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After some time, I said, “I think … I think I want to write.”
Papa blinked in surprise. “Right now?”
I nodded. “There are some things I need to get down, now, while they’re still fresh. I think I’ve been approaching this piece from the wrong angle all along.”
My father seemed to understand. “It’s time for me to get home, anyway,” he said. “No telling what your sisters have been up to with me out of the house.”
I smiled wanly. For the next few hours, I typed furiously. In my head, I heard Jacques telling me he didn’t want to share anything too personal, but I thought — or hoped, anyway — that he would change his mind, once he read what I wrote.
The key was to help him to see himself the way I saw him: not as a broken man, unworthy of love, but as a strong, resilient man, capable of so much good, who was deeply loved by those around him. I wrote until my battery died, and I could no longer keep my eyes open.
Then I slept, my head resting against Jacques’ chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
25
Jacques
My mind drifted on the verge of consciousness, bobbing in and out for mere seconds at a time. Dimly, I was aware of various activities around me: voices, some I recognized, some I didn’t, though I found I couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of their words; the maddeningly constant beeping of machines; and Isabel.
Most of the time when I woke, there was Isabel, never far away, conversing with doctors, typing on her computer. Once, I woke to find her head on my chest as she wept quietly. I wanted to lift my hand to her face, to hold her, comfort her, but my body wouldn’t obey. Unconsciousness claimed me once again.
I don’t know how long I drifted like that, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. It might have been hours, days, even weeks.
Distantly, I was aware of the pain, but a haze of morphine kept it separate from me, as if it belonged to someone else. My body felt heavy, so heavy, my mind sluggish and confused. During my brief moments of consciousness, I could neither speak nor open my eyes, could do nothing to indicate that I was awake.
Finally, finally, the haze began to lift, and I realized I was fully awake for the first time in God only knew how long. Merde, but everything hurt. Every inch of my body from my legs to my head throbbed with every heartbeat. Even breathing took some effort.
It took some time for me to work up the courage to open my eyes to take stock of the damage inflicted on my body, but I finally managed. To my relief, it didn’t appear nearly as bad as I felt: my torso was wrapped in heavy bandages, my leg in a cast. I recognized the sharp pain of a fractured rib from my days of wrestling.
I could tell it was bad, but I would recover. A small miracle, that. I remembered the moment the gun had gone off, felt the pain tear through my shoulder as I toppled from the rooftop before everything went black.
Fear stabbed through me, sharper than any physical pain. My men. Where were my men? Had they escaped the inferno? They had followed me to search for the intruder in the castle, but I had shouted for them to leave when I smelled the smoke.
Had they listened to me? I couldn’t remember. I groaned. If any of them had been injured — or worse — I would never forgive myself. They should never have been there to begin with. Isiah and Étienne were right; we should have left with Isabel, should have been there to comfort and support her.
But I had been selfish, too afraid of my own shortcomings to face the outside world, and I had made it so that we were all sitting ducks for any passing madman. I recalled the wild eyes of the man on the roof and shivered with the memory. That had been a man who feared neither pain nor death, who would not hesitate to take another’s life.
I cursed the injuries that kept me abed, that prevented me from seeking out answers, from checking on my men, from enacting my revenge on the man who had threatened him. If he still lived, if the flames hadn’t claimed him, I swore then that I would track him down. I still had no idea who he was, only knew that in his madman’s ravings he had mentioned Isabel. “Can’t have her,” he’d said. “Kill you all.”
I smiled humorlessly to myself. On that count, the man didn’t have to concern himself. I had done perfectly well driving Isabel away all on my own. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she would not actually return; how could she? I had made it clear that she was not welcome in my home.
