Luc watched him go, a faint, genuine smile on his face. He looked down at his own notebook, then at Élise.
“You are a very clever woman,” he said, his voice warm with understanding.
“I just reminded you of your first reader,” she said softly.
The simple, uncomplicated act of sharing his craft with a child had broken the spell. The weight of reviews and gossip and legal threats meant nothing to a boy who just wanted a story about a mouse. It had reconnected Luc to the primal, joyful reason he wrote in the first place.
That evening, he started writing again. Not on his manuscript, but in a new, small notebook. He was outlining a children’s story about a mouse who lived in a library. It was playful, it was free, and it was his.
The calm after the storm was not just a return to peace, but a rediscovery of purpose. He had been reminded that his gift was not for critics or ex-partners, but for readers. For anyone, of any age, who needed an escape, a friend, or a brave little mouse to show them the way. And he had Élise to thank for showing him the way back.
Chapter 36:
The Invitation
The final, approved manuscript of Les Oubliettes du Silence was a thing of beauty. The cover, a subtle, embossed design suggesting both architectural blueprints and the bars of a cage, was perfect. The publication date was set for early October, and the launch party was to be held, as hoped, at the Bibliothèque Lafleur.
The official invitation arrived at the library, addressed to Monsieur Deschamps and Mademoiselle Élise Martin. It was elegant, understated, and featured a small, tasteful line drawing of the library's façade.
For Élise, it made everything terrifyingly real. This wasn't just Luc's night; it was theirs. And she, the quiet woman behind the counter, was expected to step into the spotlight as the muse, the dedicatee, the "silence and the song." The thought of making small talk with Parisian literati, of being scrutinized, filled her with a cold dread.
Luc found her staring at the invitation, her brow furrowed.
"You're nervous," he stated, coming to stand beside her.
"It's your night," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I'll just be... in the way."
He turned her to face him, his hands on her shoulders. "Élise, look at me." His stormy eyes were calm and sure. "That night is the culmination of everything we've built together. Every word in that book was written with you in the room. Every edit wassurvived with you by my side. You are not in the way. You are the reason the book exists. I want you there, standing next to me, as my partner."
His words were a balm, but the anxiety remained. "What will I say to all those people?"
"You won't have to say anything," he said with a soft smile. "You just have to be you. The woman who sees the soul of a place. The woman who quieted the storm in me. That is more impressive than any witty banter."
He took the invitation from her trembling hands and placed it carefully on the counter. "This is not a test, mon amour. It's a celebration. Our celebration."
He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a gesture so tender it brought tears to her eyes. "And when it gets to be too much," he whispered, "we have a whole library to escape to. Our library."
The invitation was no longer a source of fear, but a promise. It was an invitation to stand beside the man she loved and celebrate the story they had written together, not in the margins of a notebook, but in the very fabric of their lives. She would be there. For him, and for herself.
Chapter 37:
The Suit and The Dress
The week of the launch was a whirlwind of quiet preparation. The library, usually a realm of hushed order, was abuzz with a different kind of energy. Workmen came to install subtle, additional lighting. A small podium was discreetly placed near the philosophy section. Monsieur Deschamps supervised it all with the air of a general preparing for a dignified siege.
Luc, meanwhile, was a bundle of nervous excitement. He had abandoned his usual uniform of a worn leather jacket and was fretting over a new, impeccably tailored suit.
“Do you think the charcoal is too severe?” he asked Élise, for what felt like the tenth time, holding up the jacket in the back office.
“It’s perfect,” she assured him, smiling.“You look like a distinguished author.”
“I feel like an imposter,” he muttered, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
“You’re not,” she said firmly.“You are Luc Valois, and that is your masterpiece.”
Her own anxiety had been channeled into a different quest: the search for a dress. She wanted something that felt like her, but also like the occasion. Something that acknowledged the woman in the dedication. After a fruitless day of shopping in crowded department stores, she found it in a small vintage boutique tucked away on Rue Jacob.
It was a simple, sleeveless dress of a deep midnight blue, the exact color of the sketchbook he had given her. The fabric was heavy silk that moved with a quiet rustle, and it was embroidered with tiny, silver threads that caught the light like scattered stardust. It was elegant, understated, and it felt, utterly, like her.
