She nodded and left, the door clicking shut behind her.
Bastien stood in his apartment, listening to her footsteps fade down the hallway. She’d been right. She did distract him. But not in the way she thought.
When she was here, he worked with more precision. Her presence made him remember why the work mattered—not as abstract protection, but as something concrete. A person with a laugh and habits and trust that deserved safeguarding.
He cleared space on the worktable, organized his materials. The copper and silver spools. The notes from Charlotte. The measurements he’d taken at each site. Everything laid out in the order he’d need it.
The work waited.
He returned to the worktable and began. Copper wire first, bending it into pentagonal nodes that corresponded to the five sites he’d mapped. Each node required precise angles—seventy-two degrees at every joint, nothing approximate, nothing close enough. Mirror work demanded exactitude.
The metallic smell of fresh copper filled the room. Silver wire caught lamplight as he wove it through the copper framework, creating connections between each node. His fingers developed small cuts from the work, tiny lines that stung when he bent the wire but didn’t slow him down.
Each intersection required hand-knotting with intent. The physical act mattered as much as the pattern. Some things required touch to remember why they mattered.
Delia had asked him that once, years ago. He’d been repairing a music box in his kitchen, tiny gears spread across newspaper, and she’d watched him work with that expression she got when she was trying to understand him.
“Why are you pulling this little thing apart? We can get a new one if you want. Sometimes gears just wear out.”
“This old music box has been with us a long time, and she plays your favorite song. She’s not quite ready to be let go just yet, my love. Some things just require touch to remember why they matter.” He set down the tools and opened his arms to her.
Delia grinned broadly, and placed herself on his lap, wrapping her arms around him.
Her voice lowered. “Well then, Mr. Durand, may I remind you how much you matter? So you don’t forget?”
“Why Miss Moreau, I’d be honored if you would.” Bastien squeezed her closer and kissed her thoroughly, grateful for her love, her presence in his somewhat mortal life, and that he had been able to find her after Charlotte’s death.
He pushed the memory away and focused on the lattice.
Hours passed. His back began to ache from hunching over the worktable. The coffee Delphine had made him drink had gone cold again, forgotten beside the lamp. His fingers cramped,released, kept moving. Copper and silver grew into something intricate and purposeful under his hands.
When he finished, he held it up to the lamplight. The size of a dinner plate, the lattice cast geometric shadows across the wall. Pentagonal nodes connected by woven strands, each intersection marked by intent and precision. Beautiful in its own way.
He tested it by running his fingertips across the surface. The wire vibrated with stored potential, a resonance just below audible range.
Ready.
He packed a smaller version of the lattice into his canvas bag—coiled wire strung between copper nodes; each one marked with the same phosphorescent sigils he’d used on the map. He added salt, a vial of his own blood, and checked his watch.
The fountain at Ursulines and Royal would be deserted this time of night.
Evening had settledover Jackson Square. Most tourists had left, just a few stragglers walking the perimeter paths. A street musician packed up his saxophone case. A couple shared beignets on a bench, powdered sugar dusting their hands.
Bastien crouched at the fountain’s edge and pulled the lattice from his bag. The air smelled like sugar and river water, that particular Quarter scent that marked transitions between day and night.
Stagnant water filled the basin. He suspended the lattice over the surface, watching the copper and silver catch the streetlamp’s orange glow. The intricate pentagonal pattern he’dspent hours constructing looked fragile in his hands, but the wire held firm. The nodes hung just above the water.
The lattice hummed.
He felt it in his teeth, a vibration that climbed his jaw and settled behind his eyes. He lowered the nodes until they touched the water, careful not to submerge them completely. The tone sharpened, found its frequency.
The reflections shifted.
All at once, they snapped into perfect synchronization—his face, the streetlamp, the building across the street—all of them moving in real time instead of the lagged pattern he’d documented that morning. The three-second delay disappeared. The water showed what was actually there, nothing more.
Bastien watched from multiple angles, checking the synchronization. He pulled out his watch and timed it. Thirty seconds. A minute. Two minutes.
The reflections held.
