Paris was a beautiful city, but Jeanne had long ago learned that although beauty was everywhere, having reason to notice it was another thing. Most residents of Paris, especially on the wrong side of the Seine where she lived, kept their eyes on the grime and danger in front of them, not the glowing paradise across the bridge. Life was hard here, and always had been.

But Jeanne, in her deepest and most secret heart, had always looked to the lights. Gaslights were few in this arrondisement, and the nights very dark; only fools and the desperate ventured out after sunset. But over there, on the other side of the dark water … the streets glowed like melted gold. Music drifted out, and on a good night, like tonight, she could smell the food from the cafés over the stench of the river, and the sewers.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Alexandre growled, and grabbed her by the back of her dress to pull her away from the ancient, mostly clouded mirror. The man she’d bought it from swore it had one belonged to a countess who’d lost her head on the guillotine, but then, nearly every greasy secondhand merchant claimed that sort of thing. The dress, however: the dress had belonged to a rich lady, and not so very long ago. The ice blue silk was six or seven seasons out of date, but she had carefully scrubbed all the stains from it, mended all the tears, and added velvet and meticulous embroidery to disguise its shortcomings. All in all, it looked if not au courant, then at least respectable.

She’d managed to dress her hair into the artful curves and waves that were popular just now, though she badly needed a nice comb to set it off. Her cracked tortoiseshell would have to do.

“Yes, I’m ready,” Jeanne said, and closed and locked the window she’d been stealing glances from. Her heart was pounding, not from fear of Alexandre—though her elder brother was a very dangerous man, no doubt, and she had the bruises to prove it—but for the fact that tonight, for once, she was allowed to cross the bridge into paradise.

Not to enjoy the city, it’s true. She couldn’t sit at one of those lovely cafés, or attend the opera, or chat with strangers. Alexandre was a strict man, and he would be watching her closely to be sure she earned her keep tonight. If she didn’t, then she’d regret it before dawn.

But wearing the silk, having her hair styled so beautifully … it changed things. It changed her. She walked more confidently, and kept her chin at an aristocratic angle. Alexandre had put on his more respectable coat, but they still looked a mismatched pair as he escorted her out into the dark streets of their arrondissement. It lay on the left bank, and the nights were dark here; few gaslights, and those that burned only made the shadows deeper. During the day, the neighborhood buzzed with activity, but at night, most rested while they could, and only drunks and criminals stayed in the streets.

Alexandre was sober tonight, but there was no escaping the fact that they were both criminals.

“You know what I want out of you tonight,” he told her. “Don’t come back short. I’ll be waiting by the Café Saint-Antoine.”

She nodded. They walked in silence to the long bridge across the Seine, and then parted at the other end; she moved quickly into the noise, vibrant color, and energy of the streets along the Right Bank.

This was where she felt most at home, among those who would want to see her thrown into the Bastille if they knew her at all. Perhaps that made her both a criminal and a hypocrite, but coming here, she could breathe.The art being sold along the railings made her giddy at the beauty. The lush smell of pan au chocolat baking for the morning. The music of violins and hurdy-gurdies mixing and clashing.

And the people. So many people, so finely dressed! Gentlemen strolled in fine velvet opera capes, and the ladies bloomed like spring flowers in their lovely dresses. Everything was so clean.

She paused at a bookshop to gaze at the titles with a yearning that made her feel a little sick. She owned four books, both water-stained, and two of them had pages falling out. One was a magnificent, damaged edition of Jules Verne, and she loved it more than her mirror.

But she had only a few sou in her pocket, and she would owe Alexandre far more than that by morning. So Jeanne sighed, set her shoulders, and stepped back and into a passing gentleman. She turned, all apologies and graceful embarrassment, and he was gallant about taking the blame for the collision.

