He could enter. Ward marks would ultimately recognize his celestial nature, adjust their frequency to permit passage. The door would open, revealing the next piece of information Gideon wanted him to possess.
But crossing this threshold would constitute acceptance. Every step forward moved him deeper into surveillance networks that rendered privacy meaningless. Every discovery brought him closer to confrontations he wasn’t certain he could win.
Bastien withdrew chalk from his coat pocket. White calcium carbonate mixed with protective herbs Maman Brigitte prepared. He sketched a holding pattern on the cobblestone near the gate, sigils arranged to maintain observation without interference. The marks would record resonance patterns and document magical signatures.
Then he stepped back. The magnolia trees continued their slow movement in breeze that carried river moisture.
He needed to document this location. He would have to understand the ward configurations before attempting entry. And he absolutely had to ensure Delphine remained unaware of threats that used her lineage as weapon, which this surely was.
The street beyond the courtyard stretched empty, only lantern light casting pools of illumination leaving shadows deep enough to hide observation. Bastien walked three steps toward Dauphine Street before glancing back at the gate.
His reflection showed in the iron’s surface. Not his current position, walking away with controlled retreat that suggested tactical thinking rather than fear. The reflection showed him standing motionless at the gate, one hand extended toward the courtyard as though reaching for something just beyond grasp.
The image held for two seconds before synchronizing with his actual location, lag time suggesting temporal displacement rather than simple optical delay.
He continued walking, resisting the urge to look back again at the gate where music had drawn him into memory he kept carefully contained. The violin’s melody echoed in his thoughts, notes arranging themselves with precision that memory couldn’t manufacture but which reality had provided through magic that turned observation into weapon.
The street narrowed ahead, buildings pressing close on both sides. Upper windows glowed with light that suggested occupancy, humans conducting their evening routines.
Bastien’s image appeared in a shop window as he passed. Darkened glass showed him walking parallel to his actual position, synchronized perfectly, revealing nothing except the careful control he maintained over his own expression and posture.
Then he saw the upper window.
Third floor across the street. Gallery doors standing open. The space beyond looked empty, darkness unbroken by lamp or candle.
But in that darkness, a figure stood.
Not visible through natural sight. Present only in the glass of the shop window where his image reflected, superimposed over his own with clarity.
The figure occupied exactly the space where Delia had stood in his memory. Beneath the magnolia tree’s spreading branches, surrounded by falling petals. A shadow rendered in glass, present in observation but absent from reality.
The figure didn’t move. Simply stood there, watching.
Bastien’s hands remained at his sides since the figure posed no immediate threat; it offered no gesture that suggested violence or confrontation. It simply existed in the glass, marking the place where memory and manipulation intersected.
He looked away from the shop window and continued walking toward Dauphine Street, where his apartment waitedwith research materials and his journals where he could record everything he’d witnessed at the gate. The figure remained visible in peripheral vision, present in every glass surface he passed, standing in that remembered location beneath magnolia branches that existed only in mirrors.
The frustration coursing through him was rising as tried putting the puzzle pieces together. The Lacroix bloodline. Charlotte’s soul tethered across lifetimes through magic that had made forgetting impossible and remembering inevitable. His heart hurt for a beat remembering his beloved Charlotte before leading him to thoughts of Delia. Gideon’s manipulation of Delia’s melody being transformed into Mirror Lure. Gideon Virelli, moving through the Quarter’s infrastructure with knowledge no mortal man should possess any longer, if they ever had. Charlotte had stopped working on this type of magic because she knew it was dangerous.
More dangerous than falling in love with an angel and tethering their souls together. Bastien’s love for Charlotte, for Delia, and even for Delphine had not faded a day, but protecting her in each life continued to become more complicated by the day.
Part of him wished Delphine did remember him. Their love. His willingness to do anything for them to find each other, to be together. He missed being able to talk openly with Charlotte about such things. He missed loving Delia freely and openly.
The past had now been weaponized against him. His memories turned into ammunition.
Bastien reached the corner where Chartres met Dauphine, pausing beneath a streetlight. He looked back one final time at the street he’d just walked.
The figure was gone.
Not faded gradually or moved to new position. Simply absent from every mirror and window.
He stood there for several seconds. October air tasted of river and humidity and magnolia blossoms. The Quarter moved around him with its usual evening energy, humans and other beings conducting business. Music drifted from open doorways and windows. Voices rose in conversation or argument or laughter.
Normal sounds. Ordinary activity. Reality continuing while underneath, mirror networks pulsed with surveillance that rendered every surface suspect.
Bastien turned away from Rue Chartres and walked toward his apartment, steps measured and controlled. Gideon wasn’t just watching. He was curating experience, constructing encounters, and manipulating memory with precision demonstrating his intimate knowledge of exactly which wounds remained unhealed despite a century of careful maintenance.
The violin’s melody followed him through the dark streets, notes arranging themselves in his thoughts with clarity that memory alone couldn’t sustain. Delia’s waltz, broadcast through mirrors that remembered everything they’d ever witnessed.
