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 he loved her back,” Bastien said quietly. “You can see it in how she writes about him. The reverence, the certainty of reciprocation.”
“Yes.” She lifted another page, and he noticed her movements had become almost ritualistic, as though handling sacred texts. “Day sixty-seven: 'I believe I have achieved a breakthrough. Last night, during our communion, I experienced something beyond description. For one moment—perhaps no longer than a heartbeat—I felt existence from his perspective. The strange weightlessness of his state, the way love and memory anchor him to this plane when all other ties have been severed.'”
Her voice broke slightly on the last words, and she pressed her free hand to her throat as though something had lodged there.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Bastien leaned forward, genuinely concerned despite knowing the cause of her distress. “We could continue this another time.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She paused, searching for words. “There’s something about these passages that feels familiar. Not the content exactly, but the emotions behind them. The way she describes the connection, the certainty of being known completely by someone else. It’s as though I’ve felt those things myself.”
The locket seared against Bastien’s skin. She was so close to understanding, so close to remembering. Every instinct screamed at him to tell her the truth, to end this charade and help her reclaim what had been taken from them. But he’d tried that approach with Delia, and it had destroyed her. The shock of remembering multiple lifetimes, the weight of loving someone for over a century—it had been too much for her human mind to process.
“Perhaps we’re all searching for that kind of connection,” he managed. “The writing resonates because it describes what everyone hopes to find.”
Delphine nodded, but he could see doubt in her eyes. Some part of her knew this was more than universal longing, more than academic interest in historical romance.
She lifted the final major fragment, and Bastien braced himself for what he knew was coming.
“This appears to be one of the last entries,” she said, squinting at the faded ink. “'Day seventy-three. I have made a decision that may damn us both, but I can no longer bear the uncertainty. Tonight I will attempt the binding ritual I discovered in Mother’s hidden books. If it succeeds, our connection will become permanent—proof against death, against time, against any force that would separate us. If it fails . . .' The entry breaks off there.”
“The binding ritual,” Bastien repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’ve heard of such things?”
“In theoretical contexts.” The lie tasted like ash. He’d lived the reality of Charlotte’s attempt; had felt the moment their souls became permanently intertwined. It was that ritual which ensured her reincarnation, which bound them across lifetimes in an endless cycle of love and loss. “The concept appears in various occult traditions. The idea that certain ceremonies can create permanent spiritual connections.”
“And you think she attempted it?”
“The evidence suggests she tried something. Whether it succeeded . . .” He gestured vaguely, as though the question were purely academic.
But Delphine was studying his face with uncomfortable intensity. “You seem to know a great deal about these specific practices. More than most historians would.”
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Bastien could feel himself balanced on the edge of a precipice, one word away from confessing everything. The weight of decades of silence, of watching her live life after life without knowing who she truly was, had become unbearable.
“Delphine,” he began, his voice carefully controlled. “There’s something I need to tell you about these documents. About why I really brought them to you.”
She leaned forward, her eyes widening slightly. For a heartbeat he saw something flicker in their depths—not recognition exactly, but a kind of anticipatory understanding, as though part of her had been waiting for this conversation her entire life.
“What is it?”
“These fragments—they’re not random acquisitions. I didn’t find them at an estate sale.” He took a breath, preparing to bridge the impossible gap between truth and credibility. “They belonged to someone I once knew. Someone important to me.”
“A relative?”
“No. Someone . . .” He searched for words that wouldn’t sound completely insane. “Someone I loved very much. A long time ago.”
Delphine’s expression shifted, becoming more cautious. “How long ago?”
Before he could answer, before he could find a way to explain that he’d loved the woman who’d written these pages and that she was that woman, brilliant light erupted outside the Archive windows. The magical flare was so intense it cast stark shadows through the room, turning the afternoon into a stark tableau of black and white.
Bastien felt the familiar pull immediately—power loose in the Quarter, something ancient and hungry stirring in response to the growing connection between him and Delphine. The disturbance pulsed with malevolent energy, and he could sense innocent people already caught in its wake.