Lavender in Bloom

by Lily Velez

  “I’ve often wondered if I’m the same man I was back then,” Monsieur Perreault continued, “if I would once again opt for quick action over peace-keeping words, and I want to thank you, Noah, for you’ve made it abundantly clear to me. I am still that man. I always have been. Were I to discover that a person was posing a threat to the order of my world, I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to pull that trigger a second time.”

  He clapped Noah’s back. Hard. So hard that Noah thought his entire skeleton had been realigned. “Do enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  He started to return to his guests, but stopped to say one final thing, facing Noah full on this time. “You and your family may see yourselves off come morning. I think we’re quite finished here, don’t you?”

  “It would be improper,” Noah’s father said the next morning, “for us to leave without expressing gratitude to our hosts.” He was speaking with the head of staff, who’d unceremoniously asked moments ago if the family was prepared to be on their way, as their horses and wagons were readied and awaiting them outside the chateau.

  “I’m afraid Monsieur Perreault is still with the hunting party whereas Madame Perreault is otherwise engaged,” the man said. “They express their deepest regret that they couldn’t see you off themselves but insisted they not keep you any longer. They know it’s of the utmost importance to your livelihood that you return to your farm at once.”

  Noah’s neck tensed. Even in their absence, the Perreaults couldn’t resist insulting his family. Nevermind the fact that Monsieur Perreault had threatened Noah’s life yesterday evening. Threatened it! As if he were one of the stags on the other end of the man’s rifle. Noah hadn’t gotten a minute of sleep afterward, convinced Monsieur Perreault would barge into his room and end him right then and there. The possibility rattled him even now, despite the man being nowhere in sight, causing Noah to be anxious and restless with regards to his family’s departure. So the Perreaults didn’t wish to bid them farewell? All the better as far as he was concerned!

  The entire ordeal struck an odd note in Noah’s mother and father, however. It was palpable in the air, so that one might reach up and feel it against his fingertips as he would with rain or snow. They exchanged another concerned look like the one from yesterday evening.

  Noah’s mother, ever the optimistic sort, decided to remain hopeful. “We’ve hardly spoken of wedding preparations. I imagine the Perreaults intend to keep us abreast of Jeremie’s dealings abroad?”

  “Yes, I should like to send letters to my fiancé,” Camilla chimed in, standing proud among the group as if she were royalty who’d one day been misplaced, finding herself in the wrong family. She sighed then in a dreamy way. “I’ve always wanted to exchange love letters with a man. Now I shall finally have my chance. I’ll write to Jeremie every day. I’m sure he’ll do the same. He may even include sonnets in his letters.”

  “I unfortunately have no further information beyond what I’ve already conveyed, madame. I do apologize.”

  And so as the sun rose and a flock of thin clouds paced upon the distant hills, the Capets took leave of Chateau de Perreault, confused, conflicted, and, at least for Camilla’s part, a touch crestfallen. They passed over the dew-laden flowers with their sweet, unfading fragrances and weaved their way through the trees and their leafy exhalations, and only when they passed under the wisteria adorning the iron gates of the property like lavender brushstrokes in a watercolor painting did Noah look over his shoulder.

  In the distance, the lake shimmered white in the daylight like sparks of fire. The mist that had surrounded it on previous days was nowhere in sight, but the familiar gunshots from Monsieur Perreault’s hunting party erupted from the woods, and Noah felt as if the ammunition had only just missed him.

  34

  For days, the Capets were left to only puzzle out and speculate over the Perreaults’ strange behavior. Jeremie, who was by their estimates still en route to France’s major ports on the western coast, hadn’t yet sent word from the road. His mother and father had fallen equally silent.

  While these things upset Noah’s family, and with good reason, he was honestly glad for the circumstances. A silent Perreault equaled a Perreault who wasn’t threatening his life. Even from this distance, Noah still laid awake in bed most nights, heart squeezing as if stuck between the jaws of a vise. He could hardly breathe these days. He wandered about the farm like a ghost of himself, every muscle tense, as if at any moment, Monsieur Perreault would descend upon him.

