Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
GENVIEVE
He stirs before dawn.
I had not meant to wake him. I only seek to ease the fever that still clings to him. Yet as I dip the cloth into the basin, his breath quickens, and his lashes flutter.
The Veil vibrates faintly in the room. I hum the old Creole hymn my mother sang to restless spirits. The words are for peace, not healing. I feel the energy shift, soften.
His eyes open, unfocused at first, then clear. The gray in them gleams with silver.
“You have been restless,” I say. “The fever nearly took you under.”
“It was not fever.” His voice is rough as though parched. “It was you.”
I don’t respond, instead, I reach for the small bowl of gumbo I made this morning and brought for him. “You must take nourishment.”
I help him sit, tucking a serviette into the V of his shirt, then hand him the bowl.
He blows on the spoon before eating. “Mmm.” A smile lifts at the corners of his mouth. “Ma mère would be jealous of your gumbo.”
“You are most kind, monsieur.”
He arches a brow. “étienne.”
I nod. “étienne.”
I dip a cloth into cool water and press it to his brow. “You were speaking in the old tongue. Do you remember?”
“No.”
He is not truthful, but I understand why. A man who walks between worlds must guard what he knows.
I want to ease him, nonetheless. “You are safe here.”
“No one who walks the Veil is ever safe.” Once again, he takes my wrist. My pulse flutters at his touch, which should feel cold and hard, but is warm and gentle.
“You were there, Geneviève. In my dream.”
For a long moment, I only look at him. Then my lips curve faintly, neither confirming nor denying.
“Then perhaps the Veil wished us to meet twice, once in sleep, once in waking.”
The candlelight flickers as though confirming my words. I free my hand, tuck the cloth into the basin, and take his empty bowl.
“Rest now. If the Veil wills it, you will find me again.”
I return to my chores, falling into a song meant to guard the dying. When I check on him again, he sleeps. I whisper a prayer for a peaceful rest.
That evening, the spirits crowd the corners of his room. Méfie-toi, they warn. Il porte la mort comme un manteau. Beware, he wears death like a cloak.
I ignore them, setting about preparing my herbs to treat him. The Veil will claim him, but I hope to rid him of the darkness before he goes.
When he wakes, I remove the poultice and clean the area. The wound appears less angry, yet still dark.
“You work in vain. Soon I’ll be gone. I’m sure the spirits tell you so.”
"The mighty Oathmarked, surrendering without a fight?" I turn from the basin to face him.
His eyes flash with irritation. "You don't understand what I've lost."
"I understand choosing life. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
Le Creux vient, the spirits hiss from behind me. Ils sentent son sang. The Hollow approaches. They smell his blood.
"Your friends disagree," étienne murmurs, gaze sliding to the empty corner where the shadows move. He can hear them now, another sign that he’s closer to death.
"They aren't friends. And they're often wrong."
The sound of fiddles and laughter spills through my open windows. A soiree’s music floats from up the street
"Listen," I say. "Life continues. Even now."
Something shifts in his expression. Longing perhaps. I seize the moment, tugging gently at his hand.
"Stand with me."
"I can barely walk—"
"Then lean upon me."
He hesitates, then allows me to guide him to his feet. His body burns with fever, but his steps grow steadier as we cross into the moonlit courtyard.
"The music,” I say, positioning his hand at my waist. "Feel how it sings to our souls, makes us feel alive."
I begin to sway, drawing him into the rhythm that pulses through streets.
"I haven't danced since—" He stops, then laughs. " I cannot recall."
"Remember now.” I guide his steps in a slow circle below the moonlight.
I have not danced in some time, either. Not since the night before Jean-Philippe departed on his ill-fated voyage.
I had warned him that the spirits whispered that his travels would lead him to death, but he only smiled, all charm and confidence, the very qualities that had once led me to accept his offer of placage.
He told me that if it was his time to go, it would not matter where he stood when fate claimed him.
When he departed the following morning, I knew he would not return. I mourned him, yet I remain grateful that he left me a house of my own and the means to endure without dependence.
"Geneviève," étienne says my name like it’s part of the music. Color rises in his face. His gaze fixed on mine, clears of shadows. The broken sigil on his chest glows faintly through his shirt.
Between us, something unseen pulses, a force draws us together.
Not quite magic, yet more than mere attraction.
It is unfamiliar to me, unlike the affection I once felt for Jean-Philippe.
With étienne, the pull comes from somewhere deeper, as though a tether has been fastened to my very soul, drawing us ever closer.
We sink into the moment, moving together, his steps gradually finding confidence. I suspect he was a graceful man before he was wounded.
"Do you feel it as well?” His breath whispers against my ear.
I do feel it, but I’m hesitant to acknowledge it.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me closer.
The shadows retreat from the corners of my courtyard, the spirits falling silent, as if they’re giving us privacy.
Our dance slows until we're barely moving, just swaying in place. For one perfect moment, étienne's face is unburdened. He’s the man he might have been without the weight of his Oathmark, of the doom that is coming for him.
Then his body tenses. "I—" His eyes cloud with frustration as his knees buckle.
I catch him before he falls, bearing his weight against me. "Enough for tonight.” I guide him inside, back to a room where he can rest in a bed.
But as I tuck him in, his fingers linger on mine, reluctant to let go. “Merci, Geneviève. For a moment, I felt alive again.”
That evening, when he’s asleep, I change into my night chemise and prepare for sleep. I say a prayer, then climb into bed. But sleep does not come easily. The Veil tugs at the edges of my thoughts, whispering in a dozen voices.
When I finally close my eyes, the world dissolves.
I stand again in the atrium of a house I have never entered. A great oak spreads its limbs above the glass ceiling, branches heavy with a faint green light. The air hums.
I move toward a fountain whose waters shimmer, kneeling beside it just as he arrives.
étienne stands near the center of the room, under the glowing green of the oak branch.
He stands whole, though his eyes still shine with silver and his broken mark gleams at his heart.
He looks at me as though he has known me a lifetime, and I know then that this is not a mortal dream. The Veil has brought us both.
I am not easily frightened by forces that lie beyond mortal sight, nor do I usually ignore them, yet I am wary of the Veil’s interest in drawing us together.
“Here we are again,” I say.
“I’m pleased to spend more time with you. And I take it as a kindness that the Veil gives me somewhere painless to stand.”
I smile as I dip my fingers into the water. When he joins me, our reflection bends and blurs. It reminds me that he’s living between worlds. Slowly shifting from one to the other, and even with my skills, I can’t stop it.
“When you wake, does it hurt?” I ask.
“Always.”
I take his hand, guiding it to the water. When our fingers touch, the surface stills.
I should not feel warmth in a dream, but I do. I know he feels it too. As if I am the tether keeping him in the world he’s ceasing to exist in.
“The Veil listens to you,” he says.
“No. It listens to us.”