They stop. I place my ring finger on the name at the top of the page. “Geneviève Portia de Thurn.” A small cross appears beside it. I look down to the next cross a generation later beside the name Matilda. And then another—small crosses appear beside almost all the names of the d’Arc family descendants from the 15th century all the way to the 20th century, when Jeanne was finally made a saint. Christine, Sophie, Mathilde, Françoise, Margot, Rose, Louise, Denise, Elisabeth, Geneviève, Blanche…
The decades give way to centuries, and baby names come in and out of fashion. Life as a girl in another age—they made garlands and played beside boys. They learned to knit, to milk a cow, to feed their younger siblings. But they sure as hell didn’t get to do much else. Twenty years after her death—at Jeanne d’Arc’s rehabilitation—Charles VII bestows the title of nobleman on Jeanne’s oldest brother, Jacques. “Esq.” appears beside some of the males in his bloodline, and that means “landowner”—a big step up from the farmers that were our first ancestors in the Loire Valley during the Hundred Years’ War. A decade later, Jacques’ youngest son, Ambroys, married a girl whose father’s title made him a knight. Fifteen years later, in 1482, the knighted Ambroys made some heroic moves at the Battle of Ferrara. He was declared a prince by Ferdinand of Naples. But the real news for our family came with his son, Bresson, who married a girl from a wealthy house of Florence. Her name was Abigale, and my upstart relative saw an opportunity to obtain royal favor by asking his father-in-law to grant him that name…I’m trying to feel what my brother must’ve felt as he turned these pages and found we had ancestors just as venerable as anything those Van der Ebbs could serve up. It must have made James so proud to see we’d joined high society.
But he wasn’t proud. He was terrified, why?
Falling. As if a trapdoor had given way and I’d found a secret passage to a world that lay on the other side of my bolt of grief. A storied heritage I’d seen in my brother’s eyes as he turned these pages. A past dismissed as the wishful thinking of a wannabe. Our royal pedigree should’ve made him ecstatic. Instead, it made him terrified. Why?
The gift skips generations. It’s biological, recessive, like a gene. That thought makes me feel more secure; wherever this gift came from—it’s not the Holy Grail legend that my brother thought he found, not the crazy god that drove him insane. I study the ribbon and read the pages. A girl, Avril. More notes in the margin in my brother’s hand.
What was my mother thinking as she turned these pages? As she looked at the magic we had and found it had skipped her generation. How enraged she’d become as she watched us outshine her; the extras she’d cast off as bit-players in her glorious one woman show. I close my eyes, and through the dark haze of repressed memory see her face, that bungalow in the desert east of L.A. the morning she locked my brother in a room and put me in the car for our fateful trip down the pacific coast highway.
I follow the dotted purple lines that each connect a girl with another member of her immediate family, activating the gift of charisma—that magic that turned little girls into powerhouses—and study the annotations my brother made in the margins. His notes first appear two generations after Jeanne d’Arc. The gift skipped a generation, like a recessive gene. We got it. Our mother didn’t, and that’s what made her so mad.
I take a couple of almonds from the plastic bag, munch and remember Nina’s furious scribble yesterday as she searched for a pattern, for a code in the words from my scene with Brad. How I’d come home from rehearsal and find James poring over these books, and thought yes, even a made-up history is better than the sick past we came from. He’d found a pattern, too. He drew lines and read between them. The lines he drew desperately trying to connect us to a normal family; lines I tried to untangle after I returned from playing a vampire and found him crazy, found him there on his bed in that monk’s robe crying over a secret to where this so-called gift had come from.
We had no secrets. We were connected at the hip. What had he found in these pages that scared him?
I could tell by that self-entitled look Stephanie had given me that she knew where her gift came from…a long line of storied kings; strong, preeminent girls and boys who owned their birthright as royalty do.
Chosen? What’s this little flower trying to get me to see? Only it wasn’t all senseless. There were patterns…girls who rose from nothing, who never reached stardom but made history…however unremembered, they made a difference to who I have become. How does one life touch so many others?
