Page 67 of Mortal Things

“Excuse me, madam,” he says in French, smiling down at her. Polite and distant, just another stranger. I step slightly back, releasing him, and he offers her his arm. “Need a hand across the street?”

His mother looks up at him in curiosity and smiles back, also polite, also a stranger. She looks ready to turn it down, then decides to accept the help. “Well, that’s very kind of you,” she says, taking his arm as we make our way across the busy road. “I never liked this intersection. People drive so fast, you know. And the bikes!” Then she pauses to give me a crinkly smile. “Aren’t you such a lovely young woman. You have a kind face.”

I smile at her. “That means a lot coming from you, ma’am.”

To her, it sounds as if I’m answering in French. She pats Étienne’s arm. “What good company you both are,” she says. “You match each other so well.”

I blush and look down, unwilling to agree with that, but Étienne just gives her a gentle laugh. He guides her across until we’ve reached the other side. There, she thanks him, and he just shrugs it off.

“Be careful on your way home, madam,” he says.

Then she’s parting ways with us, merging with the smattering of other pedestrians. We look on briefly as she makes her way farther down a quieter block, where she heads toward an apartment complex, not knowing that her own son had helped her across the street.

And even though this is the first time I’ve ever seen him with his family, I can tell that this is a regular ritual for him whenever he visits, that perhaps this was something he used to do for his mother before he became a Harbinger.

“She misses you, too, you know,” I say in the silence. “Even if she’s not aware of it.”

Étienne doesn’t acknowledge that, although he doesn’t deny it either. At last, he glances at me with a small, quick smile.

“I’m glad you met her,” he says. “She liked you.”

I swallow hard and look away. Then why did you hurt me the way you did? I want to ask him. His words only make me feel worse, the inevitability of what must happen between us, the secrets that stand in our way.

But to him, I manage to say, “I liked her, too.” I mean it, and he seems to know that this is not the lie I’m attempting on him.

He dusts some of the powdery snow from his coat’s shoulders, then nods up the street. “Come on,” he says to me. “I’ll show you one of my favorite spots.”

We make our way uphill, until the busier streets turn more winding and serene. Here, there are fewer bikes and scooters, and only a few people bundled up against the cold, making their way home. We pass through a narrow part of the street, where strings of lights zigzag overhead between the buildings. Warmly lit cafés are full, laughter and low conversation muffled from behind the windows. And above us, I can see Sacré-Coeur, its beautiful domes pale against the gray sky.

Before we reach the top, Étienne turns onto a narrow street. We’re alone here at last, tucked into a little dead end where only a set of crooked stone stairs winds down to an open park. He takes us to the last few steps until it turns sharply around a bend and straightens into a little pathway down the hill.

And I let out a soft gasp.

Paris is sprawled out below us, the Eiffel Tower far off to the right, Notre Dame to the left, and between them the expanse of gray rooftops and snow-dusted trees, the streets lined with twinkling lights breaking through the blanket of snow. From here, the sounds of traffic and sirens and everyday noise are faint. All I hear is the distant toll of bells, as if the city has tucked herself in for the evening.

We stand together for a while, admiring the landscape.

“I found this spot when I was a kid,” Étienne says. “I used to sit right here in the fall and write music. Even now, I hear notes in my head whenever I visit.”

In spite of everything, I smile. Maybe I can enjoy these fleeting moments with him. Our final lies. “What’s it sound like?” I ask him.

He smiles at that. After another second, he holds out a hand to me. When I take it, he pulls me gently toward him. One of his hands rests against the small of my back. Warm, gentle, human.

“Dance with me,” he whispers.

His expression reminds me of a moment during my confirmation, when he’d looked at me and hesitated, his gaze unsure.

A pleasant shiver runs through me. Every instinct warns me to pull away, but I don’t. Raven’s order echoes in my mind. I close my eyes and lean against his shoulder, swaying with him in the deepening twilight. As we go, he hums a slow, soft tune. It is the most peaceful song I’ve ever heard, and my entire body wants to relax into that beautiful voice.

Our patron gods are enemies. He is here to stop me, and I am here to stop him.

But my heart still twists. Here, in his arms, I find myself feeling just like the gods do. Aching for something real.

Snow has started to fall around us, hushing the world. Together, we dance silently in this little space, our boots exposing circles of stone beneath us, neither of us willing to break the spell.

Careful, Rose.

For a moment, we stop moving, and his muscles stiffen, his gaze turned down to me in wary curiosity. We’re so close now that I can feel the warmth of his breath stirring against my skin. I wonder if he can sense my heart breaking as surely as he must know when I’m lying.