Page 20

The French Confession

“I ’m sorry?” Helena said, refocusing on what Rafferty was tel ling her.

“When they … take you,” he continued, mimic king her use of code words. “So much of who you were when you were alive is burned from you. Not just your memories, but your faith, if you had any, your desires and wants, the things you liked, your name, the basic facts of yourself, the things you prized, your triumphs, even your very language, the stories we would tell, all of it goes to pay your initial price, the debt you owe for the power you commanded from the demon you summoned. And if they did their job right, you racked up quite a bill. All any of us are left with are the terrible parts of ourselves, and those are mere scraps of the men we o nce were.”

“Just men?” Helena asked, cocking her head.

“Women too. Everything in between. Souls,” he corrected. “That’s all we are when we die. Our bodies are burned away first, the living flesh, our connection to the matter of this reality, then our memories, and then all we are is this soul, exposed raw and unprotected to our pain and suffering. What most people don’t understand is that this…” He held up his hand staring at it as if it were a marvel.

“Explain it to me,” she urg ed softly.

“This flesh shelters us. It can’t void the pain we all feel, but it can lessen it, can give us the tools to hide it and cover it. But when we are pulled to that terrible place, the pain that drove us to make such bargains in the first place is placed against us like living coals all around and we burn. And we cannot escape it without help. Without the few moments of reality to cloth us once more in flesh. Well, only those who have enough of themselves left to e ven try.”

His gaze shifted away from his hand to her face.

“So no. I don’t remember what it was like being a French man in t he 1600s.”

“But you spoke French just now,” Helena poi nted out.

“Yes, I did,” he said. “But I don’t know why. It was very strange.”

Helena shifted all that information in her mind a moment. “I mean, it is very strange because most of the time when you talk, you don’t have any accent either. You sound more or less like me.” She laughed at the obs ervation.

“Yes, well that I can explain. That’s exactly what’s happening. When you give the bite of your tongue and blood to the circle, it uses that as a template to give me a shadow of what I need to interface with this world just like my body.”

“It gives you an ego?” she supplied.

His eyebrows bobbed as if he hadn’t thought of that before. “Yes, essentially. What knowledge you have I can glean a piece of, along with whatever I can hold onto myself from the previous times I ’ve come—”

“To this city,” she inserted quickly, realizing that their dinner conversation was about to be overheard by the nex t course.

“Yes, this city. At least the pieces I don’t have to trade away. It isn’t perfect, but I can limp along,” he said, lifting his head up to face the waiter as if he were an unwelcome intruder.

“L’entre,” éliott declared, as he presented his tray holding two small dishes bearing a small array of finger foods. Another waiter smoothly came up behind him with his own tray to swipe away the empty l’aperitif glasses.

“On this plate, we have smoked salmon canapes, an olive tapenade on a thin piece of rye bread, and a gougères, or tiny cheese puff,” éliott said as he laid the small plate before Helena, then indicated each item with a point of his finger. Then he moved to lay the second plate before Rafferty. “Usually we only serve one appetizer per guest, but because this is for a very special occasion, the chef wished for you to try a wider selection of what we c an offer.”

“Thank you. It looks delicious,” Helena reassured, and after their water glasses were topped off, the wait staff moved on. She stared at the plate, wanting to taste it, but it felt wrong to just dive right back into the fine dining experience after the things Rafferty just told her.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I am ruining this for you.”

“But you remember cooking,” Helena said, plucking up the olive tapenade to take a small, indepen dent bite.

“Yes, well, I hate cooking,” he said, looking down at the plate before him like he was trying to puzzle them out. “It’s better to serve the gougères with a soup to d ip it in.”

“You hate cooking?” she asked, genuinely surprised. “But you seem so passionate about it.”

“What do you think I did to get dragged to that place?” he said in a low voice. “My greatest wish, to cook for the King, became my condemnation, and ashes is all I’m allowed to taste.” He held up the olive tapenade and took a bite, chewing it, but clearly not enjoying it. She tried to do the same, taking up the olive tapenade, but when she reached for his hand, he pulled it out of her way. Then he popped the rest of the l’entre into his mouth and chewe d it away.

