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But—

—I am not just this, damn you, he thinks, as though in equally silent, desperate reply—not just your prey, your pawn, your tool. I was someone, grown and bred entirely apart from your influence: I had history, hopes, dreams. I loved my father, and hated his greed; loved my mother, and hated her enslavement. Loved and hated what I saw of them both in myself: My born freedom, my slave’s skin. I allied myself with a Cause that talked of freedom, only to drown itself in blood. But I am more than that, more than anything that came out of that . . . more than just this one event, the worst—and most defining—moment of my life. This one encounter with . . .

. . . you.

Stuck in the same yearning, dreadful moment through twelve whole years of real life—even when he was working his land, loving his wife, mourning her, mourning the children whose hope died with her. Running hi

s father’s plantation, adjudicating disputes, approving marriages, attending christenings; watching La Hire decline and fall, being drunk at his funeral, at the Bal, at his own wedding . . .

. . . only to be drawn back here, at last, like some recalcitrant cur to his hidden master’s call. To be reclaimed, over near-incalculable distances of time and space, as though he were some piece of property, some tool, some merest creeping—

—slave.

Marked, as yours. By you. For you.

But—this was the entire point of “my” Revolution, Jean-Guy remembers, suddenly. That all men were slaves, no matter their estate, so long as kings and their laws ruled unchecked. And that we should all, all of us, no matter how low or high—or mixed—our birth either rise up, take what was ours, live free . . .

. . . or die.

Die quick. Die clean. Make your last stand now, Citizen, while you still have the strength to do it—

—or never.

“It occurs to me,” the Chevalier says, slowly, “that . . . after all this . . . we still do not know each other’s given name.”

Whatever else, Jean-Guy promises himself, with one last coherent thought, I will not allow myself to beg.

A spark to oil, this last heart’s flare: he turns for the door, lurching up, only to find the Chevalier upon him, bending him backwards by the hair.

Ah, do not leave me, Citizen.

But: “I will,” Jean-Guy snarls, liquid, in return. And hears the Chevalier’s laugh ring in his ear through a fresh gout of blood, distant as some underwater glass bell. That voice replying aloud, as well as—otherwise—

“Ohhhh . . . I think not.”

I have set my mark upon you.

My mark. Mine.

That voice in his ear, his blood. That smell. His traitor’s body, opening wide to its sanguine, siren’s song. That unforgettable red halo of silent lassitude settling over him like a bell jar once more, sealing them together: Predator, prey, potential codependents.

This fatal Widow’s kiss he’s waited for, in vain, for oh so very long—Prendegrace’s familiar poison, seeping into Jean-Guy’s veins, his heart. Stopping him in his tracks.

All this—blood—

Blood, for all that blood shed. The Revolution’s tide, finally stemmed with an offering made from his own body, his own—damned—

—soul.

Prendegrace raises red lips. He wipes them, pauses, coughs again—more wetly, this time. And asks, aloud:

“By your favor, Citizen . . . what year is this, exactly?”

“Year Zero,” Jean-Guy whispers back.

And lets himself go.

Flare