by Amy Plum
She pursed her lips pityingly and sighed. “Don’t worry, Kate. I’m sure things will get better.” Although she didn’t look it. Unsure. Worried. Troubled, maybe. But I didn’t see “sure” anywhere on her face.
Just then my chocolate arrived. I sipped the steaming froth off the top while inhaling the rich aroma of cocoa, and wondered for the hundredth time why Vincent couldn’t just be a normal human boy.
“Good morning, mon ange! Where’s your dress?” Vincent called, from where he was leaning against the park gate across the street from my front door. Instead of his regular jeans and jacket, he was wearing a suit and tie. And, oh man, did he look yummy. I stood there in my workout gear and looked him up and down.
“It’s time for fight training. What’s with the suit, Mr. Wall Street?”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
I pulled out my phone to see a message from Vincent logged at three a.m.: Dress up tomorrow. I’m taking you to a formal event.
“Formal event?” I asked, my eyes widening. “What kind of formal event takes place on a Saturday morning?”
“A wedding,” Vincent said simply.
“You’re taking me to a wedding?” I asked, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me before three o’clock—the morning of?”
“Because I wasn’t sure I wanted to take you.”
My expression must have said it all, because he rushed to explain. “That’s not what I meant. I meant I wasn’t sure I wanted you to see a revenant wedding. You and I are already dealing with so much right now, I thought it might bring up too many … issues.”
“So why did you change your mind?” I asked, not quite mollified.
“Because I decided that avoidance wasn’t the answer. I promised I wouldn’t keep anything from you that you should know. And you’re already letting me break that promise … temporarily.
“A wedding might be information overkill, but”—he looked down and fiddled with his tie—“at least you’ll know more about the world you’re getting involved in. I owe you that.”
I stood there stunned for a moment, before reaching up to kiss his cheek. “I think I can handle it, Vincent. Thanks for …” I didn’t know what to say. “Just thanks.”
“How long will it take you to get ready?” he asked, brushing my hair back from my eyes with his fingers. “You already look perfect.”
I blushed, not wanting to admit that with a houseful of revenants living right down the street from us, seemingly popping up whenever I turned the corner, I never left the house now without making sure I looked okay. “Honestly, ten minutes. Just let me find a dress and shoes and I’ll be right back.”
“Fine,” he said, looking at his watch. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
An hour later we walked into the lower chapel of Sainte-Chapelle, an eight-hundred-year-old royal church that stands a few blocks from Notre-Dame Cathedral on the island in the Seine called the Île de la Cité.
“The wedding is here?” I gasped as Vincent took my hand and led me up a minuscule winding stone staircase into the nave. And as soon as we entered the room, I began to feel that same heady sensation of sensory overload—a dizzy feeling—that I had experienced the handful of times I had visited the chapel as a tourist. Because the space was just that unexpectedly overwhelming.
The ceiling was higher than the length of the room, its decoration so distant it was barely visible. But it wasn’t the palatial height that took my breath away—it was the composition of the walls. Fifteen stained-glass windows, each fifty feet high, were set into the entire vertical surface of the chapel. The room was basically all glass held together by skeletal stone columns. The light that filtered through was a blue so deep it appeared purple, and the thick glass looked like precious stone. The overall effect made me feel I was a tiny gold figure inside a Fabergé egg, with my entire world encrusted in jewels.
I took a deep breath to stabilize my tap-dancing heart and wrapped my arm through Vincent’s. “How in the world were they able to reserve this for a wedding?” I whispered, as we moved toward the group of people assembled at the altar.
“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.”
Charlotte had once said that to me. It was the reason she used for why she didn’t have a boyfriend. Of course, now I knew it was because she was in love with Ambrose, and had been for years. I wondered briefly how she was doing without Charles. We had emailed a few times, but I hadn’t heard from her since her twin had run off.
Vincent began idly playing with my fingers, pulling my thoughts back to the here and now. “Do most revenants have partners?” I asked. “I mean, Ambrose and Jules seem to be happy with their single status.”
“They’re still ‘new.’ Them wanting to settle down would be like a modern-day teenager wanting to get married. Why commit to one person when you’ve barely started experiencing life? Or afterlife”—he corrected himself—“whatever.”
“You don’t seem to mind settling down for one girl yourself,” I teased him, and then suddenly felt self-conscious.
Vincent smiled. “I’m different. Remember? I was on the verge of getting married while I was still human. Maybe I’m just a committed kind of guy,” he said, leaning pensively over the water before turning his head to look at me.
“To return to the subject,” he said, giving me a shy smile, “after a few hundred years of bachelorhood, people like Georges often want someone to be with. I guess that’s one part of our basic humanity that remains with us after death. The need to love and be loved.”
“Well, what about Jean-Baptiste? He’s still single.”
Vincent looked back at the water and grinned. “He’s just not very demonstrative with his affections.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Jean-Baptiste has a girlfriend?”
He raised an eyebrow and, giving me a sideways smile, shook his head.
“A mistress then? A boy … oh!” I said, as the truth finally dawned on me. “Gaspard!”
Vincent gave me a broad smile. “Don’t tell me you didn’t think of that before.”
I shook my head. But now that I knew, it made absolute sense. They were perfect for each other.
Vincent jumped up and took our plates to the tent. Returning to sit next to me, he said, “I have something for you, Kate.” He reached into his jacket pocket and opened his hand to reveal a tiny red velvet drawstring bag.
Loosening the strings, he pulled out a pendant on a black linen cord and placed it gently in my palm.
It was a gold disk the size of a dollar coin, and it was edged with two circles of tiny gold pellets, one nestled within the other. Set in the center of the disk was a dark blue triangular stone with a smooth, slightly rounded surface. And in the space between the stone and the rows of pellets were decorative gold wires curved into the shape of flames. It looked ancient, like the Greek jewelry in Papy’s gallery.
