Some patrons looked up, but no one said anything.

Among them, he could still see her. Everywhere he looked, the horror of her figure followed. Tattered dress, pale face, and matted hair…a halo that lent light to the petrified terror of her yawning face. Beads of sweat slipped from Ben’s hair to the collar of his shirt, shaking as a chill gripped his body.

Am I still sleeping? Is this part of the nightmare? He pressed his hands to his eyes and breathed in deeply. Go away, go away.

After a moment, he lowered his hands from his face. From across the room, a shadow extricated itself from a corner, bringing momentary relief.

Jacques was unmistakable among the other patrons—a sickly fellow with cheekbones sharp enough to cut a diamond. He wasn’t one to partake in the same delights as Ben, so he was surprised to see a second shadow emerge. A young woman disappeared through the front door, but not before Ben recognized the exposed upper half of the baker’s daughter.

“Oh, ho! What’s this?” Ben leered at his friend, ignoring the nightmare. “Satisfying your sweet tooth?”

“Nothing different than what you do.” Jacques frowned, swiping back his mostly silver hair behind his ears. His severe expression aged him considerably, but Ben was older by two years. “Only I don’t pay.”

“You say that, and yet…” Ben crossed his arms and chuckled. “You don’t recognize the cost.”

“I know the cost.” Jacques rolled his eyes and made for the bar. “Spare me another lecture, lest I die here from the weight of your condescension.”

“It’s not such a bad place to die, my friend.” Ben took a seat beside Jacques, bristling at the feel of long fingers brushing the back of his neck. Shakily, Ben waved down the barkeep.

“You jest.” Jacques sighed. “And it is always in poor taste.”

The barkeep approached with a tired look. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have whatever, monsieur,” Ben said, licking his dry lips, “so long as it doesn’t come in a green bottle.”

The barkeep nodded and reached for a half-full bottle of gin. Ben had enough of “la fée verte” and her knack for mischief. The first sip of absinthe he ever drank should have been the first and last time, but he’d spent many nights wrapped in its warmth, sated and drunk. But his nightmares were all the worse for it.

“A little early for you,” Jacques said, raising a brow.

Ben pulled his arms in toward his chest as he leaned in closer to the bar. The nightmare was still there, practically breathing down the neck of his collar. “I know.”

“I recognize that look. You’ve had a nightmare, haven’t you?”

Ben watched the barkeep pour his drink. He shivered.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Ben tipped the drink back and slammed the glass down, indicating another. “It was awful.”

“Care to elaborate?” Jacques straightened.

“My sister.”

Jacques hummed. “Ah. The enigmatic sibling.”

“Yes. Soleil.” Saying her name aloud after so long felt strange, like ash on his tongue or cotton rubbing against his teeth. It conjured up her visage—a countenance they shared in equal measure, although Ben’s complexion was darker. In his memories, Soleil was finer. Her features were sharper, her cheeks rosy. The nightmare of her was quite the opposite, and it scratched endlessly at the back of his skull now, begging to be seen.

Jacques continued his inquiry. “What was it this time?”

“The same as always.” Ben drummed his fingers nervously against the grain of the bar. “She falls, she dies, and then she’s crawling toward me. Begging for my help.”

“And?” Jacques asked. He was all too familiar with the story. It was part of how they’d met: both of them high in an opium den, writhing over nightmarish hallucinations. It was the purest form of torture Ben had ever forced himself to endure.

“And then I woke up.” Ben closed his eyes, afraid to open them again. “Only, she’s still here.”

Jacques eyed him and then the waiting glass of another pour of gin. One hand shot out and took it, downing the substance with a sharp hiss. “Then this won’t get rid of her.”

“I think it’s a sign. She’s trying to tell me something.” Ben swallowed hard and forced himself—out of spite—to open his eyes.

“A sign?” Jacques commented, his voice bordering on concern. “What do you mean?”

Ben froze.

Two arms snaked around his shoulders, a pair of cold, wet lips brushing his ear. Soleil’s breathing hitched and labored as she croaked his name over and over again.

Ben! Please, Ben! It hurts…it hurts.

“I don’t know…but it’s something.”

“That’s deeply unhelpful.”

Ben shrugged, but Soleil remained, her embrace tightening. Just tell me what you want, he thought. Tell me what you want, or just leave me alone.

But just as she started to speak again, the door of the bordello burst open. The ruckus caused Ben and half of the occupants to jump to their feet. It was enough to dispel him of her grip, and just like that, the nightmare was gone. In its place was a red-nosed youth in tattered clothing with wide, reddened eyes. He took a moment to catch his breath before finally calling out, “I’ve got an important message to deliver! For Benoît Leone!”

Ben’s own eyes widened as every head in the bordello turned toward him.

“Who’s asking?” Jacques shuffled ahead.

“I have a letter for him, monsieur.” The boy sniffed. “I was told he would be here.”

“I am.” Ben stepped beside his companion. “What’s this all about?”

“A message for you.” The young boy produced a small envelope. “Urgent news.”

Ben recognized the penmanship, and his stomach dropped. His nightmare came back in a rush. The last words she’d spoken from crusted, decaying lips just before she faded into the dark corners of his mind.

“Come home,” she’d said. “Come home!”

His palms, slick with sweat, stretched at his sides.

Absently, he reached into a pocket and produced a single coin. The boy took the payment and left the letter in Ben’s care, racing back into the dewy morning. Distracted, Ben walked to one of the more well-lit corners of the salon and collapsed into a seat. Jacques joined him a moment later, patient yet inquisitive.

“Are you going to open it?”

Ben licked his lips. The last letter he’d received from home was a wedding invitation, and before that? A letter that still stung to remember. Both came from the same sender. He might have ripped it open with vigor, hungry for another reason to burn with hate, but its arrival was ominous. In his heart, he felt its message was more important than the anger he might have felt toward the person who sent it.

Wordlessly, he broke the seal and pulled from it the familiar stationery.