Page 22 of Across Time

“Fall of 1918,” she says. “The circle is seen in the evening, in a small square called Parc de la Turlure. The war ended on November 11th, so the day after might be best.”

November 11th, the day before Marie’s birthday. It seems significant somehow. I let the facts rattle around in my head like spinning coins, waiting for them to fall. The dates. Madame Durand’s decision to go look for something she already knows isn’t for her. And the prophecy: in France, a hidden child. Hidden. It’s a word Henri has used multiple times, discussing Marie and their life on the farm.

Marie, who was conceived during the war, and born one day after it. For some reason, this has led Madame Durand to think Marie is the prophecy’s hidden child. And Henri thinks so as well.

* * *

I land in the barn no more gracefully than usual. It was only a few years but—perhaps because I'm still not in my own time—I’m not sure I have the energy to put on my clothes. I grab the blanket and wrap it around me, taking one step toward the house before I change my mind.

"Just for a few minutes," I say aloud, curling up in the straw. My words are slurred as if I'm drunk. I hear the sound of footsteps approaching but I'm too tired to open my eyes.

"Amelie," Henri says, his voice husky, concerned even. I force a single eye open. He is crouched beside me, and indeed looks very worried.

"Just need sleep," I slur. "Five more minutes."

"Ridiculous girl," he says with a soft laugh. A moment later I feel myself scooped up in his arms and carried. I'm more than half asleep, but some distant part of my brain registers everything. His smell: hay and sweat and soap. His warmth, his size, the bulge of his bicep beneath my head. How gentle he is when he lays me down on the mattress.

I want to tell him what happened. I want to tell him how proud his mother was of him, how she glowed at the very mention of his name, but my brain is short on words. "You went to Oxford," is all I can manage. He’s pulling the blanket over me, his face a mix of pleasure and sorrow.

"My mother was talking about me," he says, forcing a smile.

It's so unfair. She adored him and now she is gone. I can't understand why it causes this pain in my heart, why I ache so much more than I should for what he's lost.

I'm falling back into the darkness, drifting away from him, and I wish I could stay. "She loved you so much," I whisper.

I don't realize I'm crying until I feel his finger on my skin, brushing a tear away. "Yes, I know," he says with a quiet laugh. "It's only you who dislikes me."

I don't dislike you anymore, I think as I drift to sleep. I’m not sure I ever did.

* * *

When I wake, hours later, he is there, sitting in the chair by the bed with a book in hand.

I yawn, stretching like a kitten and begin to rise. "I'd be careful about that," Henri says with a brow raised. "You're naked under that blanket."

Oh, right.

I clutch the quilt to my neck and sit up. My clothes have been laid out for me on a chair, with my underthings sitting atop them. I flush.

His eyes track mine and he laughs. "Very pretty."

"If you are expecting me to act embarrassed you'll have a long wait. I'm not the one who entered a sleeping girl's room and sat there like a creep."

There’s an amused set to his mouth, but it fades quickly. "We need to speak...before you talk to Marie."

He rises and shuts the door behind him, sliding his chair next to my bed. "I need to know what my mother told you,” he says quietly.

“She told me all about you at Oxford,” I reply, watching his face. “You didn’t leave because school wasn’t for you. You weren’t even planning to come home for the summer because you loved it there so much.”

His eyes meet mine. “Someone needed to watch Marie. If she knew why I really came home she wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Except she’s an adult now,” I counter, “and could easily take care of herself, yet you stay.”

He gives an ambivalent shrug. “I’m used to how things are. Until she’s married, I’ll remain here.” He’s hoping that’s the end of it. He’s about to be very disappointed.

"Even you aren’t quite that selfless,” I reply.

He grows still. “What are you talking about?”