She slipped his wallet into the special pocket sewn into her dress, and looked for another mark. Ladies were more wary, and far less likely to be carrying easy money, but they were rich pickings of rings, bracelets, necklaces, even earrings if the distraction was great enough. Jeanne had a gift. She could take the jewels off a dowager’s neck in full view of a crowd, and make the old woman smile at the same time.

She had never been caught, which made her a rare pickpocket indeed.

Alexandre preferred the direct method: a lure into a dark alley, a smart crack on the head, and a fast getaway. She prided herself that her victims would be far away before they realized that they’d been robbed, and never able to identify her as the offender. The crimes were punished the same under the law, but she hated the sight of blood, and truthfully, she never wanted to harm a soul. But their mother Sophie needed medicine and care from a real doctor, and there was Alexandre to placate, too, who not-so-secretly wished their mother would perish in the harsh conditions of her cold, damp flat.

But Sophie was strong, and Jeanne … Jeanne was stronger. She’d make a good life for her herself, some day. She’d once trained as a dancer, and had hopes of dancing at the Paris Opera; she had been good at it, maybe even good enough. But then money had run short, and there had been a scandal with an aggressive young, rich suitor. And she had been dismissed before ever achieving the grand stage.

Focus, she told herself sternly. She’d been staring at the lights on the Seine, and ignoring rich opportunities around her, so now she turned, spotted a blindingly lovely woman dressed in a very faint shade of blue. It suited her very light skin and masses of pale hair, secured with diamond pins and combs. The bracelet on the woman’s wrist sparked with sapphires and diamonds, and that alone would keep their family in bread and comfort for at least a few weeks.

But there was something about the woman that warned Jeanne off. Maybe it was her light gray eyes, which seemed to see everything; maybe it was the way she watched others, in just the same way that Jeanne was watching her.

The striking woman was on the arm of a young man with fashionably long hair—raven’s wing dark, to counterpoint the fairness of his lady. He wore a black frock coat, but beneath that a jewel-bright waistcoat in bright blue, and an entirely odd hat that was decidedly not in fashion, and as far as Jeanne knew never had been. Quite handsome, in a strange way, and though she’d seen all manner of skin tones in Paris, this man’s was—like his lady’s—unusual too, like a dark fabric with something far too pale beneath, and the resulting color was an unsettling ash brown.

His eyes, though … his eyes were a vivid and dark, and she felt a shock as they passed over her. He was intent on something else—someone?—and she was almost sure he hadn’t even noticed her presence. As she watched, the man kissed the lady’s hand, and she walked away on her own … following another man, Jeanne realized, though she was clever about it, and indirect. By the time the man had turned a corner from the main, well-lit road, the pale figure of the woman was only a few steps behind.

Jeanne blinked and shivered. In the midst of the lights, the bright music, the food and laughter and conversation, there was something sinister gliding beneath. She’d caught a glimpse of it, and it frightened her. No matter how rich that woman’s jewels might be, Jeanne promised herself she would never come near enough to try for them.

When she looked for the woman’s darker companion, she didn’t find him. Gone. That made her feel a bit less shaken, and she moved more confidently to stalk an older gentleman who was on his own, browsing the artwork. His wallet felt cheerfully heavy when she lifted it, and she began to think she might want to circle back toward Alexandre and hand over what she’d already gained for the night. He didn’t like her to carry too much at once.

She was always, always aware of the people moving around her, and their distance from her, but when she turned, she found the long-haired young man in the odd hat standing only a step away, staring at her. Seen close, he looked even more unsettlingly wrong. Like a Spaniard, perhaps, whose flesh beneath the surface had bleached. It was an oddly luminous effect. Strangely beautiful, especially in glorious Paris gaslight.

“Hello,” he said. “Shall we walk?”

She had no reason, no reason at all, to say yes to such a strange proposition with a stranger, and yet she found herself slipping her arm in his, as if they were old friends. Something in the back of her mind began shouting an alarm, but she couldn’t seem to mind it. The stranger strolled her past the row of artists and paintings, past a café with couples dining and laughing, and then turned her down another street. A darker one.