  “There may be little reason for concern,” Noah’s father said one evening over supper when the subject arose. “Monsieur Perreault is a businessman. For all we know, he’s had business to see to in another region.” His tone, however, clashed with his words. It was clear he was only grasping at plausible explanations for his daughter’s sake.

  “But they didn’t even see us off,” Margaux contributed, still sore from the bad show of manners. She stirred her frumenty, blowing gently at strips of steam. “And Jeremie simply left without a single word. Why would he do that? It doesn’t seem at all like him.”

  Camilla, of course, came to the Perreaults’ defense. She sat straight in her seat, calmly buttering bread as if she were above all the fuss. “They’re very busy people, Margaux. You can’t expect them to simply drop everything only to offer you a silly goodbye.”

  But away from the others, Camilla’s displeasure with the fortune assigned her revealed itself. When she wasn’t staring toward the horizon, waiting for the sight of a horse courier bearing news, she’d approach Noah with crossed arms, a pail of chicken feed swaying from one wrist, and, feigning casualness, put forth her questions.

  “Did Jeremie say anything to you before he took leave?”

  “Why do you think he hasn’t yet written?”

  “How long do you think it’ll be before he sends for me?”

  Noah never had answers for her. None that she wanted to hear. None that he could bear to extend. It was clear to him now, Monsieur Perreault’s aim. Jeremie would most likely never send for Camilla. There was no way his mother and father would want him to maintain any proximity whatsoever with Noah. They’d probably have him take an English girl for a bride instead, and should anyone inquire into the matter of his previous engagement, they’d offer some lie about Camilla’s unsuitability or briefly mention a belatedly discovered blemish on the Capets’ reputation, a reputation with which they therefore couldn’t, in good conscience, allow themselves to align. Their social intimates would understand without question—“Oh, what a pity…yes, yes, Jeremie deserves far better”—and then move on to talk of Perreault Industries.

  Noah considered these things continuously as he busied his hands with the usual chores and farriery commissions. It was strange. While at the chateau, all he’d wanted was to return to his family’s farm, and yet now that he was here, the farm felt ill-fitted. He counted it bizarre that he’d spent nearly all his young life on this very land. It seemed smaller than he’d remembered it. Restraining.

  So he escaped the confines by finding refuge in his last moments with Jeremie. He’d review their kiss—their kisses—again and again, feel the same familiar pulls, the same quickening in his chest, the same drops in his stomach. His work came slowly as a result, for despite his best efforts, his mind simply wouldn’t cease wandering. He’d come to from a memory and realize he was standing in the middle of the barn with a curry comb in hand and no recollection whatsoever of which horse he’d meant to groom. He couldn’t tally the number of minutes he’d lost in this manner, nor could he measure the depth of longing that always lingered afterward.

  A week later, as the horizon devoured the setting sun, Noah scattered straw across the flooring of the horse stalls, deep in the mire of his own thoughts.

  He’d dreamt of Jeremie last night. One moment they’d been at the bookshop, sorting through old tomes. The next, they’d been at the chateau. They were facing one another on the stretching lawn, practically toe-to-toe
, but neither said a thing. Then they looked toward the estate at the same time and found Madame Perreault at a window, but she wasn’t alone. Her husband joined her, as did Noah’s entire family.

  It’d left Noah all but traumatized. He recalled Monsieur Perreault’s face when he’d discovered Noah and Jeremie, how it’d seemed like the man would implode before them. Noah had feared his response for the rest of the evening, so certain Monsieur Perreault would pull his father aside to divulge Noah’s indiscretions, to accuse him of poisoning Jeremie’s mind and turning him against his nature.

  But neither Noah nor Jeremie had poisoned the other. The only way he could explain it was through the lavender fable from the festival. The Queen Bee had presented an elixir to the prince, and it had bound his soul to his sword-brother’s. That’s what it felt like, as if he and Jeremie had drunk from the same sorcerous well. They’d both been bewitched.

  Monsieur Perreault wouldn’t see it that way, however, and it wasn’t long before the dream came to signify something foreboding to Noah, the type of omen that made even the stoutest of men tremble. Noah almost laid bare the truth before his father. Not about him and Jeremie—never that—but of Monsieur Perreault’s ugly words against him. At least if his father and brothers knew, they could protect him. Monsieur Perreault wasn’t the only one with a rifle, after all. Noah’s father kept one to guard the family against thieves and the animals against predators. In the end, though, Noah held his tongue, as he knew his family would only wonder why the threat had been brought against him in the first place.

