The villain was defeated. The woman was safe. The network was stable. And somewhere over the Atlantic, Gideon Virelli was learning that you can’t rationalize love into submission, that rejection isn’t a philosophical problem to be solved, and that some cages are ones we build for ourselves.
For the first time in decades, the future didn’t feel like a threat. It felt uncertain, yes. Risky, certainly. But not terrifying.
And that was enough.
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Friday afternoon found Bastien at his dining table with Charlotte’s journal open, reading her design philosophy for the third time. His palms had healed enough that he could turn pages without wincing, though the skin was still tender and pink where the burns were knitting back together. Each time he flexed his fingers, he felt the tightness of new skin forming over the damage—a reminder that some kinds of magic left physical marks even on celestial beings.
The journal lay open to a passage he’d nearly memorized:
“The mirrors must serve choice, never dictate it. Every node in the network should amplify free will, not constrain it. If what we build becomes compulsion, we have failed not just as practitioners but as partners.”
Charlotte had known exactly what she was building. Had anticipated someone like Gideon trying to corrupt it. And she’d trusted Bastien to recognize the corruption and reclaim the original design. That trust, spanning two centuries, humbled him more than he could articulate.
His phone buzzed against the wood.
Delphine: Hey. Are you free this evening? I think I’m ready to talk.
He stared at the message for a moment, feeling something shift in his chest. Not anxiety, exactly. More like anticipation mixed with the careful hope of someone who’d been hurt too many times to rush toward happiness without checking for traps first.
Bastien: My apartment or yours?
Delphine: Yours, if that’s okay. I’ll bring dinner.
Bastien: Perfect. What time?
Delphine: Six?
Bastien: I’ll be here.
He had two hours. Bastien spent them cleaning—not because his apartment was particularly messy, but because nervous energy needed an outlet. He washed dishes that were already clean. Straightened books on shelves that didn’t need straightening. Changed his shirt twice before deciding the first choice had been fine.
At 5:57, he stood at the window looking down at the street, watching for her. The Quarter’s evening light had that particular golden quality that made even the shabby buildings look romantic. Shadows lengthened across cobblestones. A street musician two blocks away played something jazzy and optimistic.
At 6:03, Delphine appeared at the corner, carrying two paper bags. She moved with the confident stride he’d come to recognize—not hurried, but purposeful. Auburn hair caught the evening light. She’d changed from work clothes into jeans and a green top that made her eyes look more vivid even from this distance.
Bastien went downstairs to meet her at the building entrance, unwilling to make her climb three flights while carrying dinner.
“Hey,” she said, slightly breathless. “I got Thai. I hope that’s okay. I realized I didn’t actually ask what you like.”
“Thai is perfect.” He took one of the bags from her. “Come on up.”
They climbed the stairs side by side, her shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow stairwell. She smelled like the Archive—old paper and lavender—with something underneath that was distinctly her. Warm and human and alive in a way that made his chest ache.
Inside his apartment, she set the bags on the dining table and looked around. “This is nice. Very you.”
“What does that mean?”
“I hadn’t really spent any time looking around when I was here before. But the books. Order. Nothing unnecessary, but everything well-chosen.” She trailed a finger along his bookshelf, reading spines. “Heavy on history and occult studies, I see.” She grinned.
“Occupational hazard.”
They unpacked dinner—pad thai for her, panang curry for him, spring rolls to share, thai iced tea that was probably too sweet but tasted like summer and comfort. The food was still hot, steam rising from the containers as Bastien fetched plates and silverware.
They ate at his dining table, Charlotte’s journal moved aside to make room. The conversation stayed light—her day at the Archive, his conversation with Maman yesterday about protective wards and network maintenance, the weather finally starting to cool enough that October felt like October instead of extended summer.