“Tell me about yourself, dear lady,” he said. “What is your name?”

“Jeanne,” she said. “Jeanne Egremont. I am—I was a dancer at the Paris Ballet.” Once. It seemed a long time ago now. So hard to get that life, and so horribly easy to lose it. One infraction, and there were a hundred trained young woman with stars in their eyes ready to jeté into the spot. The second you were gone, you were forgotten, and left with aching, deformed feet and nothing else but bitterness.

“I love the ballet,” he said. “I visited at the court of Louis Quatorze, when he made it such the rage. Well, I didn’t visit so much as tagged along with a lady. It was educational.” He dropped her arm and, quite suddenly, executed a perfect grand jeté with such ease and athleticism she stared, open-mouthed. He quickly reclaimed her arm without pause. “I quite like the way it feels, ballet. Don’t you?”

“It hurts,” she said, quite honestly. “When you’re dancing, it’s wonderful. But after—”

“Ah. Not a problem I have encountered. I left behind the aches of mortal bodies long ago,” her escort said.

King Louis the fourteenth had died more than a hundred years ago, before the French Revolution had dispensed with royalty. This man was mad, clearly. And yet she couldn’t say so. She also couldn’t stop herself from walking with him, though he was in no way pulling or her, or abducting her. She didn’t want to stop.

“I’m Myrnin,” he said, as if confessing something to her. There was an alien softness to the vowels, and a bit of a curl to the name that made it seem mysterious and wrapped in foreign mists. “I’m not from Paris originally, and I suppose I won’t be here for too much longer. We tend to roam, our kind.”

“Are you … are you travelers?” It was the only thing she could think to ask. She had a dim memory of Alexandre, no doubt impatiently waiting back on the street for her to hand over the money and jewels that loaded her hidden pockets. But she felt safe here, even though the street was dark and quiet and lonely. She felt safe with Myrnin. And on some level, she knew that was very wrong.

“Romány?” he asked. “No. I am not. We are not. But there is some slight similarity, in that we stay and then move on, never making a home for long. Unlike the Romány, we do not have our wagons to carry us. But we do have our family to anchor us.” She glanced at him. He was smiling, but it had an edge to it that made alarm tingle down her back. “Blood relations, I mean by that. But you have no idea what I’m talking about, my dear Jeanne. Tell me, do you have anyone who depends on you?”

“I—” She swallowed. “My mother. She’s ill. I am trying to help her with medicines.”

“Of course, as any good child should. And how do you raise such funds to buy this medicine?”

“I steal,” she said, and was appalled that the words came out of her mouth so easily. What was she doing? Why was she saying such things? “There isn’t any work for me, sir. Not such as I am.”

“Such as you are?”

“I was dismissed from the ballet, sir. For …” She bit her lip. She couldn’t recall saying any of this to anyone, except her mother. “For immorality.”

“Meaning, I suppose, that some stagehand or manager or nobleman took advantage.”

She’d never had anyone suggest such a thing, let alone a man, and for the second time, she felt a little thrill run through her, a connection she simply couldn’t explain. “Yes! Yes, sir. It was a manager in the opera house. I was only a chorus dancer. I had no family to defend me, no reputation, no one to believe me. My mother said such things happen. We made do, best we could.”

He patted her hand with his luminously pale one. “And nothing of your doing. I hope you remember that.”

“Do I have long to remember anything?”

“What on earth do you mean?” he asked. They’d come to a very dark alley, one that stank with garbage and death, and she knew. She knew.

“Please don’t toy with me, sir.” Jeanne lifted her chin and gazed directly into his eyes. Frightening eyes. Beautiful, inhuman, ancient eyes. “You are a godless creature. I see you.”

“And I see you,” he said. “Well, this is hardly a salubrious place to finish things, is it. Come. Let us walk a bit farther.”

