by Arden, Alys
He didn’t stir, nor did I.
I held still until I could no longer contain myself. Then I began to giggle uncontrollably, and again he huffed and puffed in frustration, as if he had thought he could will me into doing whatever he wanted. I laughed until I was gasping for air, and then leaned into his chest and took a deep breath.
His back stiffened, and he asked, “What are you doing, pray tell?”
I took another deep inhale of his coat. “Monsieur Cartier, I am trying to figure out if you smoked an opium pipe when I wasn’t looking.”
“Adeline, you know I didn’t leave your sight all night.”
“That is true, but I cannot think of anything else that would make you say something so absurd.”
He gazed upon my smile, bewildered and a bit sullen, as the carriage approachedla maison.
“Well, Monsieur Jean-Antoine Cartier, I do thank you for escorting me to the salon, and I do regret having only met you on my last night in Paris.”
He helped me out of the carriage and bid me farewell before stepping back in. “It is not possible that we will not see each other again, Mademoiselle Saint-Germain, that I can promise you. I bid youau revoir, ’til we meet again in La Nouvelle-Orléans.”
“I cannot believe this is my last night. I believe my heart will always be here. Je t’aime, Paris.”
He leaned out of the window curtain and kissed both of my cheeks. “And Paris loves you.”
Absorbed by his words, I smiled and waved as his coachmen prepared to leave, but then he called for my attention one last time:
“And, Adeline, do tell your father I called, si’l vous plaît.”
His smile turned devilish as the carriage took off with a jolt, leaving behind only the echoes of hooves against the cobblestones.
Chapter 21 Knowledge, Beauty, and Metal
October 24th
Our city had drowned two months and three weeks ago. Now, the world was moving on without us.
As fresher headlines popped up elsewhere, the media began to leave New Orleans, and slowly the world stopped paying attention. We were left to fend for ourselves on the eroding banks of the gulf, of the river, of time.
Time had always passed slowly in the South, but now it was like the Storm had hit the pause button, and Louisianians were frozen between frames. The pace of life went from slow to barely existent.
Progress stalled as local, state, and federal government agencies fought over control of funds and power. The longer things stalled, the more people blamed each other, and the more people blamed each other, the less rebuilding happened. We were quickly moving out of the we’re-all-in-this-together phase into bitterness and resentment. Most people were still at the whim of the defunct electric grid. We were still living under the mandatory curfew. And we were still eating scrounged canned goods. Of course, my father and I were far better off than the hundreds of thousands who were still displaced and/or were now homeless. Not to mention those who hadn’t survived. The dead. Smashed. Drowned.
Murdered.
Thoughts of death forced everything else to escape to the back of my mind, except the supernatural questions that had plagued me ever since the night of the tour. The longer the truth eluded me, the more torturous every hour of every day became, until eventually I was drifting along in an incessant dream state where nothing felt real. In this dream state I believed that vampires could exist.
Believing this fundamentally changed the way I looked at everything. It must be the way people felt when they found God – processing everything after that moment in a brand new way.
I had no proof of their existence, just this feeling, like the puzzle pieces of my brain had suddenly snapped into place. The only point of reference I had to compare it to was when I had made the Santa Claus discovery. I was only seven years old, but I can still remember that exact moment when it all suddenly made sense – the cookies, the presents, the reindeer – it was this very distinct moment of clarity. Upon this moment, I rushed to my father and demanded evidence as to how a fat man could come through our chimney! That, of course, sent him into crisis mode, stuck between the adult thing to do and the parental thing to do. When I threatened to drag the eleven-year-old future-scientists into the discussion, he caved and told me the truth.
We hadn’t had any secrets since.
In retrospect, I think he was relieved not to have to keep up the fantasy any longer.
Even as a kid, I’d felt so silly knowing I’d believed the hoax when the truth had been so obvious.
I had needed proof then. And that’s what I needed now: evidence that would weave this dream state in which vampires could exist with reality where I was taught that the idea was fiction. This time, I couldn’t rely on my father or the twins to confirm my hypothesis. They’d think I was crazy. When I thought about it, I felt crazy.
Am I crazy?
When I asked myself too many questions, everything began to unravel. A little voice inside my head warned me to let it go, but that was no longer an option – it felt powerful to know something no one else knew. But with no idea of where to start, I felt like Alice chasing the white rabbit’s shadow, fumbling around in the dark for the hole, for the fall, for the proof of its existence.
* * *
Even though it had only been a few days since I discovered her, I had become obsessed with Adeline Saint-Germain. She was one more puzzle for me to figure out. Considering that my father’s parents had died so soon after my mother left, family was not a topic I frequently broached with him—not that I really wanted to now—it’s not like I could casually bring up a three-hundred-year-old relative without raising a few questions, which I certainly wasn’t prepared to answer. That left me with Adeline’s necklace and her diary, neither of which I ever left farther than arm’s length.
My attachment to these artifacts was different from the love I usually had for all things vintage. I had an unexplainable, overwhelming need to protect them. Someone had obviously gone to extraordinary lengths to hide the diary, and knowing that they must have had the same kind of ability as me fueled my obsession.
