Page 32 of Curse in the Quarter
As if summoned by her words, Delphine began humming absently while reading—the same melody that had haunted him for 119 years, rising from her throat. The sound combined with her description of spiritual connection created perfect resonance between past and present.
Bastien’s control shattered completely.
The melody struck profoundly and past-life resonance crashed through his consciousness like tide against seawalls. Memory overwhelmed the Archive around him, making the chair beneath him insubstantial compared to the roar of recognition flooding his senses.
The Garden District mansion where Delia attended a Mardi Gras masquerade in 1906, moving through crowds of revelers in emerald silk that made her eyes seem infinite. Behind her half-mask, she was radiant with the kind of joy that made strangers stop to stare. Bastien watched from across the ballroom as she danced with partners who didn't realize they were holding starlight in human form.
When the music shifted to a waltz, she appeared at his elbow as if summoned by wish alone.
“I've been waiting for you to ask me to dance,” she said, though he hadn't spoken.
“How did you know I wanted to?”
“Because you've been watching me like someonememorizing a dream they're afraid to wake from.” She placed her gloved hand in his, leading him toward the floor. “And because some invitations don't require words.”
They moved together with harmony that made other dancers pause to admire their grace. In her arms, surrounded by music and laughter and the scent of jasmine from the gardens beyond, Bastien felt something approaching peace.
“I could dance with you forever,” Delia whispered against his ear.
“Forever might not be long enough.”
Her laughter, bright as silver bells, the way she moved as if dancing was prayer made visible—moments when love felt large enough to encompass eternity.
The memory shattered as Delphine’s hand touched his shoulder, her humming dying into concerned silence.
“Mr. Durand, you’re shaking. Are you unwell?”
He looked up at her face—the same soul looking at him through features shaped by different genetics and lifetime experiences. She carried no conscious memory of rooftop conversations or intuitive recognition, no awareness that she’d once sensed his divine nature through pure love.
“I need some air,” he managed, standing too quickly. “Excuse me.”
He fled the Archive before she could respond, leaving Delia’s letter in hands that had once written those words to him. The Quarter’s afternoon heat felt like blessing after the emotional suffocation of hearing private spiritual thoughts made public through historical research.
On the sidewalk outside, leaning against wrought iron, Bastien processed what he’d learned. Delia hadn’t just sensed his protection—she’d recognized the connection between earthly love and divine guardianship, understoodon some level that they were the same force expressing itself through different forms.
Her letter wasn’t romantic confession to an imaginary being. It was a memorial echo of every truth he’d been too protective to share, every moment when her intuition had come close enough to reality to make him wonder if love truly could transcend the boundaries between mortal and divine.
She’d died knowing she was loved by both man and guardian angel, never understanding they were the same soul wearing different aspects.
His phone rang, cutting through emotional chaos with Maman Brigitte’s familiar voice.
“Boy, you sound like someone whose world just got turned inside out. What happened?”
“She found a letter. Written by Delia in 1906, addressed to her guardian angel. Never sent.” His voice cracked on the last words. “She knew, Maman. Not consciously, but her soul knew. She felt my protection, recognized the connection between earthly love and divine guardianship.”
“Ah.” Maman’s voice carried understanding born of experience with love complicated by supernatural circumstances. “She was writing to you without knowing it. Addressing letters to the being who walked beside her every day.”
“She described feeling watched over, protected, guided by forces she couldn’t name. She connected that protection to our romantic relationship, wondered if they might spring from the same source.” The revelation threatened to drive him to his knees. “Her intuition came so close to truth that she was practically seeing through my human facade.”
“And now?”
“Now her reincarnation reads her own words aloud, hums the same melody, carries the same soul through a different lifetime. And I still don’t know whether revealing the truth would liberate her or destroy any chance we might have.”
Maman was quiet for long minutes, the kind of contemplative silence that preceded wisdom earned through decades of watching supernatural relationships navigate impossible circumstances.
“Let me ask you something, Bastien. What weighs heavier—her memory of intuitive recognition from that lifetime, or her ignorance of what you meant to each other?”
He’d been so focused on protecting Delphine from revelations about reincarnation and soul-binding magic that he’d never considered whether knowledge might be liberation rather than burden.
