The first few weeks of November pass quickly, in spite of my aching heart. The fact that my ribbon imprint—or henna tattoo, as far as everyone other than Aunt Charlotte and Bouchard are concerned—feels warm, yet doesn’t sting or hurt, gives me a small fraction of hope. But why hasn’t he tried to reach me, at least in my dreams?
Every time I sing, I think of him, along with that poster on my wall back home of the bleeding rose: white petals, red liquid oozing from its heart. Only I’m the little girl fearlessly reaching into the thorns, not caring if I’m pierced and bloody; because those wings are so worth every ounce of the pain.
I’ve learned to control my appetites with daily samplings of energy, though I know that I’ll need bigger feedings at times. Without Etalon to guide me, I rely on Aunt Charlotte and follow her routines. She’s been keeping her secret since the age of fifteen, after all. She found the perfect shade of contacts for my eyes and I’m already used to wearing them when Mom and Ned fly in to spend Thanksgiving with us, bearing news about Ben—he’s out of the hospital and doing great, though the doctors say he’ll probably never regain memory of that night—an early Christmas gift even brighter than the cards from Trig and Janine.
Our school has continued with the support of all the parents. The classes, rehearsals, and dorms have been moved temporarily to an apartment building we’re renting in Paris—Headmaster Fabre has a friend in the real-estate business—until the repairs to the opera house are completed. Since the anonymous benefactor can’t be found, the deed now belongs to the investors, as per the contract. These include Aunt Charlotte and Madame Bouchard, who are both determined that RoseBlood will be up and running again, in all its old-world splendor, in plenty of time for our summer production of The Fiery Angel.
However, there’s a new Renata. I was too “traumatized” from the kidnapping for such a taxing role, and have taken one of the smaller parts that opened up, although I’ve already signed up to audition for La Schola Cantorum Conservatory where Audrey is hoping to get a scholarship. And now that she’s playing Renata again, she has a real chance. It’s a shock to all of us that Kat didn’t even bat her pretty eyes at losing the part. She’s too preoccupied toting Roxie’s books to classes, helping her up the stairs, and carrying her food trays to the table for meals. She hasn’t left her friend’s side since Roxie broke her leg while pushing Kat out of the way of the chandelier on Halloween night. It seems Kat has learned there’s more to life than the pursuit of stardom and a hot guy with twinkling blue eyes and blond hair.
As for Jax and me? We’ve decided what happened between us at the rave club was drug-induced, no more real or mysterious than the delusions everyone had on Halloween night. Audrey’s forgiven us both, and has told Jax how she really feels about him. They’re dating now, and supercouple status is on the horizon. After almost dying, they’re not wasting any more time.
The Friday after Thanksgiving, Ned takes Mom to see the palace in Versailles, and I go with Aunt Charlotte to visit Grandma Lil. I learn something while looking at my grandma’s lifetime of wrinkles, and her nose and eyes so like Dad’s: forgiveness is much easier than holding a grudge. She isn’t expected to live through the end of the year, but at least now we’ve made peace.
After the visit, my aunt asks if I want to go with her to check on the renovation’s progress at RoseBlood. It’s the first time I’ve returned since Halloween. I don’t waste one second following her into the opera house, just like she doesn’t ask a single question as we part ways. The only thing she says is to be back in an hour.
The sun shines bright, but the wind is brisk with the scent of greenery and soil. I pull my cap over my head and snuggle deeper into my multicolor embroidered jacket and knit scarf. Today I wore my jeans with the patches, so no air can seep through the rips and chill me. I follow the trail through the garden, giving passing glances to the flowers and plants—some wilted and dormant, others still holding their shape and color while glistening with the first touch of frost. Come spring, I’ll visit them every day.
My cheeks grow warm at the thought of carrying on Dad’s love for gardening here, on his side of the ocean. At last I can honor his memory free of guilt.
There’s a smile on my face by the time I cross the footbridge, no longer leery of the water underneath. My mood changes the moment I spot the baby’s grave. When I saw her in that chamber, enveloped in liquid, hooked up to tubes that pulsed light and life into her empty body, there was a second that I hesitated—that I almost considered surrendering my gift—until Etalon’s logic broke through. It wouldn’t have grown her a set of lungs, or a beating heart. I’ve been blessed with both, so it’s up to me to keep Christine’s voice alive.
Noticing something different about the epitaph, I move closer to the cradle. Someone has etched October 31 beside the year 1883, along with the name: Hope. The dirt around the grave is freshly dug.
It’s confirmation. Erik chose his son, and Etalon’s alive. Tears scald the edges of my eyes, a burst of relief.