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)
“And if she’s not ready? If the awakening shatters her mind?”
“Then she becomes a doorway that cannot be closed. A conduit through which the past pours into the present until the distinction between what was and what is dissolves entirely.” Maman’s voice carried the weight of terrible knowledge. “New Orleans could become a city where every death that ever occurred here walks alongside the living. Where every love, every loss, every moment of joy or sorrow plays out simultaneously across all time.”
They returned to ordinary perception with jarring suddenness. Bastien slumped forward in the rocking chair, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what approached. All his careful planning, his belief that gradual revelation could ease her transition—rendered meaningless by forces beyond his control.
“I wanted to protect her,” he said, the words tasting like ashes. “Give her time to adjust before telling her what she really is. But is keeping the truth worse than revealing it? The delayed revelation cost keeps growing. Each day I stay silent, each conversation where I deflect her questions—am I making this worse?”
Maman reached for her embroidery, fingers working at patterns that seemed to shift in the lamplight. “Truth is a blade, child. Sharp enough to cut through any deception, any comfortable lie we wrap around ourselves. But like any blade, it depends on the hand that wields it. Cut with love, and truth can liberate. Cut with fear or anger, and it destroys.”
“Then what do I do? How do I tell a woman that everyone she trusts has been lying to her? That her nightmares are memories, her visions are real, and she’s carrying the soul of someone who died because of me?”
“You tell her with love, not guilt. You give her truth as gift, not burden. And you accept that once spoken, those words become hers to use as she sees fit.” Maman’s needle paused in its work. “But first, you must decide if you’re ready to lose her again.”
“What do you mean?”
“The awakening will likely give her back her memories, child. All of them at some point. Charlotte’s dedication to her magical research. Delia’s joy in your love. But also the pain of every death, every separation, every moment you were unable to save her.” Maman’s eyes held sympathy tempered by hard wisdom. “She may not forgive you for carrying this burden alone. She may not forgive you for the choices that led to her deaths. Love across lifetimes is beautiful in theory, but the reality includes all the times love wasn’t enough, or even the times you simply weren’t there.”
The truth settled hard in his bones. In all his planning, all his careful consideration of how to reveal the truth, he’d focused on protecting her from the shock of learning about her past lives. He’d never considered that remembering might make her hate him for the role he’d played in creating this cycle of death and rebirth.
Now here he was again, bound to someone he couldn’t protect, watching power build in her like pressure in a kettle. The same impossible choice: tell her and risk breaking her or stay silent and let the awakening tear her apart from within. His choice would determine which outcome—liberation or destruction.
“I should go,” he said, standing on unsteady legs. The spiritual download had left him drained, hollowed out by the enormity of what was coming.
“Where?” Maman asked, though her knowing eyes suggested she already understood.
“To see her. To watch from a distance. I need to know she’s safe, even if I can’t do anything to help.”
“And if she’s not safe? If the awakening begins while you’re watching from the shadows like some lovesick ghost?” Maman’s tone carried gentle reproach. “We do not know the true ramifications of getting the memories back, or how quickly it will come. Will you step forward then, or will you let her face the return of lifetimes alone?”
The question followed him as he left Maman’s sanctuary and walked back toward the Quarter. The streets pulsed with increasing intensity, reality wearing thin under the pressure of approaching transformation. Every step closer to Delphine’s neighborhood brought new signs of magical disturbance—fire hydrants leaking water that glowed faintly blue, street signs displaying names of roads that had been demolished decades ago, the scent of flowers that only bloomed in Charlotte’s era wafting from empty lots.
A police car sat parked outside a hotel on Royal Street, its driver speaking rapidly into his radio about guests who’d checked out of rooms they’d never rented, leaving behind belongings from eras that predated the building’s construction. The officer looked haggard, as if he’d been fielding similar calls all night.
Bastien paused to listen, catching fragments of the conversation: “ . . .woman claims she lived here in 1823, knows details about the property that aren’t in any records . . . man speaking only Creole French, says he died here in 1871 . . . need someone from the psychiatric unit . . .”