I Should Die

EIGHT



“IS THIS VINCENT’S?” I GASPED.

Jeanne nodded.

“Where did you get it?” Stunned, I rolled the strange bauble around in my hand.

“The locket is from Gaspard’s collection of memento mori,” Jeanne responded. “He said I could give it to you.”

“No, this,” I said, holding it up to indicate what was inside the crystal prison. “Why do you have a lock of Vincent’s hair?”

Jeanne thought a moment, and then said, “It’ll be easier to show you.” She gestured to a corner table that held an assortment of beautifully crafted silver and enamel boxes and candles in simple pierced-tin holders.

“It’s a ritual my mother taught me when I took her place. A practice her mother had passed to her. We’ve always felt a special responsibility for our revenants. It makes us feel better to think we’ve got some say in their survival. I’m not a religious woman, Kate. But I do say prayers every day for my wards.”

I picked up a tiny box from the front of the table and opened the embossed lid. A lock of red hair sat nestled inside the rich blue velvet lining. “Charles,” I breathed.

“He’s the one I’ve been thinking of most, recently,” Jeanne said, shaking her head sorrowfully. “If ever a boy needed a candle lit for him, it’s that one.” She touched a box covered in a blue-and-green leafy mosaic. “That’s Vincent’s,” she said. I picked it up and opened the lid to see the empty cushioned interior.

“Now that I’ve given you my little token of Vincent, I expect you to take over my prayers for his well-being,” Jeanne said.

“I will,” I promised.

Satisfied, she nodded to the back of the table, where dozens of the delicate boxes were lined up side by side and stacked on top of each other. “Even when they’re gone, I can’t bring myself to get rid of their boxes. Neither could my mother or even hers.”

I shuddered. Those stacks must represent Jean-Baptiste’s kindred destroyed by numa.

“Vincent’s still here on this earth, sweet girl,” she said, “even if only in spirit. You’ve got to be brave.”

Only in spirit. Those words, along with Jeanne’s expression of heartbroken pity, drove home the fact that this lock of hair constituted Vincent’s only earthly remains. He was a phantom now. Immaterial. What could the future hold for a girl and a ghost? The great big empty space in my chest ached, and would keep on aching, until I could touch him again. Which will never happen because he’s gone, I reminded myself.

Isn’t that what Vincent was trying to tell me when he disappeared? And he had been right . . . except for his conclusion: I will always be near. I’ll always be watching out for you. From now on, the only thing I can do for you is try to keep you safe.

I pressed hard on my chest, as if that would help the pain go away. In my other hand I clenched the locket tightly. No, I thought. I refuse to accept the scenario Vincent described: continuing my life as if he no longer exists, while he watches over me like a stalker guardian angel. I will not live out that tragedy.

And, abruptly, my thoughts turned to my parents and the great love they had shared. It had practically radiated from them, rubbing off on everyone nearby, making all around them happy. Filling others with hope.

I could have had a love like that with Vincent. I had felt it. There had been something right about us: It was bigger than just two people in love. When we were together, it had been like one of nature’s true and rare beauties; like an impossible beam of sunlight piercing through black clouds, bathing the patch of earth before you in gold. Together, Vincent and I had created something beautiful.

And, with that thought, something hardened inside me. A refusal. A rejection of the fate being shoved onto me. Even though I had no idea what form it would take, I would find a solution. Because a solution must exist.

I touched the crystal locket to my lips. And pulling the cord holding the signum Vincent had given me over my head, I added the memento mori locket to the ancient symbol of the revenants and tucked them back under my shirt.

Hearing a knock at the door, Jeanne and I turned to see Gaspard leaning in, his hair sticking out like an explosion. “Ah yes . . . excuse me for interrupting.” He averted his eyes as if allowing us to finish in privacy.

“It’s fine, Gaspard. I had just finished showing Kate my boxes.”

“Yes, yes. Good, good.” Gaspard nodded, tugging nervously on the hem of his jacket, straightening what was already ironed to perfection. “Your grandmother is ready to leave, Kate, and wishes you to go with her.”

I kissed Jeanne and followed Gaspard to the armory, where we collected Georgia and walked the long hallway to the foyer.

“We’re walking to the gallows,” Georgia said. “I wonder if she’ll ever let us leave the apartment again.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Gaspard murmured, but didn’t say anything else.

We found Mamie at the front door, her mood much improved. “So tell me,” she was asking Jean-Baptiste, “regarding the portrait of your ancestor that I restored: Was the sitter actually you?”

“Oui, madame,” the older revenant acquiesced.

Mamie nodded, studying his face. “Well, even though I know there is magic involved, I must say I am terribly impressed at how well you’ve kept yourself,” she remarked admiringly.

She turned, hearing us approach. “There you are, mes enfants,” she said, the stern look returning to her face. “Come along now. We will discuss everything with your grandfather when we get home.”

Gaspard held the door open, and Georgia and I stepped out, Mamie shooing us ahead like a mother hen. Lacing her arms through ours, she turned to say good-bye.

“I look forward to meeting your husband one of these days,” Jean-Baptiste said.

“I’m not sure he feels the same way,” Mamie remarked with an amused gleam in her eye, “but I will have a talk with him and we will see how things develop. In the meantime, I thank you for your offer of protection. I will be in touch.”

“As you wish, madame,” Jean-Baptiste responded. “You are in complete control of the manner in which things proceed between your family and mine. Just give me the word and I will provide whatever you request.”

“Merci, cher monsieur,” Mamie said, nodding elegantly, and then turning, led us toward the gate.

I knew we were fine when we passed the fountain and Mamie, unable to help herself, lifted a finger toward the angel and his lovely burden. “Did you notice that spectacular example of Romantic-era sculpture, Katya? The diaphanous quality of the woman’s dress could only have been achieved by a great master. Surely not Canova himself. But, then again, I wonder. In any case, truly exquisite.”

Mamie’s fury had passed. I smiled. “Yes, Mamie. I’ve noticed it before.”