Despite her brave words, she was grateful. Grateful to leave that narrow alley. Grateful to emerge into a moonlight-washed quiet square lined with closed shops. There was a raised fountain in the center in which graceful stone nymphs bathed.

There was a young man sitting on the edge of it, head in his hands. He seemed sad, or ill. Jeanne took him in with an automatic assessment. No money to speak of, by the look of his carefully kept secondhand suit of clothing. His hair needed cutting.

And that was when she saw the woman, as luminous as her escort, standing so motionless nearby that she first took her for a statue as well, until she stepped forward. Her gems glittered like ice, and so did her pale eyes. The same great lady who had been walking with Myrnin when Jeanne had first seen him.

Myrnin bowed to her, but it was half mocking. “Success, then?”

“Somewhat, by which we measure such things,” the woman said, in a curiously antique accent that reminded Jeanne of the way her long-dead grandmother spoke, and she had been ancient. “I find I have no appetite this evening for more than a taste. You?”

“I find I am not hungry for what I’ve found,” he said. “Perhaps there is some more deserving criminal I can find.”

“Myrnin, you need to cease pretending one of them is more moral than another. Humans are all flawed.”

“Some are broken,” he said quietly. “As I am.”

Jeanne didn’t see the woman move, but suddenly she was standing very close to Myrnin, staring into his eyes, and fitting her hand to his cheek in such a familiar gesture that it seemed—what? Like a sister? Like a mother? Something like that. It was in no way the gesture of a lover. “You are mending,” she said. “Are we finished here, then, or shall you take your fill?”

Myrnin turned to look at Jeanne, and she felt her mouth go dry, her hands tremble. She knew she should be frightened, frightened enough to shriek for help that would never come, but she also saw the compassion in him. And the understanding, in a way no one else had, of who she was.

Who she could be.

He took her hands in his, raised them to his mouth, and kissed them. She shivered, because his lips were soft but his kiss was cold as death. And then he smiled, and she saw the moonlit curve of sharp, sharp fangs.

A demon. He is a demon. But then, why would a demon kiss her hands and let go?

“Au revoir, Jeanne,” he said. “If I may tell you something?”

She nodded. She was now more afraid of the woman studying her, the cold density of her. To Myrnin, Jeanne was a person. To the other one … something else.

“You may feel you are trapped in this life,” he said. “You are not. Look for the light. And follow it.”

“I followed you,” she said.

The woman laughed. It sounded like diamonds dropped on glass. “She has you there,” she said. “Not all light is warmth. Some of it is a sham and a lure, and there is darkness behind it.” Jeanne felt her dismiss the entire affair, as if the air around them had turned suddenly colder. “Come, Myrnin, enough with your diversion. You need to feed, and we must be on the move tomorrow for Spain.”

“Spain,” Jeanne said. “You’re leaving?”

“We are always leaving,” Myrnin said. He sounded forthright, and sad too. “Be well.”

And then, they were gone. It happened in a blink, a smear of motion like mist across her vision, and then Jeanne stood alone in the small courtyard, with the man sitting on the lip of the fountain, head still in his hands.

She went to him, just a few careful steps. She was aware of the weight of the stolen goods in her pockets, and the thought crossed her mind that this shabby man might be dangerous. “Monsieur?” she asked him. He didn’t answer for a moment, and she took another step. “Monsieur, are you well?”

He raised his head, and the moonlight glittered on the tears sliding down his face. He was younger than she expected, and the loss in his face … she felt it like a blow. Without quite meaning to, she was next to him, and placing a hand on his shoulder.

He pulled in a breath but couldn’t seem to find the words. When he started to shake his head, he winced, and touched his throat. His fingers came away smeared with darkness.

Blood, black in the moonlight.

