Until I Die - By Plum, Amy Page 0,5
hair hadn’t been tied back into a tight ponytail and his face so clean-shaven, he would have looked exactly like Kurt Cobain. With a major case of blue-blood.
They bowed formally to Jean-Baptiste and turned toward the room, solemnly nodding their acceptance of the enthusiastic welcome. The girl’s eyes paused on me and continued to Vincent, who was standing behind me with his hand resting on my hip. Her eyes narrowed slightly before moving on to scan the crowd, and then, seeing someone she knew, she stepped forward to chat. Jean-Baptiste followed her cue and began talking to a woman standing next to him.
The speech seemingly over, I searched for Charlotte to gauge her reaction to her replacements’ presentation. Their introduction during the twins’
party must have been a last-minute decision.
Charlotte stood at the back of the room with Ambrose, who had his arm draped securely around her shoulders. I guessed that the support he was giving was both physical and moral. Although she didn’t look surprised, it looked like her smile was costing her a lot of effort.
“I’m going to go talk to Charlotte,” I murmured to Vincent.
“Good idea,” he said, casting a worried glance at her. “I’ll make sure Charles is holding up.” He leaned over to kiss my temple and then, straightening, walked away.
I set off toward Charlotte. “Just wondering if you wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air,” I said.
“I would love that,” she said, and reaching for my hand, she transferred herself from Ambrose’s custodianship to mine. Not for the first time, I wondered how she was going to hold out in the south of France—a whole nine-hour drive away from her support system. I didn’t doubt Charlotte’s strength. She had certainly been a solid shoulder for me to lean on. But now that she needed her friends the most, she was being forcibly separated from them.
We grabbed our coats on the way out and stepped into the bracing December air. The moon lit up the courtyard, ill uminating its large marble fountain, which contained a life-size statue of an angel holding a woman in his arms. It was an image I never failed to compare to Vincent and me. In my eyes, the personal symbolism it held was as weighty as the stone it was carved from.
Charlotte and I sat down on the edge of its empty basin and huddled against each other for warmth. I looped my arm through hers and pulled her close. Getting close to Charlotte had helped me ignore the guilt of cutting off my friends back in New York. During the very worst period of my grieving for my parents, I had deleted my email address and hadn’t contacted them since.
“Did you know that your”—I hesitated, searching for a word less offensive than “replacements”—“that Violette and Arthur were coming today?” Charlotte nodded. “Jean-Baptiste told me yesterday. He said he didn’t want me to feel like he was in a rush to replace us. But Violette offered to come, and he needs her. I can’t help but feel bad about it anyway. You know . . . unwanted. Like I’m being punished.”
“Even if it feels like a punishment, which Jean-Baptiste has assured everyone it isn’t, you’re not the one who’s being sent away. It’s Charles who messed up, no matter how unintentionally.” I squeezed her arm in support. “Jean-Baptiste’s rationale does make sense. If something big is going on with the numa, this would be a dangerous time for Charles to be here in the middle of it, indecisive and confused. Plus, he said you could stay if you wanted.”
“I can’t live without Charles,” she said mournfully. “He’s my twin. We’ve been through everything together.” I nodded. I understood. We had a lot in common, Charlotte and I . . . if you didn’t take our mortality into account. Both of us had experienced the death of our parents. We were both left with only a sibling to link us to our former lives. I had my grandparents, of course, but my sister felt like the last remaining thread that connected me to reality. Although the meaning of the word “reality” had radically changed for me in the last few months.
“So do you know the new guys?” I asked.
“Yeah. I mean, I’ve never met them, but everyone’s heard of them. They’re part of the ‘old guard.’ If you think Jean-Baptiste’s old, they’re ancient.
Although they’re just as aristocratic as him.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty obvious,” I laughed. “Violette looks like she died