Prologue
"Behind every exquisite thing that existed,
There was something tragic."
–Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1890
Prologue
AJ came to me in my dreams last night, like he always does. He wasn’t the way I remembered him when we first met — tall, handsome, blue eyes flashing with a hidden secret. No, he was snarling at me, his eyes webbed with black, his hands as strong as iron bands clamped down around my wrists and pinning me to the cold stone beneath me. I fled that forsaken place and didn’t look back. Not after what I’d done. I couldn’t face it. I’m not sure if I ever could again.
I flick through the photos that Jean-Luc took on that fateful visit sometimes, just to remind myself of the way I wanted to remember my husband. There he was, standing next to me on the steps of Dun Kilglen, impeccable in a brand-new suit, his arm around me. And then there he was, looking thoughtful, standing on the landing in front of the stained-glass window, hands in his pockets.
That night still comes comes back to me occasionally — the fire, the wind, the spitting rain; Jean-Luc’s arms holding me upright as my legs lost their will to; grasping Mrs. Yates’s pocket-watch tightly in my hand and swearing that we’d get to Vienna any way we could.
We’ve kept fleeing west since then. After escaping Dun Kilglen we spent time in London, then Paris, then Vienna. Then Rome, Athens, Kathmandu, Jakarta. Each one a brief stay, until Jean-Luc deemed it safe to move on. We ended up in Australia, where I reunited with Barry and the both of us were speechless and tearful. We hid there for longer than our other stops, trying our best to keep out of sight. Then, following Barry’s departure we pulled up stakes and moved again, this time to New Zealand. We’ve stopped here for now, so far away it seems impossible that the Stanhope curse could find us. And still, I’m scared that it might. Some days, it feels like it almost has.
I’ve been thinking increasingly about how to tell Jean-Luc that we can’t move again, not when we’ve started a family. Sometimes I think of AJ too, and how much he wanted to do the same, and at that my hand goes to my abdomen and I wonder over the new fluttering heartbeat there.
“You seem troubled tonight, ma cherie,” says Jean-Luc that evening, our lovemaking finished. He has been so patient with me, not pushing or pressuring me to talk about that night, the last time I’d seen my husband. Sometimes I can tell he wants to ask me, and his mouth opens as if he’s about to. So just this once, I bring up the topic instead of him.
“I am. I keep thinking...that night...and I wonder if it ever truly ended.”
He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You believe it did not?”
“It seemed so easy...even after we both barely got out alive. Too perfect. Too quiet.”
“You may not believe this, ma cherie, but sometimes there are strokes of luck. And I do think we came upon one, or a few, that night.” His brow furrows as he cups my cheek. “I understand you want to remain cautious. I do as well, now that I know men such as your husband exist.”
“Do you think we’re safe, Jean-Luc?” I ask after a long silence, when I’ve curled into his side and he’s wrapped an arm around me, fingers lightly running through my hair.
“Yes,” he answers, following a second long silence. “As long as we are careful.”
“I hope to God that you’re right.”
He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. Just for a moment, as I close my eyes, I let myself believe him.