“You’re hurt,” she said. She knew what had happened to him, but her mind would simply not accept the truth of it. Jeanne bent and pulled up the silk of her dress; beneath, the upper ruffles of her petticoat were clean, and she ripped a piece of one free and folded it into a neat square. She handed it to him. “Press it to the wound, monsieur.”

He sent her a grateful look and did as she said. She felt weak and suddenly exhausted, as if her body had just now recognized the immense danger she had been in, and she sank down on the lip of the fountain beside him. “My name is Jeanne,” she said. “Jeanne Aubin.”

“Mademoiselle,” he said, politely. “I am Gerard Dechant. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it, and the laugh rang around the square, bright and wild. We were to be victims, she thought. We were to be killed, both of us. And they spared us. And now we are being so polite.

He understood. When the laughter stopped, the tears began, and she found herself leaning against him, sobbing out the fear, the knowledge that death had brushed its fingers over her and left her behind, and she knew that he felt it, too, a sobering and immense responsibility to live.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, and took her hand.

She wasn’t.

She was overcome with the idea that this, this was the moment that Myrnin had spoken of.

Follow the light, he’d said.

And so, she said, “Monsieur Dechant, would you wish to do something daring?”

He blinked at her, as if she’d suddenly begun speaking a different language. “I’m not certain I understand.”

“Escort me home,” she said. “And help me pay for the medicines my mother will need. And then I should like us to go to a café, eat a good meal, listen to music, and be … be in Paris. Be of Paris.”

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I have no money. I am sorry.”

“I have some,” she said, and stood up to offer him her hand. “Come. Let us seize the night. We almost lost everything. Yes?”

His smile was slow but it was beautiful. And he took her hand and let her pull him to his feet. She stepped close and pulled away his collar to study the wound on his neck. Two neat, small holes, already closed. Apart from the small spots of blood on his shirt there was no trace of what had occurred.

“She said—” Gerard’s voice failed, then came back stronger. “She said that she only took a little, and it would not harm me. Or change me. Do you think…”

“That she lied to you? No. I don’t think she’s the kind who needs to lie,” Jeanne said. “I think you will be all right, Monsieur Dechant.”

He offered her his arm. “Then let me escort you home,” he said. “And then dinner. And music. And life.”

“And life,” she agreed. He was a bit taller than she was, and broader in the shoulders than she had expected. A well-made man, and she found she liked being beside him.

She took his arm, and they walked on.

***

Going home meant risking a run-in with Alexandre, she knew that, but the pharmacy would close soon even though the man kept very late hours to serve the sick. But having Gerard on her arm made her feel safer.

They crossed the Seine without incident, and passed through the dark streets and alleys quickly to the glow of the lantern reflecting from the painted green cross sign. Inside, the shop smelled old and musty and oddly like old cheese, cut with the sharp scents of the dried herbs hanging on the back wall. The pharmacist was an old man, but a hard one who had once been a fighter of some renown thirty years ago; his nose was bent and twisted, one ear mashed to the shape of a cauliflower, and one eye filmed and useless. He was strong enough to pick up a man and throw him a half dozen feet, even now, and the hardwood club he kept at hand deterred any robbers desperate enough to consider the risk.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” the pharmacist said. He had a surprisingly high, thin voice, which was no doubt part of why he’d chosen to develop his fists. “Come for your mother’s medicine, then?”

“Yes,” she said, and counted out stolen money for him from a wallet not her own. He didn’t mind. If he had, he’d not have a shop in this quarter.

He took it without comment, and reached beneath the counter for a bottle of liquid that he handed over. Jeanne felt a vast sense of relief as her hand closed around it. Her mother, at least, would get better now; she had done what she had set out to do when she’d first borrowed from Alexandre.

She paused in the doorway to say, “Monsieur? Please don’t tell Alexandre that I’ve picked this up.”

He shrugged. “For another ten francs, you have my silence.”

Ten francs was costly, but she had it to give, and it would be well worth it.

