“Connections,” he whispered back, giving me a sly grin. I shook my head in wonder.
As there were no chairs, the group of thirty or forty revenants—several of whom I recognized from New Year’s—was standing. We headed toward Jules and Ambrose, who took a break from talking to Jean-Baptiste and Violette to make appreciative comments about my appearance.
“Wow, Katie-Lou. You sure do clean up well. I barely recognize you out of jeans and Converses,” Ambrose said, giving me a hug. Jules just shrugged and said, “Not bad,” in a flippant voice before lifting his eyebrows and stroking his chin comically.
“Where’s Gaspard?” I asked.
“Dormant,” Vincent said. “And Arthur awoke during the night, so he’s still in bed.”
I nodded and looked toward the priest, who had begun addressing the crowd. “Dear ones,” he began, “we have gathered together today to celebrate the union of our brother Georges with our sister Chantal.”
I raised an eyebrow at Vincent. “Is he . . . ?” He nodded—the priest was one of them.
Vincent pulled me in front of him so that I could see better, resting his hands on the waist of my plum-colored knee-length dress.
The bride was stunning, wearing a traditional full-blown wedding gown with the works: veil, long train, and yards of creamy satin. She was twentieth century all the way, whereas the groom looked like he was from a much older time. He was dressed like one of the three musketeers, with ruffled collar, velvet waistcoat, and trousers that ended under the knee, just above where his long boots started. But instead of looking silly, he looked . . . dashing. I couldn’t help wondering if he had walked here wearing that.
“What’s up with d’Artagnan?” I whispered to Vincent.
“People usually wear the clothes of their era when they marry. It’s revenant tradition.”
I smiled, unable to keep myself from watching out of my peripheral vision for his cohorts to swing in on ropes through the chapel windows, donning feathered hats and brandishing swords.
The priest followed the wording of a regular wedding ceremony, punctuated by an occasional piece from a string quartet. The music drifted around the room like a symphonic mist, giving an even more otherworldly effect to an extraordinary event. When they got to the vows, the bride and groom faced each other and promised to be loving and faithful “so long as we both exist.” Well, I thought, that’s an interesting twist.
My thoughts percolated with the implications of what was happening. When humans married, they were already promising a lot by vowing they would stay together for several decades. This couple was stating, before their kindred, that they wanted to stay together . . . forever. Or at least for a really long time.
As the ceremony ended, the couple kissed, and then, taking each other’s hand, led the rest of the group down the stairs and out of the chapel. Once on the street, the procession walked the ten minutes to the tip of the island, went down some stairs, and arrived at the Place Dauphine, a paved, tree-lined park jutting out into the Seine. A large white tent had been erected, with gas heaters warming the space inside.
Vincent and I took plates of food and walked out of the tent to sit on the edge of the quay, which had been lined with soft blankets for the occasion. We dangled our legs over the water and silently picked at our tenderloin and potatoes gratin.
“No questions? Comments? Existential pondering?” Vincent said finally.
“I have so many thoughts going through my head right now, that I don’t even know where to start,” I said.
“Start basic then, and save the existential for later.” He set his empty plate on the blanket next to him and looked at me expectantly.
“Okay. Who are they—the bride and groom, I mean?”
“Georges and Chantal. He’s eighteenth century, she’s 1950s. He’s French, she’s Belgian.”
“How did they even meet then? I haven’t heard of you guys traveling much.”
“They met at a convocation—a meeting of our Consortium that takes place every few years. Representatives from all over the world come to the big ones. We usually just go to the European meeting.”
“An international meeting of revenants? Like the undead United Nations?” I curbed my laughter, seeing Vincent’s solemn expression.
“It’s an ancient tradition. The meetings are top secret, of course—for the obvious security reasons. Otherwise it would be like offering ourselves up as numa bait.”
“And that’s where the bride and groom met? At a political convocation?”
“Yeah. Besides being an informational meeting, it has an ulterior function of being a matchmaking opportunity. It’s hard to meet a partner when your social circle is so limited.”