Page 65 of Cursed Lifeline

My maid eyes me warily before tenderly brushing a calming touch across my sweaty brow. “I worry about you, bebe.”

It’s been her job to worry. Though I can imagine it will be difficult for both of us to let go, the time has come for us to part ways. I sense it in my soul just as earnestly as the vivid dream that keeps returning to me night after night whispers there’s more to my life than what I’ve been brought up believing.

“I know you do, but I’m to meet my cousins from France for the first time at that party,” I argue sweetly. Tempting her with flattery, I say, “ My journey will lead me home one day. But I’ve been so excited, and...”

“Oh, hush, bebe,” she smiles, rolling her eyes, “I won’t keep you from your party, no matter what my heart wants. As hard as it is to admit, eventually, one day, I always knew I’d have to let you go.”

Her words seem innocent, but I sense a hidden meaning that’s slowly started to unravel since my father’s death; my dreams have increased, and the diligent eye of the raven has seemed to study my every move.

Louise regards me with a sad smile before placing a kiss on my forehead. She rises and walks to the door. But before she leaves, she pauses and whispers, “I love you, bebe. Wherever your travels take you after New Orleans, bon courage pour votre trajet, mon cheri.”

She slips out the door before I can respond. A strangling sadness fills my heart as I watch the door gently close on its hinges. As Louise fades from sight, I stareup at the ceiling and release a heavy sigh. Tears well in my eyesas my mind translates her parting message.

Good luck for your journey, my dear.

My mind gets stuck on the French word courage and the English translation luck. The dream I’ve been having creeps to the forefront of my mind. Courage I can muster. But luck?

If the visions I’ve been having are any indication, I need to hope and pray my journey brings me to a stranger with kind, violet eyes. A man I sense my heart remembers, though as fate would have it, we haven’t met yet.

At least, not in this lifetime.

Twenty Three

Esme

SONG: Puttin’ On The Ritz | Leo Reisman & His Orchestra

“Esmerelda,this is Monsieur and Madam Buford from Montpellier; they’ll be staying with us for a fortnight.”

I shake the gentlemen's and ladies' hands and try to conceal my gaze as it lingers over their shoulders in search of anyone around my age at Aunt Camille’s party. Like my cousins, I’ve been so desperate to meet. Though I’m honored Aunt Camille threw this extravagant affair welcoming me to New Orleans, I had rather hoped the people she invited would be relatively closer to my age. Not older stuck-up socialites and their conceited diplomats who are content to parade their women around like strutting competitive peacocks just waiting to be unleashed in the next catty feminine duel for superiority.

I survey the room quickly, but come up empty. With a frown, a slightly irked sigh slips past my lips. My Aunt eyes me disapprovingly. Standing up straight, I mentally try to ready myself to meet the next person in this never-ending line of New Orleans patrons who have gathered for one of Madam Camille’s roaring parties.

Though I know if I have to stand here much longer, I will collapse from sheer boredom.

With my gaze cast down to my hands, I pick at a hangnail, buying a brief moment to myself as the next person steps up in line, eager to greet us.

“What a pleasant surprise,” my Aunt says. I roll my eyes and hope she doesn’t see. “How were your travels?”

“Long and uneventful,” an oddly familiar voice says. I can’t place where I know it from, but I’m sure I’ve heard it before. While I study my hands, the party-goer continues, “I’ll tell you one thing, though, it feels good to have our feet on dry land finally.”

“Esmerelda,” my aunt urges me to pay attention. I release a heavy sigh and stubbornly continue to pick at my fingers. “This is Alfred Crawley.”

The name nudges at a memory, and I look up promptly. My brow furrows as I try to hold tight to the haunting recollection. But it fades away before I can firmly grasp it.

“Your cousin,” my Aunt continues as the young man confidently steps forward.

Oddly, his hopeful gaze gives me the strangest sensation of coming home.

I’m not sure if I should hug the man or not, especially since this is our first meeting, but I feel like we’ve met before. Embracing him seems like the right thing to do, but instead, I offer him my hand. His smile is heartwarming, thankful, and joyful as he bows and places a soft kiss against my knuckles.

“Esme,” he breathes out in relief. “At last we meet.”

“And this is Caelum Huntington,” my Aunt continues.

I glance at the gentleman to my cousin’s left and his eyes fill with an odd emotion. It’s a deathly combination of relief and revenge, and it sends a prophetic chill over my skin as my cousin steps aside so Caelum can take my hand next. He holds my palm protectively as his eyes widen in disbelief.

“A blessing and a curse,” he mumbles, almost as if he once didn’t believe the words. His eyes hold a story that would take a lifetime to unravel, including the meaning behind such an odd greeting. When I don’t respond, he clears his throat and says, “I’m pleased more than you know to make your acquaintance, miss.”

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