Gerard waited in silence outside the shop; once she’d joined him again, he said, “You live here?” There was a small, sharp worry in the question. “Alone?”

“With my mother,” she said. “It isn’t far.”

They had almost reached the door when Alexandre slid greasily out of the shadows and into their path. Gerard stepped forward. Alexandre dismissed him with a glance and fixed his attention on Jeanne. “You,” he said. “You didn’t meet me at the café as you promised. And who’s this paper hero of yours?”

“I’m sorry,” Jeanne said, and stepped around Gerard. She quickly, nervously pulled the rest of her money from her pockets and handed it over, careful not to let him see the medicine, which she slipped in with sleight of hand. “Here. It was all I could get …”

He pocketed the loot and slapped her hard enough that she saw bright starbursts. Felt the ache all the way down her spine. Before she could react, he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her against the filthy brick wall, and now her dress was ruined, and how was she to blend in to the fine crowds again?

“Let her go,” Gerard said grimly.

“No, don’t,” Jeanne whispered, and Alexandre grinned. He had a wolf’s grin, as if he intended to bite her. “Please don’t. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

“You are my property,” Alexandre said. “Until you pay what you owe, I own you, girl. Don’t forget it.”

He drew his fist back.

Gerard caught it, spun Alexandre around, and hit him with a fist under the chin that lifted the man completely off his feet and sent him reeling backwards to fall senseless against a wall.

“You—” Jeanne caught her breath, and looked at Gerard with new respect. “You stopped him?”

“He’ll wake up,” Gerard said, and stepped forward to search Alexandre’s limp form, turning his pockets out. “Might as well take what he has. In this neighborhood, someone else will.”

He was right about that, and she outright gasped at what emerged from Alexandre’s hidden reserves … a small fortune, to be sure. “He’ll kill us,” she said. “We can’t, Gerard. We can’t! You don’t know what he’s like!”

Gerard shook his head. “I trust in providence,” he said. “Maybe that’s wrong of me. But I can’t kill him, even so.”

He caught Jeanne’s hand, and together, they raced into the building and rushed through the door, up the stairs, and Jeanne unlocked the apartment. She locked it back once they were in, and pressed herself against the wood, breathing hard. What have we done?

“Jeanne?” Her mama’s voice, thin and frail as frost. “My girl, is that you?”

“Wait,” she said to Gerard, who nodded. “I’ll be back.”

It was the work of only a few moments to brew the tea and add her mother’s medicine to it; as Jeanne propped her up and held the cup for her to drink, she prayed quietly to the good God to put his hand on them all. To heal and protect. Most of all, protect.

“Mama?” She set the empty cup aside, and put the rest of the bottle of medicine in the small cabinet beside the bed. “You must take this medicine every day, do you understand? Tomorrow you should feel better, but you must take it until it is gone.”

Her mother looked at her, and for a moment her eyes were clear and bright. “Because you will not be here to give it to me?”

“I—” Jeanne swallowed. “I don’t know. I hope I will be. But in case …”

“Have you put yourself in danger for me?”

“No,” Jeanne lied, and put the back of her hand against her mother’s forehead. Still warm. “No, of course not.” She hesitated a moment, then said, “Mama? May I borrow your rose pink dress?”

“My wedding dress? Why?”

“This one is—” Jeanne gestured helplessly. “It needs cleaning. May I? Please?”

“Jeanne, I do not want you selling yourself for my medicine. Tell me you are not!”

“I’m not,” Jeanne promised. “Please?”

Her mother nodded wearily and gestured to the clothes press, and Jeanne opened the door to take out the finest thing either of them owned: a dress of rose pink silk with fine silver lace at the bodice and sleeves. It was out of fashion, this dress, but of the finest quality, and though a high society lady might sneer at the dated Empire waist, it looked very well on Jeanne.

She kissed her mother on that too-warm forehead, and said, “I will come back, Mama. I swear.”

