Chapter 11 #4
“Vale threatened to buy the polo field solely to prevent Travers from using it.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“Spite usually is.”
The engines roar.
Sabine's fingers lock around mine.
The jet accelerates.
She mutters something extremely French beneath her breath.
I look at her.
“Was that directed at me?”
“At aviation.”
The nose lifts.
Her eyes close.
I bring our joined hands onto my thigh and cover hers with my other one.
For several seconds, she doesn't move.
Then the climb smooths.
Her eyes open carefully.
Clouds fill the windows.
Sabine stares.
Her grip loosens.
“Oh.”
One word.
Quiet.
Wonder replaces fear so quickly it makes my chest ache.
She leans closer to the window.
London disappears beneath cloud.
Sunlight breaks above us.
She smiles.
Not Vesper's smirk.
Sabine's smile.
Open.
Almost young.
I have the ridiculous urge to preserve it somewhere no database can touch.
She catches me looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're doing it again.”
“I've explained this.”
“Staring.”
“I waited years.”
Her cheeks pink.
Still happens.
Still entertaining.
She turns back to the window.
“Where exactly are we going?”
“France.”
“France is large.”
“Not really.”
“To Americans, maybe.”
I lift her hand and press my mouth against her knuckles.
She goes very still.
“Sleep.”
“I want coordinates.”
“No.”
“Ghost.”
“No.”
“Xavier.”
“Still no.”
She studies me suspiciously.
Then settles deeper into the seat.
“You're hiding something.”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
“Occasionally.”
She eventually falls asleep with her head against my shoulder.
I don't move for forty-three minutes.
My arm goes numb around thirty.
Worth it.
We land in France under a blue afternoon sky.
Sabine expects Paris.
I can tell by the way she watches the terminal.
Instead, a car is waiting.
No Blackwell crest.
No visible convoy.
Two discreet security vehicles far enough behind us not to feel like an escort.
She looks at me when we leave the airport.
“Where?”
“Patience.”
“I dislike patience.”
“I know.”
Road becomes smaller road.
City becomes town.
Town becomes countryside.
Fields unfold beneath the late-summer sun.
Stone walls.
Old farms.
Villages that seem to appear for thirty seconds and disappear again.
Sabine stops asking questions.
At first I think she's tired.
Then I notice her sitting straighter.
Her fingers curl around mine.
We pass a church.
She turns sharply toward the window.
Another road.
An old stone bridge.
Her breathing changes.
“Xavier.”
I say nothing.
“No.”
The car turns.
Her hand tightens.
“No.”
Not refusal this time.
Disbelief.
A low stone wall appears ahead.
Overgrown lavender spills across one side of it.
Beyond it stands a cottage.
Small.
Cream stone darkened by age.
Blue-gray shutters that need paint.
A roof older than either of us.
One chimney.
A pear tree leaning toward the house as though it has spent decades trying to hear what happened inside.
Sabine stops breathing.
The car slows.
Her hand slips from mine.
“Stop.”
The driver immediately does.
She opens the door before I can.
“Sabine.”
She is already out.
I follow.
She stands in the road staring at the cottage.
For the first time since London, I have no idea what she is thinking.
Her shoulders rise once.
Fall.
Then she turns toward me.
Her eyes are wet.
“How?”
“I know everything.”
A tear slips free.
I reconsider.
“Almost everything.”
She laughs through whatever is happening to her.
Then looks back at the cottage.
“It looks exactly the same.”
“Not exactly.”
“The shutters were always terrible.”
“I was instructed not to replace them.”
Her head turns.
“By whom?”
“You.”
“I never—”
“You told Ghost once that your father painted them every spring and they still looked bad by August.”
She stares at me.
I remember the conversation.
Apparently she does too.
“He hated painting.”
“You said he claimed the wood was fighting him.”
Her hand goes over her mouth.
I immediately regret remembering so much.
Then she walks toward the gate.
I follow several steps behind.
Not because I don't want to touch her.
Because this belongs to her.
She pushes the old gate open.
It squeaks.
Her eyes close.
“Still does that.”
The garden has gone wild, though my people trimmed enough to make it safe.
Lavender.
Rosemary.
Grass.
The pear tree.
Near the house, an old stone basin remains beneath a rusted outdoor tap.
Sabine touches it.
“My papa used to wash dirt off my feet here before he let me inside.”
Her voice is small.
I stand beside her.
“He said I was feral.”
“You were.”
She looks up.
“You didn't know me.”
“I know you now.”
Her eyes hold mine.
Something moves between us.
Then she looks past my shoulder.
And freezes.
I follow her gaze.
Beyond the cottage, across the field, white flowers move in the breeze.
Wooden chairs.
Simple.
Nothing elaborate.
An aisle through the grass.
At the far end, beneath two old trees, linen and wildflowers frame a small ceremony space.
Sabine looks back at me.
“Xavier.”
I suddenly understand something astonishing.
I'm nervous.
Not Blackwell nervous.
Not operational.
Not threat analysis.
A completely useless human version.
“We still have the mairie first.”
Her mouth opens.
I continue before she can.
“My attorneys recovered your French civil registration. Temporary travel documents are already handled. The local office has the paperwork. Witnesses are arranged.”
She is still staring.
“And then?”
I glance toward the field.
“Then whatever part matters to us happens here.”
Her eyes fill again.
I reach for her.
This time she comes immediately.
Her arms circle my waist.
My chin rests against her hair.
For several seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then, muffled against my shirt:
“It's simple.”
“Yes.”
“It's perfect.”
I close my eyes.
That word does more damage than it should.
Perfect.
I press my mouth to her hair.
“You haven't even seen the dress.”
She pulls back.
Her eyes narrow.
“You bought me a wedding dress?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I had several brought.”
“Xavier.”
“You're difficult to size from encrypted photographs.”
She stares.
Then laughs.
And just like that, the fear in my chest loosens.
I take her hand.
“Come inside.”
She looks at the cottage.
Her childhood home.
Then at me.
“Ghost?”
“What?”
“If there is a cathedral veil in there, I'm leaving.”
“No veil.”
“Diamonds?”
“Optional.”
“No.”
“I assumed.”
“Big dress?”
“No.”
She watches me suspiciously.
“What did you choose?”
I look toward the house.
“Something that looks like you.”
Her expression changes.
I don't give myself time to think about it.
I lead her home.