  He was still on this line of thought when he heard his father outside call out, “Jeremie! What a surprise.”

  Noah’s heart crashed against his chest, and he bolted to the nearest window, a wheelbarrow teetering in the wake of his flight and a bucket of water pitching forward, the liquid inside gushing out onto the straw.

  Jeremie was dismounting a chestnut riding horse that wasn’t his own. He was pale. There was a strained look in his eyes.

  “Monsieur Capet, I do beg your forgiveness for the silence on my end these past days.” It brought to mind the first time he’d issued such an apology and how he’d called on Camilla only minutes later. The muscles in Noah’s chest contracted.

  Noah’s father met Jeremie halfway to clasp hands. The dog was at his side, and it looked from one person to the other, its white-tipped, bushy tail waving, pink tongue dangling to the side. “I only hope all has been well? I imagined you’d be well on your way to the western coast by now.”

  Jeremie responded with a smile, but it pinched at the corners. “A slight change of plans.” His chest rose and fell beyond an average pace.

  “We look forward to hearing all about it then. Camilla is inside with her mother and sisters. Come, they’ll be pleased to see you.”

  Jeremie remained in place even as Noah’s father had begun to turn away. “To be frank, monsieur, I’m afraid I don’t have very much time. I must be on my way to the town center at once.”

  Noah heard the frown in his father’s next words. “Is everything all right?” His tone invited an explanation, as it was more than apparent now from Jeremie’s demeanor that something troubled him.

  “I simply must see to an urgent matter concerning the bookshop. I’d hoped to speak with Noah beforehand, however.”

  “With Noah? Why yes, certainly, if you wish. I believe he’s in the barn.”

  Noah tore away from the window so quickly, he nearly tripped over himself. He barely had time to compose his thoughts when a silhouette appeared in the entranceway to the barn, blazing splashes of gold and peach from the sunset outlining the figure.

  Noah stilled. Everything in him did. His breath, his pulse, his body.

  For a shameful moment, he believed Jeremie would become someone else then, the version of himself Monsieur Perreault had chiseled him to be, and in no uncertain terms inform Noah that this grievous miscreation between them had been Noah’s doing and Noah’s encouragement, and that he’d only fallen prey to it out of weakness but wouldn’t give in to that weakness anymore.

  But then, as if pushed from behind, Jeremie suddenly started forward toward Noah, and he didn’t stop advancing until there was only a sliver of space between their bodies.

  Jeremie’s abrupt materialization not just on the farm but right before him incinerated the last of Noah’s comprehensible ideations. He didn’t know what to think or what to say. He was hopelessly held captive by this unheralded and unforeseen visit such that he could only stand there, rendered mute, utterly immobilized.

  Jeremie’s eyes roamed Noah’s face, weary drifters treading familiar lands. They moved in a seamless stream as he absorbed the dark gold of Noah’s hair, the fair tint of his skin, the bone shape of his eyebrows and nose and cheeks and jawline. It was as if he were committing it all to memory.

  He raised a hand, and his fingertips fell one by one along the side of Noah’s face, like beads of rain taking to a windowpane. Noah’s eyelids briefly fluttered shut, and in the darkness there was only Jeremie and Jeremie’s touch. It was gentle, delicate. It brought to mind the butterflies in the garden at Chateau de Perreault and the way Margaux had described one’s feet upon her skin like the slightest suggestion of pinpricks.

  Jeremie stepped closer. He brought his free hand to the other side of Noah’s face, smoothing a thumb across his cheekbone, as if tracing the path on a weathered map. With his soft, warm palms, he handled Noah’s face with such great care, even more so than he did with one of his rare books, that Noah’s chest swam with emotion—no, drowned in it. He was overcome by the moment, which to him unraveled such tenderness as he had never before known or experienced. He didn’t know whether to laugh or weep, whether to speak or maintain this strange wordlessness between them.