I felt the free-fall when the cable of the crane gave way; that invisible hand pulling back a curtain on what I thought was just a world of the rich and the powerful; people who got their way. Only it wasn’t always true. I try to brush off my desperation when I can’t find a message from the saintly flower. She doesn’t really matter—the emails from the lost, the fat, the ugly girls; from the weak, non-alpha boys…all those questions on love and sex from the real battlefields of life.
Dear Jeanne,
Are you there? I need to talk to you.
C,
I’m here.
Jeanne,
I don’t know what to believe anymore, not since I read my genealogy. Are we really related?
C,
No, not directly. I died a virgin. You’re a descendant of my older brother, Jacques. Cease, may I ask you a personal question? Do you like being watched?
Jeanne,
Being watched? Well, I can only tell you why I ran to the stage. It’s no secret James and I did it to escape our past. We needed approval because we’d been shamed.
C,
Yes, Cease, and that’s why you were chosen to play this role; you were chosen to share this shame with the world.
Petit,
I won’t do that. I’ll quit if you or Francis tries mind-fucking me with the shit from my past. It’s not fair to my family. It’s not fair to me.
C,
I understand, Cease. And I’m not going to ask you to do anything you’re not ready for. You shouldn’t be ashamed of kissing Brad on or off screen. He’s a pretty hot boy—kinda naive compared to you, but definitely worth another date. You kissed him in his trailer and then you kissed him on camera. Which felt better?
Jeanne,
On camera, I guess. Why do you ask?
C,
Because I think all boys and girls feel that way. Sex and romance are scary in your age. It’s all that freedom you have—it gives you a false sense of security. You’re not really free…truth is, you’re being judged every minute of every day by all your peers. Girls and boys have to be hot or they’re losers…
Jeanne,
So what? It’s always been that way, at least for more than a few generations. You can’t change the world, Miss Saint. You should know that by now.
C,
Yes, this is the way of the world—but in the past there were people who risked everything to stop it; real live superheroes, real women that this show was supposed to be about, at least in the beginning. Now there’s just a mob of hungry eyes and fingers pressing down on the hottest sex scene. They’re no different from the mob of torch-lit faces that ogled the burning of a witch, who watched me be put to death.
Jeanne,
You sound pretty dramatic, for a saint. But all this has happened before. Roman emperors and thousands of spectators watched and cheered the gladiators. There were probably wild sex scenes that strangers watched. You should check out the history that runs alongside all those names in your bloodline. We live in a world of porn, so what?
C,
Maybe, but a line has been crossed that should never have been drawn in the first place. And like it or not, you’ve been chosen to take a stand…I know how you feel about this gift you’ve been given. That you don’t deserve it, that, like your success on this show, someone…is going to come and take it all away. Stephanie deserves this gift, but you don’t. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?
J,
Yes. What should
I do? Should I let Brad take off my pants? What if Susan attacks me? I can’t turn back. That just isn’t something you’d do, is it?
Cease,
That morning I bowed my head and let go of who I thought I was supposed to be…that’s what you’re going through now. You think I don’t understand this quest to be known, this quest for fame—but I do—we all do. All the girls with the gift you’ve inherited, the gift you’ve been given, faced the same challenges you’re facing now.
J,
So many of those girls failed.
C,
No. They didn’t fail, Cease. Just because they didn’t become saints or famous people doesn’t mean they failed. It’s often the people who work in the shadows that enable the winners in the first place—all those girls and boys writing you online; the ones who need your help—history may never remember them. But in small ways, they’re trying to save the world, right now.
I don’t wait for my screen to go blank. I turn off my tablet and wonder why they confide in a girl like me.
I race to Claude’s trailer, knock on the door. An assistant blocks the door and tells me Claude’s not feeling well. I can see legs on the small cot in between boxes filled with shoes. I stick my head in.
“Claude? Are you OK? It’s Cease.”
