Page 43 of Curse in the Quarter (Bourbon Street Shadows #1)
Delphine looked up from the journal, her eyes wide with something approaching understanding. “She was planning something dangerous, wasn’t she? Something that would change everything.”
“Yes,” Bastien said quietly. “She was planning to love so fiercely that not even death could silence it.”
“And did it work?”
The question hung in the air between them, loaded with implications that made Bastien’s soul ache. How could he tell her that yes, it had worked beyond Charlotte’s wildest dreams? That the woman sitting across from him was proof of magic so powerful it had rewritten the laws of death itself?
“Sometimes,” he said finally, “the most powerful magic is the kind that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that works so quietly, so perfectly, that it seems like coincidence.”
Delphine closed the journal and set it carefully on the desk between them. The late afternoon sun had shifted again, casting the room in golden light that reminded Bastien painfully of candlelit evenings in Charlotte’s chambers.
“I keep thinking about what you said earlier,” she murmured. “About some echoes being dangerous. Do you think Charlotte’s echo could be one of those? Could loving someone that intensely, across that much time, become something harmful?”
The question revealed an intuition that made Bastien’s chest tighten with both hope and fear. She was beginning to understand the weight of what Charlotte had set in motion, the responsibility that came with a love designed to transcend natural law.
“Any power can become dangerous if it grows beyond what can be controlled,” he said carefully. “Love that refuses to accept loss, that demands to persist beyond all reason . . . it can become obsession. It can trap souls in cycles they were never meant to repeat.”
“Is that what you think happened to Charlotte? That her love became a trap?”
Bastien met her eyes, seeing Charlotte’s fierce determination reflected in Delphine’s features. “I think Charlotte believed some connections are worth any risk. But I also think she may not have fully understood what she was asking of the universe.”
Delphine reached across the desk again, her fingers brushing against the journal’s leather cover. “This feels personal to you. Not just academic interest.”
The observation was too perceptive, cutting too close to truths he wasn’t ready to reveal. “Historical mysteries have a way of becoming personal when you study them long enough. You start to feel connected to the people involved, invested in understanding their choices.”
“Even when those choices led to tragedy?”
“Especially then.” The honesty in his voice surprised him. “The tragic stories are the ones that matter most, because they show us the price of reaching for something beyond our grasp.”
Delphine was quiet for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. When she spoke again, her voice carried a sadness that seemed too deep for someone who had lived only twenty-eight years.
“Do you think she regretted it? In the end, do you think Charlotte wished she had chosen differently?”
The question pierced him. How many times had he wondered the same thing? How many nights had he lain awake, tormented by the possibility that Charlotte’s final moments had been filled with regret for the magic that bound them?
“I think,” he said slowly, “that Charlotte loved with the kind of intensity that doesn’t leave room for regret. I think she would rather have tried and failed than never tried at all.”
“Even if it meant condemning someone else to centuries of searching?”
Her words resonated and he paused before he could formulate an answer. She understood. Somehow, without conscious memory, Delphine had grasped the central tragedy of their situation—that Charlotte’s grand gesture of love had indeed condemned him to lifetimes of loneliness and loss.
“Sometimes the greatest acts of love require the greatest sacrifices,” he managed. “From everyone involved.”
Delphine’s phone buzzed again. She glanced at it, then at the window where evening shadows were beginning to lengthen.
“I should probably head home soon. But . . .” She hesitated, her fingers still stroking the journal’s cover.
“I’d like to take this? Just for tonight?
I feel like there’s more I need to understand. ”
Every instinct screamed at him to refuse. Charlotte’s journal was dangerous in Delphine’s hands, a key that could unlock memories she wasn’t ready to handle. But looking at her face, seeing the genuine need for answers in her eyes, he found he couldn’t deny her.
“Of course,” he said. “But promise me something.”
“What?”
“If reading it triggers any unusual reactions—dreams, visions, anything that feels like more than memory—stop. And call me immediately.”
Delphine nodded, cradling the journal against her chest like a treasure. “I promise.”
She stood to leave, then paused at the door. “Bastien? That melody I hummed earlier . . . would you recognize it if you heard it again?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I would recognize it anywhere.”
“Good.” She smiled, the expression so achingly familiar it took his breath away. “Because something tells me I’ll be humming it again soon.”
After she left, Bastien sat alone in his study as twilight settled over the Quarter. The room felt empty without her presence, hollow in a way that reminded him of all the evenings he’d spent alone over the past two and a half centuries.
His phone buzzed with another message from Maman.
The barriers weaken faster.
He stared at the text until the screen went dark, then closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for what was coming.
The careful equilibrium he’d maintained for so long was crumbling.
Soon, Delphine would remember everything, and then they would discover whether Charlotte’s grand design had been an act of love or the ultimate act of selfishness.
Outside his window, the first stars were appearing in the darkening sky. Somewhere in the Quarter, Delphine was home with Charlotte’s journal in her hands, humming a melody that had echoed across centuries of separation and loss.
And in a few hours, when the barriers between past and present grew thinnest, she would begin to remember what it felt like to love someone enough to defy death itself.
He only hoped that when the memories finally returned in full, her love would prove stronger than her fear. Because what was coming would test every promise they’d ever made to each other, and the price of failure would be more than just their own hearts.
The journal was no longer between them—Delphine carried it with her like a key to doors she didn’t yet know existed. But the real message, the one written in flesh and soul and shared starlight, was only beginning to reveal itself.
And time, as Maman’s text had warned, was running dangerously short.