  He additionally didn’t know what struck him more: the overpowering silence, or the blatant despair in Jeremie’s eyes, eyes that still hadn’t met his own. Instead, Jeremie closed them, moving closer until their bodies were no longer separated—Noah was immediately as hot as if he’d stepped through fire—and then he rested his forehead against Noah’s, still holding his face. There they remained, breathing in sync, and Noah could almost feel their hearts beating as one. He’d known many states over the past weeks: anxiety, fear, shame. But here with Jeremie, trapped within this impossible capsule of frozen time, all else melted away. In the aftermath, Noah felt only the faintest glimpse of bittersweet peace.

  Then Jeremie’s lips brushed against his own, a whisper of a kiss. It was enough to sleeve each arm with gooseflesh, to send a thrill through him that both jolted and jarred. Jeremie had spoken at length about binder’s marks, but perhaps it was Noah he’d ultimately marked, and in every possible way.

  A stirring suddenly came from outside, and Noah felt the moment immediately begin to dissolve. His father was calling out to someone, and then new voices emerged. Noah’s brothers. They sounded close.

  Jeremie swiftly pulled away, and it was a glimpse of death, like the soul being snatched from its mortal shell. Noah was still trying to orient himself when Jeremie took his hand and pressed something into the center of his palm. His eyes captured Noah’s then, and the dusty, cobwebbed barn receded into blackness, giving way to a whole new world that resided only in Jeremie’s piercing gaze. That gaze, so fierce and so determined, said a thousand different things at once without Jeremie ever having to part his lips.

  With his thumb, he continued to press the item—Noah realized it was a square of paper—harder into Noah’s hand, as if meaning for the paper to reach his very bones. Noah finally understood his meaning and closed his fingers around it, its edges sharp. All the while, they never broke the lock of their eyes.

  Jeremie appeared to want to say something, to explain any number of matters in a single breath, but Noah’s father and brothers were getting closer, and though his eyes chased thoughts, he in the end resigned himself to their loss of time. He backed away, eyes studying Noah once more from top to bottom, and t
hen he turned to hurry out.

  As he passed through the entranceway, he cast one final look over his shoulder as if to ensure the moment had actually occurred, that Noah had been there, that the square of paper rested safely within the grip of Noah’s fingers.

  Then he was gone.

  Noah heard him issue a hurried goodbye to those outside, and he came to the aged doors of the barn just in time to see Jeremie mount his horse and urge it away in a blistering sprint, clumps of earth shooting upward from the animal’s hooves.

  The entire farmland was tinted tangerine, and Noah continued watching as Jeremie charged toward a sky weeping rays of ruby as if dripping blood.

  It was the last time Noah ever saw him alive.

  35

  The square of paper turned out to be a letter. Three brief paragraphs in Jeremie’s slanted script, clearly penned in haste, ink blotting at the apexes of occasional letters.

  Three paragraphs to summarize the months behind them. Three paragraphs all pointing to the same request.

  Run away with me.

  Jeremie had nothing to offer, he confessed. His father had presented one final ultimatum. Jeremie was either to oblige his demands or his father would resolve the problem at hand to his own dangerous liking. It was the one thing Jeremie couldn’t stand to lose. To appease the man and mitigate a wrath that had threatened to boil over, Jeremie had taken leave as asked, but he’d never intended on assuming his role within Perreault Industries when he’d departed. En route to the ports, he’d eluded the handler his father had appointed him, the one Noah had seen him with back at the chateau that day, the one meant to ensure he’d boarded his respectful ship even if it meant dragging him on, and had then returned to Avignon at once.

  He didn’t have much time, however. The handler in question was a resourceful man, the type of domestic his father had employed for protection, yes, but mostly for the express purpose of intimidating business partners into deals scaled to Monsieur Perreault’s advantage by whatever means necessary. For certain stretches of the journey back to Avignon, a cold dread had sat on Jeremie’s shoulders, the sense of being followed, but when he’d glanced behind him each time, be it on the road, at an inn, or in a tavern, he’d seen no one of familiarity, as if the man had turned invisible on every occasion. It wouldn’t be long, Jeremie knew, before his father learned of his betrayal.