Matters of the heart had never been her strong suit, but her father assured her she would make a lovely wife for any young man. She felt the opposite. Her suitors were few and far between, and the only boy she ever spent time with was her younger brother.

“You don’t need anyone else,” her brother would say. “You can stay with Father and me. We’ll take care of you.”

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted what the other young ladies in town had, and when she saw them strolling with their beaus, it made the yearning worse. Perhaps it was the reason why she grew so desperate, why she set her eyes on him. It was that first glance at the door, with his pretty bouquet and bright gifts, that caught her like a fly in the spider’s web.

Willingly, of course.

For days, he would go away on business, and a letter would arrive. It would spell out his yearning, his heartache, his need for her. But there was always a stipulation, a hint that he was bound to another, that he could not escape without money for the both of them to leave together.

If only I was not bound by a life here. I would have made you into my queen. A jewel in my crown, one letter read.

In another, he would lament, I am miserable, my darling. Sitting in the dark, thinking of your lips and your skin. How much longer until I see you again?

In most? He would rage.

It was a pleasure to be present when all three letters made up the man she loved.

In the heat of their affair, coiled like ravenous snakes around one another, they fed into the other’s desires by night. She who wanted love, and he who wanted everything she could give him, her desperation bending her easily into his will. Until she wanted his daylight.

“I can’t.”

“Please,” she begged. “Take me with you to Paris. Just once.”

But his decision held firm. Then he would be off again, leaving her destroyed and determined not to let him back into her heart. But the letters would resume, pulling her back into his web.

Romantic words became honeyed apologies, promises of what would never be. She stored those thoughts away in some secret part of her heart, convincing herself that he would follow through someday, that he only needed money. But her fear sent her spiraling into madness. Time away from the manor, away from her, became agonizing loneliness.

So she told him she would find her family’s treasure.

His eyes lit up. “Find it, and I will whisk you away to Paris forever.”

And she believed him.

But there was no family treasure, no rumored gold—it was just a story. There was only her father and his growing suspicion. His scrutinizing stare as his daughter, once so bright and full of life, wasted away with frantic apprehension.

Then, one morning, she overslept and missed the post.

Her father’s fury filled the household.

“You will cease this foolishness,” he demanded. “How dare you bring shame upon yourself like this!”

She refused to listen. “But he is miserable, Father! He doesn't love her like he loves me.”

Her father refused to hear it. He locked her in her room at night and had her chaperoned during the day. Not seeing her lover tore a hole in her heart, and she poured over his letters, broken by the loss of him.

It was weeks before she finally managed to dodge her chaperone, meeting him on the cliff overlooking the beach behind her home. But his demeanor toward her had changed. He went stiff in her embrace.

“Please,” she begged. “You must take me with you. My father won’t let us be together.”

He shook his head. “No. I told you that there is no us without money. You promised me something you could not give. We can no longer continue this way.”

“But I love you!” she cried. “I want us to be together, just like you promised.”

His expression did not change. “I do not have the money, and neither do you.”

“But we can make do! Surely you have some meager savings.”

“Enough!” Anger flashed across his face. “It is time for you to move on.”

She took a step back, startled that he had shouted at her. She did not like the look in his eyes. The sound of the waves rushed up behind them—a storm was brewing. Her lips trembled, but not from the chill of the breeze. She felt small, and her next words spilled from her lips without a second thought.

“I’ll tell your wife,” she cried. “I’ll show her your letters! I will tell her everything.”

Perhaps it was the way his face twisted into something hard, unfamiliar. He became someone else entirely, and it frightened her. But when he grabbed her shoulders, she couldn’t have known he would throw her over the edge.

She couldn’t have known her brother would be at the bottom.

She couldn’t have known that love could be so painful.

A STORM IS BREWING

REMI

THE BLEUE ISLE / MAY, 1898

Remi blamed her mother’s pearls the morning they found her husband dead in his office.

“You shouldn’t wear pearls on your wedding day. It’s bad luck,” Tante Beline had said, her brows furrowed with practiced worry. “A dear friend of mine wore a string of them to her wedding some years ago, and the next day, her husband was nowhere to be found.”

Remi had heard the story before, but she was always skeptical of its assumed truth. Yet it was easier to agree with Beline, for it would have been unwise to confess her true opinion. Ignorance was bliss for the folk on their island.

She understood its comfort now. She wanted to let herself sink into the blinded crowd, to believe that some unobserved superstition had killed her husband—not something else.

Remi sighed deeply, covering her face with her hands.

“Madame?” A small voice chirped. “Les gens d’armes are here, as is your family.”

“I will meet with them.” Remi looked up from her seat in the parlor, meeting her maid’s questioning gaze. “Thank you.”

Truthfully, meeting with anyone was the last thing she wanted to do. She was too out of sorts for the morning, dressed only in her shift and a heavy dressing robe. Still, duty called; she pushed back her blonde braid and baby hairs with purpose, swallowing the bitter taste of saliva as she stood. Water did little to wash away the bile her stomach had emptied out earlier.

“You’re quite pale, Madame. Shall I⁠—?”

Remi quickly interrupted. “No. I’m well enough, thank you.”

Sylvie nodded, her lip quivering. She was just as despondent due to the morning’s events.

“Are you well, Sylvie? Perhaps you should find some respite.”