 1906. Late afternoon.
The courtyard garden behind Delia Moreau’s boarding house. Brick pavement warm under his feet, fountain in the center—broken, hadn’t run in years—garden beds along the walls bursting with controlled chaos. Light filtered golden through magnolia leaves, creating patterns that shifted with the breeze.
Trolley bells rang distant. A vendor called something about fresh fish on the street beyond the wall. Cicadas were starting their evening song, building toward the crescendo they’d reach at dusk.
Heat had broken in the garden shade. Bearable here, almost pleasant.
Delia appeared carrying a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses, ice clinking against ceramic.
Late twenties. Dark hair pinned up with several curls already escaping in the humidity. Cotton dress with dirt on the hem from morning gardening. Bare feet on warm brick—she never bothered with shoes in her own garden.
“You’re late.” She crossed to the fountain where he’d been examining her mint plants. “I’ve been keeping this lemonade cold for twenty minutes.”
He straightened. “Your mint is taking over the lavender.”
“I know. They’re negotiating territory.” She set the pitcher down on the fountain’s edge. “The mint will win.”
“The mint always wins.”
Her smile reached her eyes. “Then why do I keep planting lavender?”
“Optimism. Or stubbornness.” He took the glass she offered. “With you they’re the same thing.”
They sat on the fountain edge. Her bare feet dangled into the dry basin, toes flexing against ceramic that still held afternoon warmth. His boots stayed planted on brick, heels grinding small circles in accumulated dust.
Comfortable silence first. The kind that developed over three years of courtship conducted in gardens and on doorsteps, never quite progressing to the question neither of them would ask. Three years of careful proximity, of boundaries respected and desires unspoken.
The lemonade was perfect—tart enough to cut the heat, sweet enough to drink quickly. Ice clinked in her glass when she moved. A bead of condensation ran down the side, leaving a wet trail she traced with one finger.
Delia broke the silence. “Mrs. Landry asked me again if we’re engaged.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’re on your own schedule and I’m too proud to suggest it.” She drank, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “She didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a ridiculous answer that happens to be true.”
His almost-smile. “Accurate.”
She bumped his shoulder with hers, casual touch that nevertheless sent awareness through him. “Most men would take that as an invitation.”
“I’m not most men.”
The engagement ring was in his coat pocket, wrapped in velvet that was probably crushed by now from being carried in and out of the boarding house. Victorian setting, gold band with small diamonds. Purchased months ago from a jeweler on Royal Street who asked no questions about a man who paid cash.
But how could he ask her to bind herself to someone who would watch her age and die while he stayed unchanged? How could he explain why he never aged without revealing what he was? And if he revealed what he was—fallen angel, Heaven’s exile, something that shouldn’t exist in her mortal world—how could she possibly say yes?
The answer was she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. The responsible thing was to walk away, let her find someone human and uncomplicated, someone who could give her normal life with normal endings.
But here, in this moment. Her hand near his on sun-warmed stone, close enough that moving his pinky finger would touch hers. Garden drowsy with afternoon heat and the weight of unspoken things. Jasmine blooming on the east wall, white flowers like stars against dark green leaves.
“Delia, I—”
She turned toward him. Hope visible in her expression.
He lost courage. “I think your mint is eating the basil too.”
“Probably.”
A cicada landed on the fountain rim, sang three notes, flew away.
Delia stood, crossing to the jasmine vine on the east wall. Her bare feet made soft sounds on brick. She walked the way she always did, unselfconscious, grounded. Like someone who belonged exactly where she was.
“This one bloomed early this year.”
He followed, because not following would have been worse. “Confederate jasmine. You planted it when you moved in.”
“Four years ago.” She touched a white bloom carefully, thumb brushing petals that looked fragile but weren’t. Confederate jasmine could survive almost anything—frost, neglect, drought. Kept blooming regardless. “It finally decided to trust me.” A pause. “My mother used to say jasmine only blooms for gardeners who tell the truth.”
The weight of that statement settled between them, heavy as the humid air.
He could feel the ring in his pocket. Could feel the lie growing roots in this garden, spreading like the mint she let run wild.
“What truth do you tell it?” he asked.