The feeling that summer was one of unending ebullience. Valérie and Miranda explored the city, shopped, and attended a number of soirées, dinners, and parties. One evening they went to a café where Hector was performing for the patrons. He levitated a chair, a couple of glasses, those sorts of tricks. She had seen similar performances around the city. Musicians, actors, even poets reciting their couplets for a few coins. Hector, however, struck her as a more impressive figure.
He was young and good-looking, and though his clothes were not the newest and most fashionable, he carried himself with an air of quiet grace and dignity that affected her. Nonetheless, she might not have spoken to him if it had not been for Étienne Lémy.
Étienne Lémy knew Miranda, and when he saw her he immediately walked to their table and sat down, inviting Hector to join him. Étienne was a wealthy young man who had decided to wander around the country and pay his way by playing the violin. He fancied himself an artist, and for the past four months he had been traveling with the troupe of a fellow named Derval. Hector was also a member of the troupe. They had, however, been left stranded in Frotnac after an inquiry concerning late wages with Derval ended in an angry confrontation.
Valérie was both disappointed and intrigued when she realized that Hector, unlike his friend, was not playing the role of the nonconformist. He was a genuinely humble young man with no money and no connections. But he was also intelligent, serious, and determined. While many wealthy fellows like Étienne Lémy were simply interested in wine and women, Hector was ambitious. He was saving money to buy passage to Iblevad. A previous member of Derval’s troupe had gone theretwo years before. The troupe member said Hector’s telekinetic skills were sure to attract no small amount of attention and had promised he’d recommend Hector to his employer.
Despite his admirable qualities, Valérie did not intend to become seriously involved with Hector. However, she found herself returning to the café, walking with him around the city, and suddenly she was seeing him every day.
It was summer. The hours in a day could stretch on forever, and she did not have to whirl back to the house where she was staying until night had fallen; night fell late. And sometimes they also met at nights in secret, Miranda and Étienne and Valérie and Hector navigating the alleys of the city, laughing and singing. The boys performed at the cafés and the girls watched, and then they went dancing.
“Are you my Valérie?” he would ask her.
“Who else’s?” she would say.
It was summer and she was young. The heat made it difficult to think; the city made her careless. He kissed her, whispered in her ear, and she whispered back, tangled her fingers in his hair. She fell in love and when the summer ended, he told her he was heading to Iblevad to make his fortune. He’d come back for her. Would she wait?
She said yes.
The last time they met was at the docks in Loisail. Before he left, he gave her the ring. Valérie wept. He promised he would write and she promised the same. And never-ending love. She promised that, too.
She intended to keep her promise. The days grew cooler and snow fell upon the city. She wrote with ecstatic fervor. Ink and tears spilled upon the page. She missed him!
Grandmother complained she was not eating properly and looked pale. No one knew about Hector. She had not breathed a word about him.
That winter she met Gaetan Beaulieu. He was less dashing than Hector and terribly wealthy.
She wrote to Hector and he wrote to her, yet her letters were more paced now. It was a busy time. The Grand Season was starting and she was assured an invitation to the best parties, thanks to the attentive care of Gaetan.
Fall arrived and with it the rains. A year had passed. Hector assuredher he was making progress. On the other hand, Gaetan had proposed. Her family pushed her forward. Here was their salvation!
She tried to stall. Grandmother summoned her. The woman sat in her favorite chair, which was more throne than chair, all in black with the ebony choker around her ancient neck. She had not donned a stitch of color since her husband died decades before. Valérie suspected the old cow enjoyed widowhood and the grim aura it gave her.
“What is this that you will not give Gaetan Beaulieu an answer?” she asked.
“I need time to think, Grandmother.”
“Time! A woman does not havetime.A man has turned his eyes toward you, but he might as quickly turn away and find a more tractable fiancée. Time and choice are not luxuries you can allow yourself. Do you know about your aunt Cibeline?”
“The Duke de Lammarck broke his engagement to her. It was a scandal.”
“Yes, a scandal. He had to pay her father a sum for all the trouble, as one does in these cases, but then came an epidemic of smallpox. Her face was disfigured. She became such a nuisance, she had to be dragged off to the asylum at Rangel. Had she married him the previous spring, as I had suggested, this would not have happened. No woman needs a three-year engagement.”
“But a long engagement, Grandmother, it gives one a chance to know the groom better.”
“What must you know about Gaetan? That without him you will end up an old maid, penniless, living off the charity of friends?”
The withered woman reached forward and grabbed Valérie’s hands.
“Soft, pretty hands. They won’t be soft and pretty in a few years. You’ll end up a governess for one of your old friends. How will you like to take care of Miranda Oclou’s little ones? I won’t live forever, and once I die the jackals will take what they can, this house, the bits of valuables left behind. You’ll be cast out and alone. What will happen to your soft, pretty hands then, Valérie?”
She had not replied, trembling with rage, unable to speak. She wanted to spit at the hag’s face. But she knew her grandmother spoke the truth.
Valérie did not demur after that.
She could never remember penning the actual letter, the moment lost to her, though years later she could recall the exact words.
Consider yourself relieved of your promise.