“Oh my God, Vincent. It’s so gorgeous.” I could barely speak, my throat was so choked with emotion.
“It’s a signum bardia. A signal to revenants that you are attached to us. That you know what we are and can be trusted. Jeanne has one—she never takes it off.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Clutching the pendant tightly in my hand, I threw my arms around Vincent’s neck and hugged him for a few seconds, before letting go and wiping my tears away.
His smile was hesitant. “You like it then?”
“Vincent, ‘like’ doesn’t quite do it justice. It is beautiful beyond words. Where did you get it?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the exquisite piece of jewelry.
“It’s from our treasury.”
I glanced quickly at him. “So it’s Jean-Baptiste’s?”
Vincent smiled reassuringly. “No. Although it’s kept in his house, the treasury belongs to France’s revenants. The pieces have been passed down for millennia. This one is logged into our records as last being used by one of our emissaries to Constantinople in the ninth century.”
My eyes widened. “Are you sure I should have it, then? I mean, is it okay with everyone?”
“I showed it to Jean-Baptiste and Gaspard, and they congratulated me on my selection, agreeing that it was the perfect choice for you. It is yours now—you don’t ever have to give it back. At least, I hope you won’t.” His grin was lighthearted but his eyes were earnest.
Wow. I looked back down at the pendant and traced the flames tenderly with my finger. Vincent studied it with me. “There are a lot of different interpretations of the symbols—whole books have been written about signa bardia in general—but the pyramid is supposed to mean life after death, and its three corners signify our three days of dormancy. The flames represent our aura and the only way we can be destroyed. And the circle is immortality.”
I just looked at him, unable to believe that this ancient pendant, symbol of Vincent’s kind, was mine. He took it from my hand and gently looped its cord over my head. His expression when he leaned back to look at me was as priceless as the piece itself.
“Thank you.”
“I would say ‘you’re welcome,’ but I can’t take all the credit. This isn’t just from me to you. It is from all of us to you. I know how upset you were when Arthur made you feel like you weren’t one of us. I want you to know that you aren’t an outsider. You aren’t a revenant, but you are still one of us. This signum means that you are kindred.”
I leaned into his arms. And as he nestled my hair with his cheek, I closed my eyes and wished that nothing would ever change. That time would stop and we could stay like this forever.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE TWO WEEKS THAT HAD PASSED SINCE I HAD last been to Le Corbeau had seemed to stretch on forever. But finally it was Tuesday, and I was ready to dart out of my last class to go directly to the relic shop.
So when I walked out of the school’s front gate and saw Jules waiting for me, I felt like someone had just taken my wrists and slapped a pair of handcuffs on them. “Jules,” I said with undisguised disappointment, “what are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you, too, Kate,” Jules said, obviously amused. “Your boyfriend has asked me to be your bodyguard this afternoon.”
“He what?” I exclaimed.
Jules moved forward to kiss my cheeks, and I leaned backward so he couldn’t reach me, which made him laugh outright. “Hey—don’t blame this on me!” he said, backing away with his hands up in the universal “I surrender” gesture. “Vincent gets to handle the dangerous missions while I guard the damsel in distress.”
“I am so not distressed. But I did have something I wanted to do … on my own.” And then his words sunk in. “What dangerous mission?” I asked, searching his face.
“Ah! I finally get your undivided attention.” He grinned. “Could I tell you more once we are in the car and out of the bus lane?” Jules motioned to the BMW, which was parked illegally a few yards away. I saw a bus approaching, flashing its lights for him to move, and hurried to jump in before the bus driver could make a scene.
“Are we waiting for the ever-effervescent Georgia?” Jules asked as he slid behind the wheel and put the car in gear.
“No, she’s got drama club till six,” I answered absently, my mind on what Vincent could be doing.
I waited until he was off and said, “Okay. I’m in the car. Now spill!”
As we drove, Jules told me tha
t the revenants who were house-sitting for Geneviève had called Jean-Baptiste that morning to inform him of a break-in. While they had been out, someone had entered the house and turned the rooms upside down. The door had been forced, the lock broken. But nothing seemed to be missing. Jean-Baptiste and Vincent had gone to investigate.
“And all that means I get a guard because …”
“Because everyone is wondering if this means the numa are back on the move, so Vincent was worried about you. And since JB insisted on him going along to Geneviève’s, I volunteered to pick you up,” Jules said with a satisfied smile, keeping his eyes on the road. “So where is this thing you wanted to do? I’ll take you.”
“It was a private errand. But I’ll do that another time,” I sighed. My stomach twisted with anxiety as I wondered when I’d have another opportunity to visit the shop. “So, how about you take me to Vincent?”
“How about I take you to my studio? Much less dangerous. Plus, I need a model and you could sit for me.”
“You want me to sit for a portrait?” I asked, stunned.
“Actually, at the moment I’m concentrating on full-length reclining nudes, in the spirit of Modigliani,” he said. He was making an effort to keep a straight face.
“If you think for even a second that I’m going to take off my clothes in front of you, Jules …,” I began.
He burst out laughing, slapping the steering wheel with his hand. “Just kidding, Kates. You’re a lady. I wouldn’t ask you to compromise your purity like one of my paid models—a bunch of low-heeled strumpets, the lot of them!”
After I’d seen a half-dressed model posing in Jules’s studio, Vincent had told me that the girls were usually university students needing cash for their school expenses. A far cry from “low-heeled strumpets.” Jules was trying the guilt-trip method of attack. And it was working.
“Okay, I’ll pose for you,” I conceded. “But under no circumstances will any article of clothing leave my body while I am in your studio.”
“And if you’re elsewhere?” he asked, breaking into a sly smile.