Page 63 of Curse in the Quarter
A ritual-stitched glyph, worked into the weave with silver thread that gleamed in candlelight. The symbol was from Charlotte’s grimoire—a binding sigil designed to connect objects. But this wasn’t just any ribbon. The scent clinging to it told a story spanning generations.
He could trace it like a map. Charlotte’s hands first, her blood mixed with silver thread during creation. Through generations it had passed, from mother to daughter, each adding their essence to the weave until it became something more than fabric.
An ancestral beacon, designed to call across time to whoever would need it most.
The memory struck without warning. Suddenly he stood in another garden under another moon, watching Delia move through waltz steps with ethereal grace. She wore a ribbon like this in her dark hair, silver threads catching starlight as she spun in his arms.
“Do you think we’ll remember this?” she asked, faceturned up to catch moonlight. “When we’re ancient and tired and the world has changed beyond recognition?”
“I’ll remember,” he promised, meaning it completely. “The way you look right now, the way stars reflect in your eyes, the way this ribbon shimmers in your hair.”
She laughed, sound like music made manifest.“Then I’ll leave it to my daughter, and she to hers, so even if we forget, something of this moment will remain.”
The vision faded, leaving him alone in the dim chamber with fingers still touching ancient silk. Now he understood. This wasn’t just a family heirloom—it was a promise kept across time, a thread connecting past to present to future in ways mortal minds couldn’t grasp.
Charlotte had embedded more than tracking magic in these artifacts. She’d woven intention itself into their structure, creating a network that would guide her bloodline toward reunion across any distance, any span of time. Every daughter who wore this ribbon, every generation that passed it down, had unknowingly contributed to a spell that transcended life and death boundaries.
“Found something interesting?”
Bastien turned to find Marcelline in the doorway, expression unreadable. “A family memento,” he said carefully.
“Ah, yes. The Leclair ribbon. I wondered when you’d notice.” She moved into the room with fluid grace, gaze fixed on the tapestry. “It came through circuitous routes—an estate sale in the 1960s. The family had no idea what they were selling.”
“But you did.”
Her smile was winter moonlight. “I make it my business to know such things. Charlotte Lacroix was . . . a formidable woman. Her preparations extended far beyond what mostof our kind ever attempt.” She paused, studying his face. “You’re planning to take it, aren’t you?”
The question hung between them like a blade. Bastien met her gaze steadily, weighing options. Marcelline was old enough and powerful enough to be dangerous if crossed, but she was also pragmatic. Everything in her salon was ultimately for sale, if the price was right.
“What would you want for it?” he asked.
“Nothing so crude as money.” She moved closer, presence suddenly filling the small space. “A favor, to be called at a time of my choosing. Nothing that would compromise your current interests, but something significant enough to balance the scales.”
It was a dangerous bargain, but Bastien had made worse ones in his existence. And the ribbon called to him with urgency that felt like destiny itself. “Agreed.”
Marcelline’s laugh was soft as silk against skin. “I do enjoy dealing with pragmatists.” She gestured toward the tapestry. “Take it, then. Though I suspect it was always meant to find its way to you eventually.”
His fingers worked carefully to extract the ribbon from its moorings, the silk seeming to sing under his touch. As he lifted it free, the sigils embroidered along its length pulsed once with golden light before settling into quiescence. But he could feel its potential, humming just beneath the surface like a tuning fork struck in a distant room.
“She knew, didn’t she?” he said, more to himself than Marcelline. “Charlotte. She knew this moment would come.”
“Charlotte knew many things. The question is whether you’re prepared for what comes next.” Marcelline moved toward the door, then paused. “A word of advice, Bastien. When dealing with magic that spans time, be careful aboutassumptions regarding cause and effect. Sometimes the spell doesn’t create the future—sometimes the future creates the spell.”
She left him alone with that warning, but Bastien barely heard it. His attention was entirely focused on the ribbon in his hands and the certainty crystallizing in his mind with each passing moment. Charlotte hadn’t just prepared for reunion—she had engineered it, laying groundwork across generations with the patience of someone who knew exactly how the story would end.
Every incarnation of her bloodline had been guided toward this moment, their choices shaped by forces they couldn’t perceive. Delphine’s move to Oxford for school, her decision to keep the locket, even her unconscious selection of the apartment directly across from his own—none of it had been coincidence.
He slipped the ribbon into his jacket pocket, feeling its weight like a promise against his chest. Tomorrow, he would have answers. Tomorrow, the carefully orchestrated reunion that had been lifetimes in the making would finally reach its conclusion.
But tonight, he stood in a room full of shadows and ancient magic, holding silk that had traveled through time itself to reach his hands. Tonight, he could feel destiny’s inexorable pull drawing him toward whatever Charlotte had planned for them all.
The gathering continued around him, vampires moving through their eternal dance of politics and power. But Bastien’s attention was entirely focused on the future, and the woman who waited there without knowing she had been expected all along.
Tomorrow,he thought, and the ribbon seemed to pulsein agreement against his heart.Tomorrow, everything changes.
As he made his way back through the salon, the sigils in the walls seemed to watch him go, their glow fading as he passed. The bloodline resonance mapping Valentin had described was settling into dormancy, its purpose served. The network Charlotte had spent lifetimes creating was finally ready to activate.
And somewhere across the city, Delphine Leclair slept peacefully in her apartment, unaware that the threads of fate were drawing ever tighter around them both.