Unfortunately, thanks to Franz Kafka and a mountain of other “so you can catch up with the other Sacred Heart students” homework, plus my mentorship, I was swamped. I fell asleep each night translating the pages, figuring that when I finished the entire thing, maybe I would show it to my father and ask him about it. The ornate handwriting, faded antique ink, and eighteenth-century French made the translation process drag, but I continued obsessively nonetheless, hanging on to every word, romanticizing her grand adventure.
* * *
I felt myself gradually becoming more and more withdrawn, which wasn’t difficult given that no one at school spoke to me except for Thurston Van der Veer, (who turned out to be Annabelle Lee’s boyfriend). This, of course, made me a massive target with Annabelle’s clique. Having to avoid the one person in school who paid attention to me only further annoyed me. Didn’t he know other girls were not allowed to speak to Annabelle Lee Drake’s boyfriend? Didn’t he know that his attention was causing me to become the most hated girl at Sacred Heart? Sometimes I just wanted to scream at him to GO AWAY.
The worst part was that although I could feel the hate emanating from Annabelle Lee (and so could everyone else), she was always sweet as pie to me, even though the fake tone in her voice sent a signal to all those within earshot that I was not to be welcomed, spoken to, assisted, or even looked at until she decided what to do with me. She was a shark, constantly circling, just waiting for the right time to attack. No one wanted to be near the shark bait. With good reason.
As far as I could tell, there were only three people who didn’t bow down to her authority.
The first was her BFF, Désirée, who, don’t get me wrong, was deeply woven into the social order threads of the student population but whose general attitude of disdain seemed to trump everything, including Annabelle’s dictatorship. I guess that’s what happens when you are born with everything,
or when your father is the mayor. Or maybe it’s just what happens when you are that beautiful – rules no longer apply to you.
The second was her little sister, Katherine Lee Drake, who was my chemistry lab partner. Knowing the only interaction I had to look forward to was the sophomore who was obligated to work with me made me feel extra pathetic, but I shouldn’t complain because she was nice. Unlike Dixie Hunter, who, every day, made it apparent how ready and willing she was to do whatever necessary to earn a permanent place in Annabelle’s throng.
Everything about high school seemed so trite now. I pretended not to care.
Then there was the only person who outright refused to bow down to any social hierarchy in the school: Tyrelle. I did everything I could to try to win him over – my next step was to cook up the dusty box of brownie mix in our pantry (with no milk or eggs, of course) and beg. The grapevine told me that he was the son of one of the most famous rappers to ever come out of New Orleans, or all of the Dirty South. His father had been in more scuffles with the law than could be counted on two hands, and one of his brothers was currently serving time for an infraction involving a gun. So, everyone steered totally clear of him, as if he was suddenly going to pop a cap. Tyrelle seemed to like it that way, but I was pretty sure the only thing he was popping was the curve in our Pre-Cal class.
I tried to keep a low profile, but sometimes my parlor trick made that impossible. On multiple occasions, I hadn’t been able to keep my locker from slamming open, and once it had nearly clocked the head of a burley lacrosse player whose locker was on my left; another time it nicked his hand. On that occasion, he had thought I was flirting and said something idiotic like, “So, you like it rough?”
Tyrelle, whose locker was on my right, had laughed (at the locker slamming the lacrosse player, not at the lacrosse player sexually harassing me). I wanted to punch them both, but I was so nervous wondering if Tyrelle had witnessed how my locker had flown open I just ran away.
The angrier I became at Annabelle Lee Drake, the more impossible it became to control my abilities – until today, that is. (Not that I found the logical explanation for why it was happening.)
I was at Café Orléans, technically working, but since customers hardly ever walked through the door, I was pulling double duty and having my French tutoring session with Jeanne. A week ago, I would have cherished getting to spend one her rare moments away from the university laboratory, but instead it was agonizing. I just wanted to tell her everything and ask questions, but, with no evidence to support my claims, the scientist in her would have fretted over my lunatic hypothesis. Much more than her brother, Jeanne struggled to ever take off the lab coat and look at something without her soon-to-be doctoral title. Of course, I did have one piece of proof that something in my life was awry, but I wasn’t willing to reveal that just yet.
I was returning from the bathroom, trying to fabricate an excuse so I could go home and curl up with Adeline’s diary, when Jeanne looked up from the table with a perplexed brow.
“Why are you creating these lists?”
She’d been reading a page in my notebook – my documentation of everything I had successfully been able to move or not move telekinetically.
I grabbed for the notebook, but she quickly pulled it out of my reach. I coyly tried to turn the tables. “What do you think the lists are?”
“Ugh, a list of objects that contain metals and a list of… random junk.”
I ripped the notebook from her hands and scoured the lists.
She was right. I am an idiot,I thought, but was too excited to be down on myself about the oversight. “How do you do that!”
“Do what?”
“Nothing. Never mind.”
“What are the lists for?”
