“He didn’t seem to be operating at one hundred percent, I thought,” she replied quietly. “He has those circles under his eyes. And he’s so sallow-looking. I mean, he battled like the expert fighter he is, but he just didn’t seem to have much physical strength.”
I looked down at the table. “You’re right, Violette. I mean, I’ve only seen him in practice, but he could probably have taken those guys on by himself if he weren’t . . .” My voice trailed off.
“In bad shape.” She finished my sentence for me, and touched my hand. “That’s what I thought. But I wanted to get your reading on it since I don’t know how he usually performs. I hadn’t realized how much his project was affecting him until I saw him fight. Don’t worry about it, though. Things will get better,” she said gently. “But how about you. Any progress?”
“Zilch,” I answered.
She pursed her lips pityingly and sighed. “Don’t worry, Kate. I’m sure things will get better.” Although she didn’t look it. Unsure. Worried. Troubled, maybe. But I didn’t see “sure” anywhere on her face.
Just then my chocolate arrived. I sipped the steaming froth off the top while inhaling the rich aroma of cocoa, and wondered for the hundredth time why Vincent couldn’t just be a normal human boy.
“Good morning, mon ange! Where’s your dress?” Vincent called, from where he was leaning against the park gate across the street from my front door. Instead of his regular jeans and jacket, he was wearing a suit and tie. And, oh man, did he look yummy. I stood there in my workout gear and looked him up and down.
“It’s time for fight training. What’s with the suit, Mr. Wall Street?”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
I pulled out my phone to see a message from Vincent logged at three a.m.: Dress up tomorrow. I’m taking you to a formal event.
“Formal event?” I asked, my eyes widening. “What kind of formal event takes place on a Saturday morning?”
“A wedding,” Vincent said simply.
“You’re taking me to a wedding?” I asked, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me before three o’clock—the morning of?”
“Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to take you.”
My expression must have said it all, because he rushed to explain. “That’s not what I meant. I meant I wasn’t sure I wanted you to see a revenant wedding. You and I are already dealing with so much right now, I thought it might bring up too many . . . issues.”
“So why did you change your mind?” I asked, not quite mollified.
“Because I decided that avoidance wasn’t the answer. I promised I wouldn’t keep anything from you that you should know. And you’re already letting me break that promise . . . temporarily.
“A wedding might be information overkill, but”—he looked down and fiddled with his tie—“at least you’ll know more about the world you’re getting involved in. I owe you that.”
I stood there stunned for a moment, before reaching up to kiss his cheek. “I think I can handle it, Vincent. Thanks for . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “Just thanks.”
“How long will it take you to get ready?” he asked, brushing my hair back from my eyes with his fingers. “You already look perfect.”
I blushed, not wanting to admit that with a houseful of revenants living right down the street from us, seemingly popping up whenever I turned the corner, I never left the house now without making sure I looked okay. “Honestly, ten minutes. Just let me find a dress and shoes and I’ll be right back.”
“Fine,” he said, looking at his watch. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
An hour later we walked into the lower chapel of Sainte-Chapelle, an eight-hundred-year-old royal church that stands a few blocks from Notre-Dame Cathedral on the island in the Seine called the ?le de la Cité.
“The wedding is here?” I gasped as Vincent took my hand and led me up a minuscule winding stone staircase into the nave. And as soon as we entered the room, I began to feel that same heady sensation of sensory overload—a dizzy feeling—that I had experienced the handful of times I had visited the chapel as a tourist. Because the space was just that unexpectedly overwhelming.
The ceiling was higher than the length of the room, its decoration so distant it was barely visible. But it wasn’t the palatial height that took my breath away—it was the composition of the walls. Fifteen stained-glass windows, each fifty feet high, were set into the entire vertical surface of the chapel. The room was basically all glass held together by skeletal stone columns. The light that filtered through was a blue so deep it appeared purple, and the thick glass looked like precious stone. The overall effect made me feel I was a tiny gold figure inside a Fabergé egg, with my entire world encrusted in jewels.
I took a deep breath to stabilize my tap-dancing heart and wrapped my arm through Vincent’s. “How in the world were they able to reserve this for a wedding?” I whispered, as we moved toward the group of people assembled at the altar.