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)
Bastien paused with his hand on the door handle. He had avoided this encounter for exactly this reason—because he knew that seeing her as an adult, hearing her voice, watching her move through the world with no memory of what they had once meant to each other, would break something in him that had taken decades to repair.
But the locket’s warmth reminded him why he was here. The arcane recursion was building toward something, and every instinct screamed that Delphine would be at its center.
The Archive’s interior was everything he’d expected—mahogany shelves lined with leatherbound volumes, research tables scattered with papers and magnifying glasses, the musty smell of old documents and accumulated knowledge. Dust motes danced in shafts of light from tall windows.
She was at a corner desk, bent over what appeared to be a colonial-era land grant, her auburn hair falling in waves around her face as she transcribed faded text onto a legal pad.
The sight of her stopped his heart.
Not just recognition, but the accumulated weight of twenty-five years of careful distance collapsed into nothing. The slope of her shoulders as she worked. The way she tucked errant strands of hair behind her ear when she concentrated. The graceful line of her neck.
But there was steel in her now that hadn’t existed in Delia’s time—professional competence born of education and independence that no woman of 1906 could have achieved. She wore simple jeans and a white blouse, her only jewelry a silver chain that disappeared beneath her collar.
Modern.
Self-possessed.
Utterly unaware that the man watching her from the Archive entrance had loved her across lifetimes.
“Can I help you find something?”
Her voice was warm, clear, with the faint trace of accent that marked her as New Orleans born and raised. But when she looked up from her work, there was no flash of recognition, no stirring of soul-deep memory. Just polite professional interest.
“I’m researching recent disturbances in the Quarter’s . . .” He cleared his throat, forcing his voice back to its normal register. “Historical patterns of supernatural incidents. Looking for precedents.”
“Supernatural incidents.” She set down her pen and gave him a look that was half amusement, half warning. “Are you a journalist? Because I should mention that we don’t provide information for tabloid articles or ghost tour operators.”
“Private investigator.” He reached for his license, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact. “Bastien Durand. I specialize in cases that require historical context.”
She studied his credentials with the thoroughness of someone who’d learned to spot frauds and time-wasters. As she read, he found himself cataloging the tiny details that marked her as both familiar and strange—the way she chewed her lower lip when thinking, a habit Delia had shared, but also the confident posture and direct gaze that spoke of a woman who’d never needed anyone’s protection.
“Durand,” she repeated, handing back his license. “French Creole family? I think I’ve seen that name in some of our older records.”
Ice shot through his veins. His family name was scattered throughout Louisiana’s historical documents, but the dates would make no sense if anyone bothered to investigate. Bastien Durand had appeared in New Orleans parish records in 1847, with no prior history. The name had surfaced again in 1923, looking the same age. And again in 1978.
“Probably a coincidence,” he said quickly. “Common name.”
“Maybe.” But her tone suggested she’d filed the detail away. “I’m Delphine Leclair, senior archivist. What specific time period are you interested in?”
“1906. The Saenger Theatre fire and surrounding incidents.”
Something flickered across her expression—not recognition, but the look of someone who’d heard this request before and found it problematic.
“That’s an interesting area of research,” she said. “Most of the official records from that incident were lost over the years, and what survived is incomplete and often contradictory.”
“I’m looking for patterns that might be repeating themselves. Supernatural manifestations, unexplained phenomena, anything that might connect historical events to current incidents.”
She was quiet for a long moment, studying his face with an intensity that made the locket pulse against his ribs. Finally, she nodded toward the research tables.
“I can show you what we have, but you should know that most serious researchers find the 1906 materials . . .frustrating. Too many gaps, too many witness accounts that don’t align with physical evidence.”
As they walked toward the Archive’s main collection, she began to hum—softly, unconsciously, the kind of melody that accompanies routine tasks.
Bastien’s steps faltered.
The tune was identical to the one Delia had hummed outside her boarding house on the last night of her life. Every note, every gentle rise and fall, the same melody that had haunted him for 119 years flowing from Delphine’s lips as naturally as breathing.
His vision blurred. The Archive floor seemed to tilt beneath his feet.
The boarding house parlor in late 1905, where Delia sat at the upright piano picking out melodies by ear. Afternoon light streamed through lace curtains, catching dust motes that danced like spirits around her dark hair. She wore simple blue cotton, sleeves rolled up for comfort, completely absorbed in finding the right combination of notes.