***

She changed quietly, to avoid waking her mother who’d already dropped into a restless sleep, and mourned the soot smearing the back of her fragile blue silk. It would be difficult to rescue it. She folded it carefully and took it out of her mother’s room to lay it on her own narrow bed, then joined Gerard where he waited near the door.

The look of pure pleasure he gave her warmed her to the toes. “That becomes you,” he said. “Let me take you away from this, at least for the night. Our evening will be on your evil friend downstairs.”

“We’d best go quickly,” she said. “If he catches us …”

“He won’t,” Gerard promised. “Will your mother be safe from him?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “He’s my brother. He refuses to care for her, or provide for her, but nevertheless, he wouldn’t hurt her. But me …”

“No,” Gerard said. “He won’t.”

There was a curious certainty in his voice.

They descended the narrow, close steps again, and Jeanne peered out the door for Alexandre before stepping out, holding the silk above the dirt of the street.

Alexandre was still where they’d left him, but there was someone with him now. No, two someones. Luminous as stone in moonlight, both of them, with her pale hair shimmering and shot with jewels.

Myrnin said, “Well, I suppose he’ll do.”

“No!” Jeanne said, and rushed forward. “No, he’s—”

But it was too late. Myrnin was already on one knee, hauling Alexandre up by the collar, and his nails shredded the fabric of her brother’s shirt collar away.

She did not see the bite, only the sudden flinch that ran through Alexandre’s body, and then the woman was between them and blocking the sight.

Jeanne stepped back. She couldn’t do otherwise. She ran into Gerard’s warm bulk, and he steadied her with hands on her shoulders. “Stop him,” she said. Her voice shook. “That’s my brother.”

“Is he?” The woman’s eyebrows rose, making those ice-blue eyes even larger. “A brother protects and loves his sister. He does not prey upon her like a parasite. I had such a brother once, Jeanne. And you will live better away from the shadow of his violence. Consider this a gift, from us to you. You are twice lucky this evening.” Her cold focus moved from Jeanne to Gerard. “Perhaps more than twice.”

She turned to glance behind her, and then returned her gaze to them. “We shall go now. Don’t try to find us. You may have that impulse, but I promise you, such quests do not end well. Myrnin?”

The tall, long-haired man was back at her side now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were red, a terrifying color that made Jeanne think of hellfire, but his smile was sweet. “Adieu, fair Jeanne,” he said, and before she could think to resist, he captured her hand and bent over it without touching it to his lips. “Live well.”

They left with shattering speed, and Jeanne sagged back against Gerard. Alexandre lay where he had before, a motionless figure with a face drained of all color now. A wax figure abandoned by the side of the road.

Her brother was dead.

Jeanne regained her strength and turned to look at Gerard. “You knew,” she said. “That they were here.”

“I knew they were following us,” he said. “I had a sense.”

“That’s why you said you would leave it to providence. Because providence was a wolf on our trail.”

“Not wolves,” he said quietly. “But just as dangerous, I think. She was right. We were both lucky tonight.”

Lucky. She swallowed the horror of that, because it was true. She had suffered a long time under Alexandre’s thumb. She had watched him waste their meager savings on drink and women, and she’d allowed him to exploit her for his own profit, for the sake of their mother.

But that was done now. She was free. Free, and for the first time in her life, she had the coin with which to improve her life.

“We should go,” Gerard said quietly. “I promised you dinner.”

She wasn’t sure she could eat, until they were seated outside a late-serving café, and a yawning waiter brought them wine and cheese and bread and a fish so fresh and delicate it fell apart on the fork, and as she ate, she couldn’t help but think, life is for the living. But was that true? For what were Myrnin and his cold lady? They lived, but they were not living.

The wind blew cold from the Seine, and Gerard put his coat around her shoulders, and as the sun rose over Paris, she let it dry the tears from her cheeks.

The day was new.

And life was before her.

