He gives my hand another gentle squeeze. “That is the beauty of songs, they mean different things to each of us. But it is per’aps fate that you chose that particular song of his to listen to, as it happens to be my favorite one.”
“Really? That sounds like fate.”
He nods. “And you, mademoiselle. What is your favorite song?”
“I don’t have one yet. But I did enjoy ‘Style’ by Taylor Swift.”
He snorts. “Then let us not discuss music any further. Tell me something else you like. What is your favorite color?”
“Purple,” I reply without hesitation.
Pierre huffs a gentle laugh. “That was an emphatic response.”
I shrug. “It’s always been my favorite color. It’s just so vibrant and unapologetic. There should me more purple in the world. What’s your favorite col—” I wince at my insensitivity.
He must sense my embarrassment. “It is okay, mademoiselle. I was not always blind, and I remember colors.”
“I’m sorry, Pierre. Sometimes I forget that you cannot see.”
He smiles warmly. “And that is exactly how I like it,monchou.”
I smile, adoring his pet name for me. But it makes me feel both happy and sad that I was too young to recall my parents having any such names for me. I’m sure they would have though, and I’m certain my father would have been wise and kind like Pierre.
“Green,” he says, reminding me of the question I almost asked.
“Green is a beautiful color. There are so many shades of green in this garden, Pierre. Deep rich emeralds, vibrant sage, and pale fern.”
He takes a deep inhale. “I know. I can smell them all.”
I gasp my amazement. “You can smell color? Is that a thing?”
He laughs and gently pats my hand. “No,monchou. But I can smell the wildflowers, the greenery, apples, mint, sage. All the scents of the earth.”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment at my foolishness.
“I suppose in a way it is the same as smelling colors,” he muses.
I regard him with curiosity. There is so much more I’d love to know about him, but my politeness and breeding stops me from prying as much as I’d like to. “Is it true that when you lose one sense the others are heightened?”
He considers my question before answering. “I do not know. But I suppose when one sense is no longer available, then we pay more attention to the others, and in that way, then yes, they would be heightened.”
His kindness and patience embolden me to risk a more personal question. “How old were you when you lost your sight, Pierre?”
“Thirty-six, mademoiselle. Eighteen long years ago.”
That makes him fifty-four. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
He bristles, subtly shifting his body away from me, and I already regret asking the question because it seems to have upset him. Understandably so, I suppose. “Non. Definitely not an accident,monchou. It was a very deliberate event.”
I risk touching him, resting my hand gently over his, the way he did with mine a moment ago, and I’m filled with gratitude when he doesn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, Pierre.”
He clears his throat and rolls back his shoulders. “All of us in this house know pain,non?”
We do. I’d like to understand more about his, and more about Lincoln’s too. I want to know the stories behind his scars, and not just the visible ones on his face that he covers, but the ones he seems to carry deep inside him. Why he hides himself in this fortress, and where he goes when he leaves for days at a time.
“Now tell me more about your plans for the garden,” Pierre insists, and I recognize it as an attempt to change the subject.
Before I do that, I feel the need to explain why I pry. “I’m sorry I ask so many questions, Pierre. But I...” I suck in a breath because I’m about to admit a vulnerability, and that goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. “I feel like I know so little about the world, and it seems so different from the one I grew up in. I was taught a lot of things most kids aren’t, I suppose. I probably witnessed things others wouldn’t have too. I was taught how to survive, but in a lot of ways, I feel... well, almost like a child.”
