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)
She didn’t look at him, kept her attention on the flowers. “That I want something real instead of something careful. That I’d rather have five years of honest than fifty years of maybe.” Now she turned. “What truth do you tell it?”
“That I’m afraid what I want will destroy what I love.” The fear of losing her again was almost more than he could bear.
Her expression softened, anger draining away to leave something gentler and more dangerous. “Bastien. Whatever you’re protecting me from—”
“You don’t know what I’m protecting you from.”
“Then tell me.” Direct. No room for deflection. “Tell me the thing you think will make me leave. The thing you’re so certain I can’t handle. Tell me and let me decide.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
A mockingbird sang from the magnolia tree, running through its stolen repertoire. Trolley bells again, closer now. The city moving around them while they stood frozen in this garden, this moment, this conversation they’d been circling for three years.
Delia returned to the fountain. Sat on the edge, but farther away now. Careful distance where there’d been casual proximity. Her feet stayed out of the basin this time, planted on brick.
Her voice went quiet. “Mrs. Landry says you’re some kind of angel. That you’ve been in New Orleans longer than anyone remembers. That you don’t age like natural folk do.”
His stillness became absolute. Even his breathing stopped.
“I told her that was ridiculous.” Delia’s voice stayed level, matter-of-fact. Like discussing the weather or garden maintenance. “That you’re just a private investigator with good genes and a mysterious past. That plenty of men are private about their history, especially in New Orleans where everyone’s running from something.”
“Thank you.”
“I told her she was letting her imagination run wild. That she’d been reading too many penny dreadfuls. That angels don’t exist and even if they did, they certainly wouldn’t be working as private investigators in the French Quarter.”
The cicadas were loud now. The jasmine scent thick enough to choke on. Afternoon sliding toward evening, shadows lengthening across brick, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
“But she was right, wasn’t she?”
Long silence. He could lie. Should lie. Keep lying until she believed it or until she left, either outcome safer than truth.
“Yes.”
The word hung in jasmine-scented air.
Delia’s hand found his. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I love you anyway.” Her fingers tightened around his, warm and solid and alive. “Whatever you are. Whoever you were. However long you’ve been here and however long you’ll stay.” She met his eyes. “I love you right now, in this garden, with dirt under my nails and truth between us. That’s what matters.”
“I love you too. I hope you believe that. I’m not going anywhere; my life is with you.” He wanted to say more. To tell her, I have a ring that’s been burning a hole in my pocket for months. I want fifty years with you even though I know I’ll only get maybe forty if we’re lucky. I want to marry you knowing I’ll watch you age while I don’t, knowing I’ll watch you die, knowing every moment will be borrowed time.
He wanted to say, You’re Charlotte’s soul wearing a new face. I loved you in 1763 and lost you, and now I’ve found you again and I’m terrified of losing you a second time.
He wanted to say, The ring is gold with small diamonds and I had them set it in a pattern that spells protection in a language older than French or English or any tongue spoken in this garden.
They sat together as afternoon turned to evening. Shadows lengthened. The heat broke slightly. Mockingbirds sang and cicadas called and somewhere a dog barked. The city sounds filtered through, muffled by garden walls.
Not engaged. Not yet. But together. Finally. And in love. A love deeper than Delia would ever understand.
Her bare feet in the fountain basin. Jasmine blooming behind her on the wall. Her hand in his, warm and alive and mortal.
He could feel her pulse in her wrist where their hands joined. Steady. Human. Finite.
Only weeks later she died in the theater fire in his arms before the flames reached her. He’d arrived too late.
Bastien gasped back into present. Hand still gripping the iron gate, knuckles white from pressure hard enough that the metal bit into his palm even through leather gloves.
1906 had been so vivid he could still taste lemonade, still feel July heat on his skin, still hear cicadas singing their evening song. His throat hurt from jasmine scent that shouldn’t exist.
He checked his phone with shaking hands—no, steady hands, they didn’t shake, he didn’t allow them to shake.
Ninety seconds had passed.
Ninety seconds to live through an entire afternoon, an entire confession, an entire moment of almost-happiness before tragedy.
He looked through the gate again, forcing himself to see what was actually there rather than what memory insisted on showing him.