Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Which meant, for the first time since Delphine had drawn her first breath twenty-five years ago, he was free to focus entirely on what he truly wanted: making her fall in love with him all over again.
1728. The garden behind Charlotte's family estate, moonlight filtering through Spanish moss.
"Promise me something," Charlotte whispered, her fingers intertwined with his as they sat beside the fountain her grandfather had built. The water's gentle splash masked their conversation from anyone who might be listening. "When I find you again—and I will find you, Bastien, no matter how many lifetimes it takes—promise me you won't try to force recognition."
He studied her face in the moonlight, noting the determined set of her jaw, the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes. "What do you mean?"
"I mean love that's demanded isn't really love at all. When my soul returns in a new form, with new experiences and a new personality shaped by different circumstances, I want you to court that woman honestly. Let her choose you for who you are in that moment, not because magic tells her she should."
"Charlotte—"
"Trust becomes choice, mon ange. That's the most beautiful thing about human love—it's freely given, not compelled by mystical bonds or soul memories. I want to fall for you again, naturally, the way any woman might fall for a man she finds fascinating and attractive and worthy of her affection."
She brought his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. "The magic will guide us back together, but the love? That has to be earned fresh each time. Promise me you'll remember that."
"I promise," he said, and meant it with every fiber of his being.
The memory faded, leaving him with renewed understanding of Charlotte's wisdom. She'd known he would be tempted to rely on mystical connection instead of genuine courtship, tempted to use their tether as a shortcut to intimacy. But love that was truly chosen, freely given without supernatural compulsion, was worth any amount of patient work.
Another memory surfaced, this one from 1906.
Delia laughing as she led him through the French Market, her arm linked through his as she pointed out vegetables she'd never seen before. He'd been trying so hard to be mysterious, to maintain the careful distance he thought was necessary for an angel courting a mortal, but she'd simply ignored his attempts at aloofness.
"You know," she said, stopping beside a vendor selling pralines, "you're much more charming when you're not trying so hard to be mysterious."
"I'm not—"
"Oh, please. All that brooding and meaningful stares and careful word choices? It's exhausting to watch." She bought two pralines and handed him one. "I like you better when you're just talking to me like I'm a person instead of some delicate flower who might wilt if exposed to too much reality."
He bit into the praline, surprised by its sweetness. "You want me to be less careful with you?"
"I want you to be yourself with me. Whatever that means." She bumped his shoulder with hers, a gesture so naturally affectionate it made his chest tight with unexpected emotion. "I already know you're not entirely human, Bastien. The way you move, the way you know things you shouldn't know, the way street lamps flicker when you're upset? I'm not stupid."
"That doesn't concern you?"
"Should it?" She licked praline from her fingers, completely unconscious of how the gesture affected him. "You've never hurt anyone in my presence, you're unfailingly polite to shopkeepers and street vendors, and you tip well at restaurants. Those seem like decent character indicators regardless of what species you might be."
Her matter-of-fact acceptance of his nature had been more effective at winning his heart than any amount of mystical recognition could have been. She'd chosen him—chosen to trust him, to enjoy his company, to gradually fall in love with him—without needing soul memories or magical compulsion to guide her decision.
Standing beside the cypress tree with Charlotte's completed ward network humming around him, Bastien felt his motivation crystallize with perfect clarity. If Delphine's soul didn't remember him fully—and Charlotte's careful design suggested it wouldn't until she was ready—then he was committed to making her fall in love with him all over again. Honestly, naturally, as the man he was now rather than the angel he'd been in previous lifetimes.
He had advantages this time that he'd lacked in 1906. Twenty-five years of observing her from a distance had taught him her preferences, her personality, her values. He knew she was brilliant and independent, valued honesty over flattery, preferred substantive conversation to empty charm. She was drawn to authenticity, repelled by artifice, attracted to competence and quiet confidence.
Most importantly, she already knew he wasn't entirely human.
Behind them, the last traces of temporal distortion faded from the air above the Mississippi, leaving only moonlight reflecting off the water's surface and the gentle sound of current moving steadily toward the sea. The breach was sealed, the amateur practitioner would recover with nothing worse than confusion and a healthy respect for forces beyond their understanding, and the Veil itself had proven once again that it could withstand considerable strain when supported by those who truly understood its nature.