“It’s what I deserve. It’s fine,” he said.

She set the food down. “If it’s what you deserve and you are nothing but dark things, then why are you so ki nd to me?”

“Again, what makes you think this isn’t all a part of my long con?” he said in his gruff way, but when Helena looked into his starburst eyes, they crinkled just the litt lest bit.

“Well, if you are trying to trick me, I don’t care. I would rather be a person who gets tricked when trying to do something kind than live my life being cold and alone,” she said with an airy flippancy. This time she poignantly held her hand out to him to take. “Now, you’re going to have to taste the other half of this one because I need your help judging this food, and whether you like it or not, you are the expert, so come on.” She waggled her finger s at him.

He reluctantly grinned and gave over his hand before obediently tasted the second half of her olive tapenade.

“Much better when using my taste bud s, right?”

“Yes, much, though I’m sorry I am marring your experience,” he agreed. Then he looked down at the plate before him, his face growing thoughtful as he rolled the food he could now taste in his mouth. “I could make this better,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” Helena said, not sure what to do with that. Or what he meant by his “marring” her experience. “But you can’t do it for the Winter Rose Ball, so do you think this will go over?”

He licked his teeth, then took a sip of water.

“Let’s try the rest of them. Let me see how these three work as a group.”

Helena thought the warm creamy cheese inside the gougères was delightful while the smoked salmon canapes were interesting. Soon after that, the fish course came followed by small lime sorbet to cleanse their palates before the le plat principal or mai n course.

“I just don’t know what to do about Yosef because while he technically doesn’t outrank me, he sort of doesn’t have a rank, you know? Like a ronin or something. Do you know what a ronin is?”

“A Japanese samurai that serves no master,” Raffe rty said.

“Okay, then maybe ronin is the wrong word because he definitely has a master. The way he takes care of Scarlet, you’d think she really was his mother,” she said, scraping the last bit of sorbet onto her spoon.

“Hmm,” he said, having finished with his and releasing her hand so she could enjoy it. Eating with the spoons had been a bit of a trick to keep in contact so they cou ld taste.

“What’s that ‘hmm’ about? Do you have something to share with the class?” sh e pressed.

“You like him?” her dem on asked.

“No, I’ve been just saying how much I don’t like him.”

“But you de sire him?”

“Don’t you have to like someone to desi re them?”

“Not in my experience.” He shrugged. “What I can rememb er of it.”

“Wait, so you’re thinking that Yosef likes me?” s he asked.

“Do you think he likes you?” he turned bac k on her.

“No, the only person he seems to like is Scarlet.” Then she stopped as she heard what she just said. Her jaw literally dropped. “No. You’re saying… he and… Scarlet is…” Yet now that she thought about it, she couldn’t unthink it. “Oh. Oh. Oooohhhhhh.” She picked up her water glass to take a sip, but before she could, she said, “Oh, now that I think that I absolutely want that to be true. That would mean it really isn’t about me at all. He’s trying to protect Scarlet. I mean, this ball really is her legacy, and if he thought it was going to be her last, and I’m slacking o ff on it…”

She set her glass down without taking a sip, so she could press her hands to her heart. “Aw, that would mean he really loves her, and this is a sort of tragic romantic gesture.”

Rafferty’s eyes smiled just as éliott returned to pour them each some red wine.

“What?” she asked, noting it.

“I love your stories,” he said, taking up his wine.

She did the same, slipping her hand into his as easily and naturally as if they had been doing it for years. “I love your cooking,” she said and clinked her glas s to his.

As the warm, bright flavors of the wine danced on her tongue, Eliott moved away just as another couple was being seated at a table indirectly nearby. With hurried surprise, Helena swallowed her wine and set down her glass to grab her napkin before she spilled some on herself.

“Oh my gosh, it’s Chris. I didn’t know they were going to be coming to this restaurant tonight,” she said, then stopped as her eyes fastened onto a woman being seated with him.

It was not Charlie.