***

It was summer, and the life that had spread before her on that grim and wonderful evening had gone far. Jeanne and her mother—recovered now from her fevers—had taken rooms in a better quarter, and the two of them had opened a small shop together; Jeanne had an eye for embroidery, and the patience for it, and her mother had been a fine seamstress. They earned a living.

And Gerard, who had taken a small portion of what Alexandre had bequeathed them that night, had found employment at a banking house, and was now earning a good living of his own. Slowly, cautiously—as would be best, Jeanne thought—they had come to know one another, to understand each other’s laughter and sorrows, loves and dislikes. He enjoyed coffee; she did not. She loved pastries; he was indifferent. But they shared a joy of the theatre, the ballet, and a passion for novels.

Jeanne kept her weather-stained copy of Jules Verne, though she could have replaced it. There was something to be said for the past, and a respect for it.

On the day Gerard came to escort her to dinner, he looked especially fine; he wore a new black suit and a crisply ironed shirt, and he had—finally—found a barber brave enough to curb his riotous hair. She was glad she’d worn a new dress, a lilac made in the style of the rose pink one that he liked so much. She was setting something of a revival in the fashion, and as they went out together, arm in arm, she felt content, finally. Safe.

“I have something for you,” he said, and presented her with a sealed envelope. A wax seal, pressed with the emblem of a dove. “Don’t read it yet. At dinner.”

“How mysterious!” she said, and laughed. “Are we playing at mystery tonight?”

“In a sense,” he said. “I hope we will solve it together.”

They walked for a bit, and then chose a restaurant—a much finer one than they normally indulged in—and she was delighted at the warm wood inside, the graceful tables and glowing white linens. The candles casting a magical glow over the diners. It felt like a perfect spot. And the meal that followed was even better, as if the chef had driven himself to new heights to make the evening perfect.

As the chocolate mousse was served—a delicacy she felt astonished to enjoy—Gerard, who’d spent the evening in uncharacteristic silence, said, “Would you read the note now?”

She opened it, and saw, in a quite antique handwriting, words she simply did not recognize. They were not written in French at all, she thought. How odd. She looked up at Gerard. “Is this from you? What does it say?”

He managed a smile. Really, she worried that he was falling ill; he looked quite pale, even in the candlelight. “I had a friend write it for me. It is in English.”

“Oh! I know I said that I was attempting to learn the language, but I’m afraid I have not gotten very far with my studies.” She felt embarrassed, suddenly, as if she’d failed him. But he was suddenly on one knee beside her at the table, taking her free hand, and she was too amazed to react. She felt an odd quiet settle over her, gazing at him. At the fullness of his gaze, as if he saw only her in this busy room.

“Allow me to translate,” he said. “It asks if you would do me the great honor of becoming my wife, because I love you with all my heart, Jeanne Aubin. I will love and cherish you until the end of my days if you would only grant me this wish.” He hesitated, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “And the gentleman who wrote this down for me also says, he has hope that one day he will find the same joy.”

Someone was watching her, she realized. No, everyone was watching now. Conversation had hushed, and heads turned, and she felt simultaneously terrified and elated … and then the terror burned away, and it was only joy.

“Yes,” she said. She was still clutching the odd little note in her hand. “Oh, my dear Gerard, it would be my great honor to be your wife.”

A cheer broke out through the restaurant, a wave of clapping, of glasses raised in toasts, and suddenly the waiter was there with champagne and they were drinking it together, and Gerard slipped a beautiful ring on her finger and Jeanne thought she had never felt so wonderfully seen in all her life.

And then she saw him. Myrnin. The pale statue beyond the crowd, watching. Giving them his curious smile. He turned and was gone in a blink, but she knew suddenly who Gerard’s English scribe had been for this note.

Jeanne folded it carefully and sealed it back in its envelope, and to the end of her days, she kept it as a memory of luck, of loss, of love … and of hope.

For if such a one as Myrnin still had hope, however could she not?