Page 118 of Coveted

The cemetery smells like damp stone and earth, the headstones elaborate and old.

A breeze rattles the trees with a sound like clattering bones. We follow the maze-like paths deeper into the graveyard. Silver clouds drift across the moon and an owl hoots.

“A ton of famous artists are buried here,” says Lucan, his voice low. “Painters, writers, rockstars.”

Sticking close to him, I feel brave. If I were alone, I’d be thoroughly spooked. As if Lucan’s formidable physical strength can protect me from ghosts.

He pulls me near, his hard, warm body sending calmness to mine. The roses I cradle scent the cold air. Now and then, we pause to read names and dates on headstones.

“So many young deaths,” I say as we encounter yet another twenty-year-old’s. “There’s something odd about seeing the grave of a person who died at the same age that you are. It makes you imagine everything just… stopping, right now.”

Will I see my twenty-first birthday? Will the killer let me?

Lucan’s thumb brushes my waist. “You’ll get a lot more than twenty years.”

The trees and graves are thick on all sides. I realize Lucan has directed us to a very old part of the cemetery, like he knows where he’s going. The dates on the headstones are from the nineteenth century, if they’re even readable.

He stops at a grave so small that at first I miss it in the scant moonlight. The modest headstone is half covered in moss, and I read the text aloud.

“Élise Moreau. Born in 1845, died in 1868. Les mots résonnent, la douleur s’efface,” I say in clumsy French, which I don’t understand.

Lucan stands behind me, putting his arm around my chest. “It means, Words echo, pain fades. She was a writer.”

“Words echo, pain fades. I like that. The things we write and say live on, but pain is only fleeting. Was she well known?”

“No. She died from tuberculosis in virtual obscurity. Her writings on philosophy and sociology appeared in a few Parisian publications though. Certain people tried to silence her progressive messages, but she kept writing. She was a brave woman.”

Angling my head, I look up at him. “How do you know this?”

I’m impressed, but also baffled. Why would he bring me here on our first date?

“I researched the topic,” he says. “Finding the information took a while, because her descendants go by another surname. Élise only had one child, an illegitimate son who immigrated to the US and changed his last name to something more American-sounding.”

With every word he speaks, my breathing becomes shallower.

“I hardly know anything about my father’s side of the family.” An old memory stirs in my mind. “But when I was a kid, I remember my dad’s cousin at a cookout talking about us having French ancestry. He said our name used to be something else. Everyone dismissed him as trying to sound fancy.” I exhale. “Are you saying⁠—”

“You’re her direct descendant. Her son changed his surname from Moreau to Marlowe.”

The topic he researched was my genealogy. The family tree that was a complete mystery to me.

I kneel at the grave with the roses in my lap. A complicated feeling splinters my chest as I run my fingertips over the engraved name. Is this really my relation? How strange to think I exist because of her and never even knew. But I know now, thanks to Lucan.

For the first time in my life, I have proper roots. There’s evidence I came from something, someone, long ago. And she was a writer, just like me.

If I knew I’d be visiting my ancestor’s grave, I would’ve brought flowers to lay.

Lucan stands back, hands in his pockets.

I hold up the white roses. “Is it okay if I⁠—”

He nods before I finish the question, casting his eyes downward to hide his slight smile.

Then I realize that he chose the white roses for this very reason. He’s definitely ruined all other men for me.

“I’m happy to meet you, Élise,” I say as I place the ivory blooms on her grave. “I hope you’re happy to meet me too.”

How humbling to know I come from a woman with such courage and fortitude. It makes me want to be more like her. It makes me realize I can.