“Um…”
Maybe I should just tell her? Her giant brain might have just come up with the explanation I had been searching for. “It’s just something for my chem lab.”
“And what exactly are you studying in your chem lab?”
“Um, something about mineral properties… you know, melting points and freezing points, stuff like that.”
“In a sophomore-level chemistry class? I thought that school was supposed to be the best? Sheesh, no wonder the sciences are going down the tubes.”
My answer must have been spastic-enough sounding, because she bought it. At least, I think she did. We spent another forty-five minutes conjugating irregular French verbs, but I couldn’t think about anything but metals. I was clawing at the walls to finish the lesson so I could get out and test her theory. Needless to say, apprenticing with my father in the metal shop was about to become a lot more interesting.
Chapter 22 Bon Voyage
(translated from French)
10th March 1728
One would think that, stuck aboard a ship with no one but nuns and orphans, I would be writing nonstop out of boredom, but alas, somehow the time has slipped by. The good news is I have finally gotten my sea legs, as the sailors say, so now it is easier to write without feeling dizzy from the constant push and pull of the ocean’s grip. The weather has been tumultuous, with rain pounding down on our vessel both night and day, but now the sun is shining, and one of the sailors has secured my parasol to help shield against both the blazing rays and the spray of the ocean. The cool mists are refreshing, but they are good for neither paper nor ink.
As the sailors hustle around me, pushing the ship to her limits to make up for lost time, I sit in solitude, recording this adventure, wondering where in the world you are, and praying that writing will distract me from the ever-present cabin fever. Father, I do trust that you have a good reason for sending me to La Nouvelle-Orléans; however, I am angry about the way in which you sent me. I would have thought my nursemaid (of sixteen years!) would be a better choice of traveling companion than Monsieur and Madame DuFrense, who still seem like strangers to me, though we have had a few good conversations. I might as well be traveling alone, Papa, which is exactly what I told Monsieur Cartier that morning in Paris, when, to my surprise, he showed up at the dock to bid me bon voyage. It could have been quite a romantic parting, but he spoilt it by, again, rather adamantly insisting I sneak him onboard the ship in my luggage.
The gentleman has a funny sense of humor, Papa. He pretended to tease, but my intuition told me that if I had taken him seriously for even a second, his words would no longer have been a joke. I believe he actually did want to come aboard the ship in my trunk! Despite the strange request, I do admit to favoring him, and I do hope to see him again on the other side of the Atlantic. I feel like we could have many grand adventures together, just like you and me, Father.
Alas, keeping the spray of water from ruining the pages is becoming too difficult, so this story will have to continue at a later date.
11th March 1728
It’s hard to imagine being aboard this ship for months. Almost none of the other passengers will speak to me – everyone knows I am the daughter of a count. This leaves me with only the Monsieur and Madame DuFrense, Captain Vauberci, and the Reverend Mother Superior Marie Lorient. Apparently, the sisters of the Catholic faith have a strict hierarchy, which mirrors the rest of French society, and this is why three of the nuns do not speak to me at all. Thankfully, it wasn’t because they thought I was a lady of ill repute. I hope that over time the usual societal hierarchies can be abandoned, even if only temporarily, while we are trapped aboard this ship, otherwise I might have to throw myself overboard to avoid dying of boredom. I will try not to harp on this now, and will instead give you the details you requested, no matter how banal I consider them.
The breakfast mostly consists of a little bread and hard cheese. The DuFrenses and I are also given a lump of sugar for our tea and some dried fruit, which riddles me with guilt as the orphans, who get none, sit near us at one long table. We eat breakfast with the captain at a small, round table.
If I have counted correctly, onboard there are twenty-six teenage girls, all being sent to
La Nouvelle-Orléans at the request of the King, and six sisters of the Order of Saint Ursula, who are looking after them and who will, as I understand it, board and school them until they are all married off to French settlers in the new colony. All of the passengers are stacked in bunks of six to a room except for three orphans who for some reason were given their own cabin. Of course, I have my own première classe cabin, as do the DuFrenses.
I find the couple I am traveling with pleasant enough – Claude DuFrense plans to develop real estate in the city and has been telling me much about the layout of the town. His fervor for the endless investment opportunity is infectious; however, his wife is less than thrilled to be “ripped away from the heart of the world.” Martine DuFrense is an opera singer, and she has made it abundantly clear that her life is over, having left Paris. Claude promises to build her the grandest opera house in all the world and being reminded of this momentarily raises her spirits, but most of the time she stays locked up in their cabin, sinking further into depression.
I hope that once the weather permits a bit of socializing on the deck, we can be friends. As things stand now, I end up spending most of my time talking about our destination with the crewmen, who have no problem speaking out of social order – as long as the captain is out of earshot.
17th March 1728
I apologize for not writing, but the task of reliving the boring days by writing them down is even worse than living them. My health has been good, but some of the orphans have suffered from seasickness. The poor things sometimes look so pale and can do nothing but lie in their cabins suffering from light-headedness and fevered dreams. Other than a couple of screams in the middle of the night from these girls, there really has been nothing to report.