His hands tremble as he raises his arms to his chest. I try to push the door open but the assistant blocks it with her foot. She shoves a white dress with a red fleur-de-lis insignia at me and then closes the door. It looks so plain. It’s wool; navy blue with white trim down the lapel, like something a flight attendant would wear with a pill-box hat. It looks futuristic. The lights over the electronic billboard flash from red to yellow. “What’s going on?” I shout. “We’re supposed to be waiting for the results.”
An assistant tells me it’s a re-shoot master shot without sound. I race back to my trailer, get dressed. The lights flash again. I take my mark, but just as Francis takes his place in the seat behind the main camera, a man in a suit walks right through the crowd and blocks the camera.
“Francis. I need to speak with you.”
Hurry up and wait.
Francis throws down his headphones and stomps off to his trailer, the man in the suit not far behind. There’s shouting—then what sounds like an object being thrown against the trailer door. I hear the word “contract” being chanted as more objects crash against the door.
Hurry up and wait.
Wannabes, who bypass the stage directly for the silver screen, please write that line on your trailer door. I hear the sirens. EMTs jump from an ambulance that’s raced up the gravel drive and screeched to a halt outside the perimeter of the trucks. I figure Francis has finally gone postal, but Connie the continuity lady takes them to Claude’s trailer. The assistant lets them in, blocks my way. I show her my fists. “I want to see him, now.” But I feel a grip’s hands from behind, pulling me back, and I watch as they wheel Claude in a stretcher to the ambulance.
I can tell even behind the oxygen mask that he recognizes me. He’s shaking his head in spastic jerks, adamantly…trying to warn me? I break free of the grip and get to Claude’s side. His hand jerks out from the straps. He pulls the blanket down below his chest and points with two fingers at his shirt pocket. He’s trying to tell me something—but before I can reach him, one of the EMTs pushes me away, and then Claude’s in the ambulance. I fish through the breast pocket of my dress and pull out a small piece of lined, yellow paper. The grips and sound techs are in a huddle gossiping as I open the letter:
Cease.
Be careful. At the party someone from your past will be wearing a gold insignia on his lapel shaped like a crossbow…I was asked to sew a pocket into the vent of his blazer. It will probably hold a weapon. The real, live body count is rising, so be careful. You’re still the dark horse. I think winning to you is incidental, and that’s why you’re gaining on Stephanie. You’ve got a confession you’ve got to share with the world.
I’m sick. But old dressers never die—they just go back to their closets.
Break a leg,
Claude
INT. MANSION—DAY
TIME: THE FUTURE
(Craig emerges from a crowd that fills a cavernous living room. He makes his way to the threshold where Jeanne waits. Jeanne enters the living room and sees Brad behind a man in a highly decorated uniform. Rex emerges from the shadows with a bandage on his nose. The halogen lights capture a gold insignia on the lapel of his white tux. When he sees Jeanne, he kisses his date, a beautiful woman in a crinoline dress with a long tail. A tall stranger whispers as he passes Jeanne.)
STRANGER
Looks like the hunk from down under wants some payback.
JEANNE
Captain. I am Jeanne, the humble maid, reporting for duty.
CRAIG
I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got a puzzle I need help with.
(Jeanne carefully surveys the crowd. Perched halfway up the spiral stairs is Catherine the Great. The scales of her dress flutter like the feathers of a hawk being ruffled in a breeze. Craig has finished welcoming the guests. He makes his way beside Jeanne. The orchestra begins a waltz. Jeanne accepts Craig’s hand.)
CRAIG
I think you’re torn between two worlds, Mademoiselle d’Arc. We can’t go back, Jeanne. But I sense you’ve still got unfinished business.
JEANNE
We all have, don’t we, captain? Until this war is over, we can never return to where we belong. What became of your family?
CRAIG
My parents were killed the week the war began. My sister disappeared and is probably dead.
(He points to a burly man with a face like a bear.)
