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)
The irony of explaining Charlotte’s own words back to her reincarnation made his coffee taste bitter. But Delphine nodded, apparently satisfied with his explanation, and continued reading.
“The methodology becomes more personal as it progresses,” she observed, lifting another fragment. “The writer’s emotional investment is evident. She’s no longer just observing—she’s participating.”
Bastien forced his expression to remain neutral as she began to read again, though every word felt like a blade drawn across old wounds.
“The entity responds most strongly to proximity. When I place my hand upon this binding ledger where his essence seems most concentrated, I feel . . .” Her voice faltered slightly. She flexed her fingers, frowning at some sensation he couldn’t see but recognized completely. “I feel as though my very soul recognizes a missing piece of itself. The temperature of my palm increases, sometimes to the point of discomfort.”
As she spoke, Delphine’s left hand had unconsciously moved to rest against the table’s surface, her fingers splayed as though seeking contact with something just beyond reach. Her breathing grew shallow, and the professional distance she’d maintained began to show hairline cracks.
“Are you all right?” Bastien asked, though he knew exactly what was happening. Her body was remembering what her mind had forgotten, responding to Charlotte’s written documentation of their bond.
“Static from the old heating system,” she murmured, though her voice carried uncertainty. She shook her head as if to clear it and lifted another page. “This is fascinating. The progression of understanding is remarkable.”
But Bastien could see the change in her posture, the way her movements had become more fluid, more familiar. The soul memory surfacing through centuries of careful separation, responding to the echo of its own documented experience.
“Listen to this,” she continued, her voice taking on a more intimate quality. “'I have begun to suspect that what others call haunting is in fact a form of attraction between souls. Two spirits, separated by death’s arbitrary boundary, drawn together by bonds that mortality cannot sever. The connection requires no medium, no ritual framework. Love itself becomes the bridge.'”
The memory struck Bastien without warning, vivid as lightning and twice as dangerous.
The parlor was warm with firelight and the lingering scent of Charlotte’s evening tea. She’d spent the day observing another of the secret ceremonies they’d discovered in the abandoned chapel, taking careful notes throughout the ritual with the same meticulous attention she brought to her natural history studies.
“Did you see how the practitioners moved?” she asked, rising from her writing desk with grace that made his non-corporeal heart ache. “Not random gestures, but a specific pattern. Almost like a dance.”
She began to demonstrate, her green silk gown rustling as she traced the ritual’s choreography in their parlor. But where the original ceremony had been performed with solemn reverence and religious fervor, Charlotte brought curiosity and delight, transforming sacred movements into something beautiful and entirely her own.
“Come,” she said, extending her hand toward where she somehow knew he stood, though he cast no shadow and disturbed no air. “Show me how the guardian moves in response.”
And though he had no physical form, though he existed in the spaces between life and death, Bastien found himself able to follow her lead. Their souls danced together in the firelight, reverence and defiance intertwined—reverence for the power they’d witnessed, defiance of every law that declared such connection impossible.
Charlotte laughed as she felt his presence move with hers, the sound bright and unafraid. “Yes, exactly like that. We’re writing our own ritual, aren’t we? Our own way of being together despite everything that says we cannot be.”
The firelight caught the auburn in her hair as she spun, and for a moment she was radiant with joy and possibility. In that instant, Bastien forgot he was dead, forgot the impossibility of their situation, forgot everything except the woman who danced with ghosts and made it look like the most natural thing in the world.
“Bastien?”
Delphine’s voice pulled him back to the present with jarring abruptness. She was staring at him with concern, one hand pressed against her chest where Charlotte had once worn his portrait in a silver locket.
“You looked distant for a moment. These documents—they’re quite affecting, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” The word came out rougher than intended. “The intimacy of the writing. The obvious depth of feeling.”
She studied his face for a long moment, and he wondered what she saw there. Did some part of her recognize the grief that lived in his eyes? The weight of loving someone across lifetimes while watching them forget him again and again?
“The woman who wrote these,” Delphine said slowly, “she was documenting a love affair, wasn’t she? Not just academic observation, but an actual relationship with . . . whatever this entity was.”
“That’s my interpretation as well.”
She returned to the pages, but Bastien could see the change in her entire being. The careful academic distance had dissolved into something more personal, more recognizing. Her fingers traced the edges of Charlotte’s script as though she’d held these same pages before, and her breathing had taken on the rhythm of someone reading a letter meant specifically for them.