Page 52 of Curse in the Quarter
“An unconventional approach for the period.”
“Unconventional for any period.” She looked up at him with something approaching awe. “This woman was pioneering an entirely new form of connection. Listen to this entry: 'Day fifty-eight. Last night I achieved something I barely dare record. During our communion—for I can think of no other word for what passes between us—I felt not just his presence but his emotions. His longing, which mirrors my own. His frustration with the barriers that separate us. And beneath it all, a love so profound it seems to anchor him to this plane of existence.'”
Her voice had grown husky with emotion, as though she were reading poetry rather than clinical observation. The professional mask had completely fallen away, replaced by something vulnerable and recognizing.
“'I understand now that he chooses to remain not from inability to pass on, but from devotion. He stays for me, as I would stay for him were our positions reversed. This knowledgeshould frighten me, but instead it fills me with a peace I have never known. To be loved with such intensity that death itself becomes negotiable—surely this is the greatest gift any soul can receive.'”
Bastien’s hands clenched beneath the table, his knuckles white with the effort of remaining still. She was reading their love story, their tragedy, without understanding that every word described her own past. That the woman who’d written these entries shared her soul, her fierce intelligence, her capacity for love that transcended reason and mortality alike.
“The intimacy is palpable,” Delphine whispered, setting the fragment down with trembling fingers. “Whoever wrote this wasn’t just documenting phenomena. She was documenting the evolution of the most profound relationship of her life.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She loved him.”
Delphine continued reading, and Bastien found himself pulled back to the autumn of 1763, when Charlotte had begun to understand the true nature of their connection.
Charlotte stood at her father's parlor window, watching the elaborate ritual taking place in the garden of the adjacent estate. The wealthy Marquis de Montclair was hosting one of his infamous gatherings—a ceremony that blended high society entertainment with genuine occult practice. Charlotte had been excluded, of course, both for her youth and her father's disapproval of such activities.
“Can you see them clearly?” she whispered to the empty air, knowing Bastien would hear her.
Through his perspective that existed beyond life and death, he could observe the ceremony in detail—the practitioners moving in precise patterns around a raised altar, their voices weaving together in harmonies that made reality shimmer.He described everything to Charlotte: the silver chalices, the arrangement of candles, the way the lead practitioner drew symbols in the air that glowed briefly before fading.
When the ceremony concluded and the guests dispersed, Charlotte turned from the window with eyes bright with curiosity and defiance. “Show me,” she said. “Show me how they moved.”
“Charlotte—”
“Please. I want to understand what we witnessed. I want to honor it properly.”
So he guided her through the steps as he remembered them, and Charlotte began to dance. Not the elaborate court dances of her social training, but something older and more meaningful. Her movements held both reverence for the power they'd observed and defiance of the conventions that would keep her from participating.
“Like this?” she asked, spinning slowly in the center of the parlor.
“Exactly like that.”
She laughed, breathless with the thrill of shared secret knowledge. “We're creating our own ritual, aren't we? Our own way of touching something sacred.”
And though he had no physical form, though he existed in the spaces between life and death, Bastien found himself dancing with her. Their souls moved together in the candlelit parlor, reverence and defiance intertwined—reverence for the mysteries they'd witnessed, defiance of every law that said such connection was impossible.
“Bastien?”
Delphine's voice pulled him back to the present. She was studying his face with concern, one hand resting on the page she'd been reading.
“And he loved her back,” Bastien said quietly. “You cansee it in how she writes about him. The reverence, the certainty of reciprocation.”
“Yes.” She lifted another page, and he noticed her movements had become almost ritualistic, as though handling sacred texts. “Day sixty-seven: 'I believe I have achieved a breakthrough. Last night, during our communion, I experienced something beyond description. For one moment—perhaps no longer than a heartbeat—I felt existence from his perspective. The strange weightlessness of his state, the way love and memory anchor him to this plane when all other ties have been severed.'”
Her voice broke slightly on the last words, and she pressed her free hand to her throat as though something had lodged there.
“Are you certain you’re all right?” Bastien leaned forward, genuinely concerned despite knowing the cause of her distress. “We could continue this another time.”
“No, I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She paused, searching for words. “There’s something about these passages that feels familiar. Not the content exactly, but the emotions behind them. The way she describes the connection, the certainty of being known completely by someone else. It’s as though I’ve felt those things myself.”
The locket seared against Bastien’s skin. She was so close to understanding, so close to remembering. Every instinct screamed at him to tell her the truth, to end this charade and help her reclaim what had been taken from them. But he’d tried that approach with Delia, and it had destroyed her. The shock of remembering multiple lifetimes, the weight of loving someone for over a century—it had been too much for her human mind to process.
“Perhaps we’re all searching for that kind of connection,”he managed. “The writing resonates because it describes what everyone hopes to find.”
Delphine nodded, but he could see doubt in her eyes. Some part of her knew this was more than universal longing, more than academic interest in historical romance.
She lifted the final major fragment, and Bastien braced himself for what he knew was coming.
