Page 73
“No one really knows,” Henri says. “No one knows how that boat could have survived the storm, either. Perhaps it was magic.”
“I don’t believe in magic,” she replies. “If magic was real, someone would stop the bad things from happening.”
“Personally,” he tells her, “I believe that when the circle is complete, there will be enough magic in the world to do just that. Maybe that’s the reason it exists at all.”
Charlotte continues to ask questions and then complains bitterly at how unfair the priest was as we take the children upstairs. I lay Cece, now heavily asleep, in her crib and then, after pressing a kiss to Charlotte and Lucien’s foreheads, follow Henri to our room.
“Is that where the first four families came from?” I ask. “The woman who escaped with Marie—Katrin—she told me she was a daughter of Adelaide.”
And that I was too. I wish I could tell him.
He shrugs, unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s the story our mother always told us, growing up. And maybe it’s a fabrication, but most origin stories seem to contain an element of the truth. I hope so, anyway.”
I do too, except if it’s right, I’m not sure how the pieces will ever come together. Luna Reilly, who was brave when I was not, may have been the last of her line. And since I can’t have children, Adelaide’s line may end with me. I perch on the end of the bed, feeling as if there is something important in what he said, something I’m missing. “What did you mean when you told Charlotte the girls could go home when the circle is complete?”
The shirt comes off and the undershirt follows. For the first time in the years I’ve known him, even the sight of his perfect, bare chest isn’t enough to distract me. “There are time travelers who believe that being a part of the prophecy confers some kind of immortality,” he says. “That they will all go to the island in the end.”
“I wonder if that’s what Coron was after,” I say. “I thought maybe he wanted to produce an army of time travelers, but maybe he just wanted to assure his place in their afterlife.”
Henri’s mouth tips into a sad smile. “If that’s true, then many people died over a fairy tale.”
“So you don’t think it’s possible?”
He crosses the room and pulls me to stand. “I don’t need to believe in any kind of afterlife. I’m happy with what I have right here and now.”
His hand weaves through my hair, pulling me forward so that his mouth can press to the top of my head. I’m happy with what we have right here and now too. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could keep it forever.
37
SARAH
December comes. Henri speaks to the few people he trusts in town about getting travel papers, but comes up empty-handed, which leaves us stuck with only one option: Monsieur Roche. Henri heads to the woods to meet him one afternoon. The danger for him is much greater than it is for any of us—he’s as likely to be shot as arrested if he’s caught.
I wait for his return, feeling sick to my stomach, and rush toward him when he walks through the door, only to freeze at the sight of the bloody bag he holds. “Rabbits, for stew,” he says, but his smile is strained.
“What happened? Is he going to get us papers?”
He closes his eyes. “It seems Roche has got himself into some trouble with the British. He doesn’t want money in exchange anymore.”
I stiffen. I don’t trust Roche. “Then what does he want?”
“He doesn’t have all the details, but the Brits need some airmen escorted to the Pyrenees.”
My anger bubbles. I close my eyes, trying to rein it in. “Why can’t Roche take them himself if he’s created this problem?”
“Because it’s dangerous,” Henri says with a sigh, “and he’s banking on the fact that someone will be desperate enough to do it for him.”
“Which you’re not,” I reply.
He rubs a hand over his eyes. “I know, little thief,” he replies. “I’ll look for another way. But we can’t hide in the open forever. It may be our only option.”
“If that happens, then I’ll take them. I can do things you can’t. I can escape.”
Henri shakes his head. “Absolutely not,” he says. He gives me a small smile. “You weren’t even willing to hunt rabbits. Larger prey might prove quite a struggle for you. We’ll find another way.”
* * *
The week before Christmas, the children are all struck down with some mysterious ailment that involves a sore throat and fatigue. It may be strep throat, but it lingers and all three of them have flushed cheeks and glassy eyes that don’t seem to improve. I call Dr. Nadeau, asking if I can bring Cecelia in.
