“I went from thinking you were dead to being informed that you were, not only a revenant, but the Champion, within a matter of moments,” Vincent says, lowering his voice. “I went from mourning you . . . to relief that you weren’t gone forever . . . to realizing this meant that you were out there somewhere being prepared for another death by Violette. If I hadn’t had to keep my wits together and organize the search for you, I would have gone crazy.”
“He was in major shock,” Ambrose interjects as if Vincent’s story needs backup. “I’ve known the man for almost a century, and I’ve never seen him so out of his mind. Arthur and I actually had to restrain him so that he wouldn’t hunt Violette down by himself.”
For a few minutes, the only sound is tires against asphalt. “I broke the news to your grandparents,” says Vincent finally. “And like me, they hung on to the hope that you had survived.”
Thinking of my family’s pain, I close my eyes and rest my head on Vincent’s shoulder.
Ambrose takes over the story. “JB showed up a couple days later, saying there was some crazy-ass revenant-in-the-making light like nothing he’d ever seen—visible all the way from Normandy.”
“That’s how we were sure you had animated,” says Vincent. “We hoped we would find you before Violette destroyed you. Kate, your grandparents are just going to be glad to see you again. Don’t worry about anything else.”
“I’ll call now.” Geneviève takes out her phone.
“I can’t . . . I can’t talk to them,” I stammer. “Not on the phone.”
“Don’t worry,” Geneviève says. “I’ll have Jeanne break the news. That will probably be easiest for them.” She makes the call, and I hear the housekeeper answer.
“We’ve got Kate,” Geneviève says. “She’s alive. And . . .” She pauses, considering how to put it. “She’s one of us now.”
I hear the sound of Jeanne’s relief explode from the other end of the line in a jumble of emotional French syllables before she hangs up.
“Can we have some music?” Vincent asks. Ambrose switches the radio on and repositions the rearview mirror, and Geneviève turns around to give us privacy.
We lay our heads against the seat back and look at each other. Neither wants to be the first to speak.
Looking down, Vincent picks some dried mud off my hand with his fingernail and says, “Although this isn’t what I wanted for you, it’s better than the alternative. Your being immortal is better than your being dead.”
“I know,” I respond, closing my eyes and exhaling deeply. When I open them his face is next to mine. His fingers stroke my wet hair, smoothing it down. “Let’s not talk about it now,” I whisper. “If we survive these next few weeks, we’ll have as long as we want to figure it all out.”
He nods. Leaning forward, he kisses my cheeks, my forehead, my eyes, my lips.
“Mon Kate, qui était à moi, qui n’est plus à moi,” he whispers as he kisses me. And then he says it in English. “My Kate, who was mine, who is no longer mine”—he tiredly rubs his bloodshot eyes—“because now you belong to fate.”
FORTY-ONE
AS WE DRIVE INTO PARIS, THE SKY CHANGES FROM cotton candy pink to cantaloupe. Thin red beams appear amid the white lights of the city that begin to flicker on as twilight approaches. They look like lasers pointed into the clouds, and I wonder if the carnival has returned to the Tuileries Gardens.
We turn a corner and the Seine appears, and upon seeing it, my heartbeat steadies like it does every time I see the river. It is a blue flag of continuity for me, symbolizing the continuous flow of time in an ageless city. Comforted, I take Vincent’s hand in mine and close my eyes until we arrive at La Maison.
The gates swing open, and I see three figures seated on the side of the fountain. They stand as we drive into the courtyard, and I leap from the car into their arms.
“Oh, Katya,” says Mamie, pulling me to her and wrapping her arms around my neck.
“Princesse,” Papy says, encircling the two of us in a hug.
“Are you okay?” Mamie asks, her eyes searching my face.
“I’m fine, Mamie. I just had a fight with a couple of numa. But I won,” I say, attempting a smile.
“We were so worried, Kate,” Papy interjects, and something catches in his throat. With a stiffness that sounds unnatural for him, he says, “Nothing matters except the fact that you are here now.” It sounds like something he has practiced. Like he’s trying to convince himself as he says the words.
I see his distress. He is hugging me—the old Kate—while recoiling from the idea of hugging the new me. The undead me. I don’t blame him. Hopefully we’ll both be able to get used to it with time. If we have the time, I think, remembering that we are going into war and nothing is certain.