"You're kind of a dick, Henri. Anyone ever tell you that?"
I shrug. "Once or twice."
"Well, they were right." But he's grinning now. "Seriously though, waterfall or beach? I'm spiraling."
"Waterfall."
"Yeah? You think so?"
"She cried at the ocean. Save that for the divorce."
Otis bursts out laughing. "Holy shit, Henri. That's really fucking dark."
He shakes his head, still grinning. "Okay, waterfall it is. But if she says no, I'm blaming you entirely."
"I'll carry that guilt to my grave."
He snorts and finally goes quiet.
I glance at the mirror, and Keira's looking back at me.
She's genuinely smiling. The kind that reaches her eyes and softens everything hard about her face.
I hold onto that image like a lifeline.
TWENTY-NINE
KEIRA
The garden looks and feels different. Wilder than yesterday. The hedges have grown too tall, swallowing the sky until there's nothing left but green and shadow and the faint, intoxicating scent of jasmine that shouldn't bloom this time of year.
It wasn't there before.
I don't understand.
I'm walking barefoot through soft grass, the blades cool and damp between my toes. I should be freezing, but I feel amazing. Warm and comfortable for the first time in a long while.
My nightgown is white and thin…I don't remember owning something like this. It clings to my skin like mist.
Everything feels liquid here. Edges blurring into space, time moving in that strange, syrup-slow way that only happens when you're not awake.
I must be dreaming.
There's someone standing in front of a row of thick hedges, shaped into elaborate figures that remind me of Versailles. With every step I take, the person becomes more solid.
It's Henri.
He's not in his usual black uniform. No weapon, no rigid posture of a man paid to watch me. No black cloth covering his face. He's in a simplewhite shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top buttons undone to reveal the base of his throat.
He looks too good, and I definitely shouldn't be here.
But I guess it doesn't really matter, since this isn't real.
"There you are," he says, without the French accent. His voice sounds different—rougher, more intimate.
My feet carry me across the grass until I'm close enough to see the flecks of amber burning in his eyes.
"This isn't real," I tell myself as much as him.
