The engagement ring was in his coat pocket, wrapped in velvet that was probably crushed by now from being carried in and out of the boarding house. Victorian setting, gold band with small diamonds. Purchased months ago from a jeweler on Royal Street who asked no questions about a man who paid cash.
But how could he ask her to bind herself to someone who would watch her age and die while he stayed unchanged? How could he explain why he never aged without revealing what he was? And if he revealed what he was—fallen angel, Heaven’s exile, something that shouldn’t exist in her mortal world—how could she possibly say yes?
The answer was she couldn’t. Shouldn’t. The responsible thing was to walk away, let her find someone human and uncomplicated, someone who could give her normal life with normal endings.
But here, in this moment. Her hand near his on sun-warmed stone, close enough that moving his pinky finger would touch hers. Garden drowsy with afternoon heat and the weight of unspoken things. Jasmine blooming on the east wall, white flowers like stars against dark green leaves.
“Delia, I?—”
She turned toward him. Hope visible in her expression.
He lost courage. “I think your mint is eating the basil too.”
“Probably.”
A cicada landed on the fountain rim, sang three notes, flew away.
Delia stood, crossing to the jasmine vine on the east wall. Her bare feet made soft sounds on brick. She walked the way she always did, unselfconscious, grounded. Like someone who belonged exactly where she was.
“This one bloomed early this year.”
He followed, because not following would have been worse. “Confederate jasmine. You planted it when you moved in.”
“Four years ago.” She touched a white bloom carefully, thumb brushing petals that looked fragile but weren’t. Confederate jasmine could survive almost anything—frost, neglect, drought. Kept blooming regardless. “It finally decided to trust me.” A pause. “My mother used to say jasmine only blooms for gardeners who tell the truth.”
The weight of that statement settled between them, heavy as the humid air.
He could feel the ring in his pocket. Could feel the lie growing roots in this garden, spreading like the mint she let run wild.
“What truth do you tell it?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him, kept her attention on the flowers. “That I want something real instead of something careful. That I’d rather have five years of honest than fifty years of maybe.” Now she turned. “What truth do you tell it?”
“That I’m afraid what I want will destroy what I love.” The fear of losing her again was almost more than he could bear.
Her expression softened, anger draining away to leave something gentler and more dangerous. “Bastien. Whatever you’re protecting me from?—”
“You don’t know what I’m protecting you from.”
“Then tell me.” Direct. No room for deflection. “Tell me the thing you think will make me leave. The thing you’re so certain I can’t handle. Tell me and let me decide.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
A mockingbird sang from the magnolia tree, running through its stolen repertoire. Trolley bells again, closer now. The city moving around them while they stood frozen in this garden, this moment, this conversation they’d been circling for three years.
Delia returned to the fountain. Sat on the edge, but farther away now. Careful distance where there’d been casual proximity. Her feet stayed out of the basin this time, planted on brick.
Her voice went quiet. “Mrs. Landry says you’re some kind of angel. That you’ve been in New Orleans longer than anyone remembers. That you don’t age like natural folk do.”
His stillness became absolute. Even his breathing stopped.
“I told her that was ridiculous.” Delia’s voice stayed level, matter-of-fact. Like discussing the weather or garden maintenance. “That you’re just a private investigator with good genes and amysterious past. That plenty of men are private about their history, especially in New Orleans where everyone’s running from something.”
“Thank you.”