You see that man? His name’s Bryson. He thinks I trust him—but I know he’d gladly sell his mother to take my place. What some people will do to get ahead.
(Catherine the Great makes her way downstairs, and the crowd parts as she heads toward Craig.)
CATHERINE
How wonderful to see you again.
(She raises her hand adorned with a gold band and a glittering emerald. He kisses it. She turns diplomatically to Jeanne.)
And who is this valorous ensign?
(Jeanne offers a short bow. Jeanne looks over the crowd. She can’t find Rex. Outside, a figure is trying to open the sliding glass door beside a rock garden. It’s Susan. She’s wearing a flaming red dress, holding a candlestick. Jeanne gazes gravely into Craig’s eyes and turns her head to the top of the spiral stairs. He nods. They find their marks in a spotlight. Bryson rests his champagne flute on the brass handrail at the bottom of the staircase and makes his way toward them. A gold crossbow glitters on his lapel. His right hand disappears below the handrail. Susan opens the door. She has a wild look. Bryson closes in, but Craig’s attention is on Cate. Bryson takes another step, and Jeanne, sensing trouble, carefully places her champagne flute on the handrail. Viewers can see a knife in Susan’s hand as she makes her way into the room.)
CRAIG
Well, if it isn’t my fellow solider-in-arms.
(Bryson grimaces. He looks enraged. Craig takes a sip of champagne with his right hand, then in a flash Bryson raises his left hand to Jeanne’s face. She raises her right forearm up to block it—but his hand stops an inch from her chin, unfurls. He isn’t holding a knife.)
BRYSON
A little gift for the warrior on the rise.
(He holds up a note. Craig looks nonplussed. Jeanne reads it.)
JEANNE
It’s a riddle.
CRAIG
Why not share it with everyone?
(He brushes his chin with his thumb and forefinger.)
JEANNE
What goes on four feet in the morning, two feet at noon, and three feet in the evening?
(She’s heard by everyone in the room. All eyes turn to her.)
JEANNE
A man.
(She stares down Bryson for what he is: a messenger from the dirty world.)
JEANN
E
In the morning, he’s just a baby crawling on all fours; at noon he’s grown-up; in old age he walks with a cane.
BRYSON
Or a woman too, don’t you think?
CRAIG
We just can’t control our fate. No matter how hard we try.
(He turns to face Jeanne. His eyes rove her lips.)
You know that better than most, Jeanne.
JEANNE
Yes. But I have to confess, these days my faith is tested.
(She gives Craig a forlorn look and he smiles, positively beams; he takes her hand.)
CRAIG
It feels as if, together, we can solve the last, great riddle that stands between our worlds.
(The main camera closes on Jeanne and Craig. They kiss softly on the lips. Craig presses deeply with a confidence, a cool passion. His hand caresses her back.)
JEANNE
It’s a fate only the stars can fathom. I’m sick of fighting. I just want to fall in love.
(She tugs the studs of his shirt, playfully. He pulls back.)
CRAIG
Have you ever killed a friend you thought was an enemy?
JEANNE
Yes.
CRAIG
Why?
JEANNE
He wanted me to. He couldn’t live another day in this world. Can’t you see what I’m becoming? What we’re all becoming? These gods don’t want to see us fall in love. They just want to watch us make love. They just want to look on with sick envy.
(Jeanne pushes Craig away, ascends the staircase, bypassing Cate with a defiant nod. The cameras pan down to the crowd below, making room for Craig and Cate, who dance a waltz. The hem of her gown spins in gorgeous waves, and her emerald glitters with each revolution like a shooting star. The rich, umber hues of her dress glitter, twirl. She stops and kisses Craig. It’s dignified—the way a Captain and a Princess would kiss after being introduced by their approving parents. Jeanne partially descends the staircase. Catherine is waiting for Jeanne at the bottom of the stairs.)
CATHERINE
I admire your courage, my humble maid. I hope you’re not getting in over your head. Craig’s seduced women of every age. Be careful. He knows your secret.
JEANNE
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