“Yo, buddy,” I prompt. “What is it?”
The little furrows in his forehead, so similar to his father’s, intensify to full grooves. And now he’s practically a carbon copy of Bast—a recognition prompting my wider smile. And his tighter scowl.
“Christophe? Come on, now. You can tell me. You need to, young man.”
The hell yes, he does. Because there are still too many moments like this. Seconds in which a schism like this is shooting along my spine, afire with worry and wonderings. Too many of them.
Have we escaped far enough away?
Taken enough precautions, even with the new identities?
Watched all the shadows and corners that we can?
Another year and a few months, and the Revolution will officially be over. Though Napoleon has already returned Château De Leon to one of Bastien’s cousins, we don’t dare return until then—if we choose to return at all. Right here, in the damp dirt with this sweet boy, I already swear I’m in heaven.
Except for this anxious rope I used to call a spinal cord.
“Are we really the Tavishes?”
And now the petrified punctures I used to call skin pores.
“Ermmm…why on earth would you ask that, buddy?”
As Chris steps back, he rubs at his eyes. Only now do I notice the emotional red rings in them. Holy shit.
“Izzy was teasing me. She says our last name isn’t truly Tavish. That we are pretending for everyone.” He drops his head to one side. “If that is so, are we…lying to people? And don’t you say lying is bad?”
I open my mouth. Clamp it again. Shove heavy air out through my nose.
“Where’s your father?”
Thankfully, he points inside. I nod, thankful that Bast hasn’t left to start his newest job. The Hoftstaders’ privy is going to be quite a project, and he mentioned wanting to get an early start. For that reason, Kavia was here before I left—not that she had to come far. She and Carl live above their small ale house around the corner.
When I walk through the shop and into our living quarters, the woman hasn’t moved from her place at our dining table. But a couple of elements have changed, so I don’t feel completely batshit. She’s made progress on the embroidery along the hem of Lady Horseley’s gown—thank you, helper angel—and the little lilt in her lips has ticked up by quite a few notches.
I borrow from my son, slowly tilting my head. Do I dare ask her if the look is a good or bad thing?
The serene gypsy at the table takes away my dilemma with her humorous chuff. “They’re upstairs.” A jog of her chin toward the ceiling. “All the way.”
I straighten my head with a jolt. “In the attic?”
Waiting for that answer isn’t an option. Our attic is like the West Wing from Beauty and the Beast. Full of all the off-limits stuff. The kids know not to trespass its boundary. Bast and I have intimated at everything short of a child-eating goblin king inside the low crawl space.
Now, as I climb the ladder up through the hatch hole, I wonder if I should’ve had Kavia cast a goblin snarl across my face. Maybe that’s what I’m going to need to teach this young one a proper—
The concept vanishes as fast as my fury.
As soon as I push up completely into the attic and discover that I’m the intruder now.
My arrival has very nearly destroyed the careful array atop one of my old fichus. It’s spread across the floor, now doing duty as a tea party table linen. Two chipped saucers, centered by two old china cups, are on opposite sides of a plate full of breakfast biscuits.
Well…not completely full.
Telltale crumbs are dotted across my oldest child’s pretty lips. Across from her, Bastien is licking away his own tasty morsels, looking entirely too breathtaking about it. His strong jaw is stubbled to the point of stunning, and his gaze is better than the bright sun outside.
But none of those factors are what kills the air in my throat and the strength from my limbs.
I stop cold, still on the ladder, when realizing that Ysabeau Eleanor Tavish is playing tea party dress-up in the gown from the night that changed my existence. The ivory and gold confection makes her look like a precious doll in a wash of endless sea foam, despite all the pink of her practical day dress. Clearly, she’s pretending that’s not even there. She keeps hoisting up the sheer shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders like the belle of the ball she longs to be.
How I yearn for the chance to tell her exactly that. But other words tumble out instead.
“Holy shit.”
Words I have no choice about, once my stare falls to the sizable parchment resting next to Bastien’s knee.
Our marriage license.
The really official one, obtained through lots of money making it into the right clergymen’s hands, making it possible for Bast and I to travel quickly together. Really quickly. As in fleeing France as rapidly as humanly possible, despite my lack of identification and his supposed death. Ironically, the madness that we fled from was also the institutional chaos that made it possible to slip free.
But Izzy doesn’t want to hear that right now. My daughter peers hard at me, her mind obviously spinning with a thousand stories to satisfy her curiosity. Not a one of them could possibly come close, but how is she supposed to know that?
I look back to Bastien, certain he’s thinking the same thing. But he’s also had time to sort more conclusions—and that’s the part that has me wobbling on the ladder like a spooked cat.
“Rayonnement.” He leans and steadies me. His hand is a welcome clamp of granite around the ball of my shoulder. His soft baritone is even better. I soak up its fortitude, already knowing what he’s about to level next. “Come. Sit here with us. Ysabeau has been asking some very good questions of me. Perhaps you can help me answer them.”
My daughter sits up straighter. Though one shoulder of my gown slips and turns the thing into a diagonal slouch across her torso, she disregards it—to raise a stare at me that’s serene and serious.
“I am nearly ten years old, Mother. I can handle the truth now.” She settles her shoulders with determination. “I have a right to know now.”
My gut twists—but not as harshly as I expected. It even calms and smooths as I flick my regard to Bastien. In the fortitude across his high forehead, down to the firm cords of his neck, I observe everything I need to know. All the reasons for me to stretch my hand out, pressing it into his own. To feel the warmth and courage of the man who traversed so far to find me—and then braved that journey again so that I could have this life with him. This world that is my complete, everlasting joy.
“Desperado,” I rasp, hoping he hears that my love for him has never been more sure or strong. “She’s right…isn’t she?”
Bastien re-secures our handclasp. I remember so many other times he has done it, always to affirm that he’s right here next to me. Reminding me of our connection. Our destiny. The life and love we will never take for granted.
But part of that fate is our full story.
There’s a fluctuation across Bastien’s demeanor, as if he’s plucked that conclusion right out of my head. But that’s no longer weird for me.
“It is time to stop hiding, my love.”
I smile and softly kiss him, but our daughter is already grunting with impatience. I pull away with a giggle, already readjusting and reaching for Ysabeau’s small hand too.