Notre-Dame burned, the tower groaning. Mirela turned to Claire, who coughed next to her, her body shaking. Pulling her to her side, Mirela moved her long raven hair away from her face and watched her gasp for air.
Mirela barely had time to register the relief before a scream tore through the square.
“Mirela!”
From the smoke and flame, a figure stumbled forward from the open doors of the cathedral. With robes ablaze, skin blackened and blistering, the stench of burning flesh sharp and unmistakable, Judge Claude Ferron staggered to the cathedral’s stairs, his arms reaching, his voice raw and broken.
“Mirela! Help me!” he screamed. “You owe me!”
Ferron’s unsteady steps tore through Mirela as his skin peeled, bubbling. Unable to see, he flailed his arms to where he thought she was.
Mirela’s body betrayed her as soon as she heard his words. Her feet moved towards him, drawn by habit, more than an actual need to save him. He didn’t deserve salvation, and yet, she couldn’t help but take another step, her hands shaking as she tried to think of something, anything that would save him.
Just as she was about to take yet another step, Claire wrapped both arms around Mirela, hauling her back and pressing her face hard into her shoulder.
“No,” Claire said fiercely, her voice cutting through the chaos. “There’s nothing you can do,” Claire said, blocking the sight and the sound of the man who had ruled her life with fear.
Mirela crumpled. She clutched Claire’s habit, holding her tightly. A cry tore from her chest, not from grief, not for him, but for the lie she had lived. For the mother she never knew. For the life that had almost ended in that tower.
Behind them, the cathedral groaned as stone cracked and crumbled. The bells gave one final fractured sound as fire roared.
People gathered around them to see the burning of Notre-Dame. Mirela recognized the travelers from the festival. Their faces were just as shocked and petrified by the sight. And yet, one of them ran to her and Claire, to place a coat over their shoulders.
Ferron’s screams were swallowed by the thunder of collapsing stone.
Mirela closed her eyes tightly, squeezing Claire to her. It wasn’t until she felt a soft kiss on the top of her head that Mirela pulled away.
Claire cradled Mirela’s jaw. Her face was streaked with soot, her emerald eyes were bright, a quiet promise movingbetween them. Claire was alive, she was there; she was real, and they were free.
Turning to face Ferron’s now burning corpse, Mirela sat on the ground of the square, Claire next to her.
“And he shall smite the wicked,” Mirela said, her voice steady, “and plunge them into the fiery pits.”
The cathedral fell, and with it, the last of his power.
Epilogue
Mirelawokeinawarm bed, sunlight spilling through the small window and pooling across the wooden floor. Outside, a soft voice carried through the morning air. Claire was singing, her voice low and melodic and so familiar now.
Their new home was modest but full in all the ways that mattered. It had a single living space with a small kitchen, a bedroom tucked just beyond it, and land stretching outward; gardens growing in uneven rows. They had settled among the travelers a year after Notre-Dame burned, after six months of moving from place to place, until they found this patch of earth that welcomed them. Just like Claire had hoped to have, and Mirela wished to experience.
Mirela rose quietly and crossed to the window.
Claire stood near the communal chicken coop, gathering eggs into a woven basket, sunlight catching her loose dress as it moved with the breeze. It was light and airy, nothing like the garments she once wore. Half her hair was pulled into a careless bun, the rest flowing freely down her back. She was smiling, and the sight of it made Mirela’s chest ache in the best possible way.
She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen.
The hearth waited patiently.
Mirela struck the flint, coaxing the fire to life. The flame caught and she did not flinch. She did not freeze. The warmth filled the room, as something familiar and not a weapon. Healing had taught her that fire did not always mean loss.
The aroma of coffee soon filled the air.
Their walls were covered with hundreds of her drawings. Birds in flight. Horses mid-run. Animals curled in sleep. Sunsets bleeding into dusk. People dancing, hands linked, laughter frozen in charcoal and ink. And Claire was everywhere.
Claire reading. Claire working. Claire asleep, hair fanned across a pillow. Some sketches were modest, others intimate; the most private ones were kept safely in their room, locked away for only the two of them to share.
Mirela wore her hair tied back, her scars bare and unhidden. She no longer felt the need to disappear. Ofcourse, there were always imprudent questions about their origin, but she was comfortable enough to answer them truthfully, and even more so if Claire was next to her. There was no shame in them, only a story to be told to those who asked and those who listened.
