“So what’s the deal with the ‘bardia’ term?” I asked. “If that’s actually what you are, why do you call yourselves ‘revenants’?”
“Good question,” responded Vincent. “I guess it’s just kind of gone out of style.” He mulled it over for a second. “Actually, it’s probably a kind of superiority thing—we think we’re the real deal, while the numa are more like deviants. You can ask Gaspard about it, but I think ‘bardia’ is based on a word that means ‘to guard,’ so it would actually be the more accurate term for us. It’s used in our official documents. But say ‘bardia’ to Ambrose or Jules and they will definitely look at you funny.” He flipped through the book’s pages once more before putting it back in its box and placing it carefully in its niche in the bookcase.
“Vincent? When Jean-Baptiste was talking to us today, he said something about going on the offensive. And I felt like there was something you didn’t want him to say. Like there was this weird kind of face-off between the two of you before Arthur cut in and voted me out of the meeting. What was that about?”
A strange expression crossed Vincent’s face. Pulling me to my feet, he said, “It doesn’t matter. And if it ever does, I will tell you about it. But for now, let’s talk about something more interesting.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like where I’m going to take you to dinner tonight,” Vincent said, and, grasping me lightly by the hips, drew me toward himself and bent down for a kiss. Any lingering doubts I had melted as quickly as snowflakes over a bonfire.
ELEVEN
I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING TO A MIXTURE OF excitement and dread. I had fight training with Gaspard and Vincent today, and even though I loved the actual fighting, I still felt way below par with my skills. My first lesson, barely a month ago, had been a disaster. We had concentrated solely on the sword, which seemed easy enough when we were walking slow-motion through moves, but as soon as Gaspard sped things up a notch, I was useless.
Fighting seemed like dancing to me, and besides not having much natural rhythm, I’ve always felt a bit stupid on the dance floor. This definitely carried over into my lessons. My self-consciousness made me clumsy, and I was so afraid of looking like a weak, defenseless novice that I actually became what I feared most.
However, by the fourth lesson I found myself becoming engrossed in the movements. It was like my self-hypnosis sessions in museums or at the river—I let myself zone out, and all of a sudden the moves seemed to come by themselves. It was a kind of yin-yang phenomenon, where my subconscious took over and my brain shut off. As soon as I stopped thinking about what I was doing, everything worked.
The awkward moments were becoming shorter and shorter, and lately it took just a few steps back and forth before the switch flipped and I was on autopilot.
Today will be an autopilot day, I reassured myself as I threw on some jeans and a sweater and made my way blearily to the breakfast table. Papy was already sitting there, dressed for work and reading his morning paper. “Up so early?” he asked, lowering the paper to meet my eyes.
“Exactly why my teacher insists on a lesson at nine a.m. on Saturday, I don’t quite get. But I know better than to keep him waiting,” I said, pouring myself some grapefruit juice and grabbing a croissant off the counter.
When I had (somewhat hesitantly) told Mamie and Papy that Vincent had gotten me fencing lessons for my birthday, they were delighted—to my astonishment. I hadn’t realized how popular the sport was in France, or that it had aristocratic connotations. My grandparents weren’t pretentious, but working in the art-and-antiques world gave them an appreciation for anything grounded in history. And what was more historical than swordplay?
Papy went all out and bought me my own suit and épée. I didn’t explain to him that Vincent’s gym housed a fully stocked armory, or that fencing was just one component of my fight training. He would have to buy a battle-ax, quarterstaff, and a half-dozen other weapons to keep up with Gaspard’s training regime.
My grandfather gestured toward a vase of flowers on the hall table. “Found those in the vestibule when I picked up my paper this morning.” A brightly colored nosegay was nestled in a small round vase, with a gift-wrapped package sitting next to it. I opened it and pulled out a book entitled Le Langage des Fleurs. “The Language of Flowers,” I whispered to myself and, opening it, saw an inscription on the title page:
For Kate. You’re already fluent in two languages. I thought a third wouldn’t hurt. Your homework assignment accompanies this book. With affection, Violette de Montauban.