Adelaide

Chapter XXXIII

Emerald Byron

I feel as if I experience Sapphire's passing on behalf of all my friends, overflowing with everyone else's condolences until I can't perceive anything more for myself. Maybe I deserve this; Topaz and Ruby were always closer with her, and when it mattered most I didn't even care enough to truly ensure her safety or, at least, her peace of mind. Grief tinged with guilt never eases in the clement way innocent sorrows can. I ought to adjust to this heavy feeling, because it'll accompany me henceforth, arguably more weighty even than the tragic but distant death of my late parents.

My parents — what would they think of me now? I realize that I don't care anymore. They're gone.

When I peered down into Adelaide's shining eyes, I understood that she wept over a ruinous past belonging to nothing of the time during which I knew her and to everything of her previous biography. The realization felt curious and strangely romantic all at once. She embraced me earnestly, but that was not enough. Perhaps I've been wrong to turn away from her all this time; some people cannot be known merely through words and glances.

When I kissed her, our meeting felt nothing like the last time — all gentle touches and conflicted hearts, overstepping a welcome I refused to extend against my waning loyalties. Now, perhaps, I understand. Minutes afterwards, I still feel no remorse for my actions. Has it always been this simple? Adelaide insisted so, I vaguely remember, and I denied her — but everything's changed now. Together, we wind through uncrowded streets and past the Seine multiple times side-by-side, our sorrows drifting away on the lazy river.

The moment is ruined, however, when a dark-haired figure approaches us. He's lean and a few inches taller than me, dressed coolly in a pale gray sweater and dress pants the same color as his midnight blue eyes.

"Miss DuPont? How lovely to see you again."

Adelaide tenses conspicuously at my side, grasping my hand tighter. The newcomer appears unbothered by this, his expression lighthearted and warm, albeit vaguely uptight.

"It's Matisse," he continues, "We met last year at the spring gala hosted by your father — quite an elegant gathering."

"Oh, yes, now I remember — the painter. Your work was excellent."

Matisse nods in thanks, tilting his head as his gaze trails toward me.

"And you must be a Byron — what an interesting pair to find together."

I release a slow breath, bracing myself against the company of yet another stranger. Any other day, I would've smiled genially and slipped into quick conversation; now, all I feel is perturbation and an intense desire to step away.

"What brings you back to Paris?" Matisse inquires about Adelaide.

"A dear friend of ours recently died, and we are mourning her passing."

He nods sympathetically, a touch of dolor darkening his own dark eyes.

"You are here attending the funeral, then," he assumes, glancing obscurely between the two of us, "My father owns a mortuary. If you want your friend cremated, I'd be willing to put in a word with him. The body would need to be transported to our facilities, of course."

Adelaide glances my way, a silent question dancing within her snowstorm gray eyes. No choice really presents itself; we must accept Matisse's offer, lest we leave Sapphire to decay in the gardens. Naturally, this notion disturbs me. How can we even deliver a body — dead by an undeniable stab wound, as it were — to some unfamiliar mortuary without raising suspicions? Adelaide and this pretentious young man appear well acquainted; perhaps, I ought to leave all negotiations to them.

"A word with your father would be much appreciated," I gravely acquiesce, "You recognized me by my family name, so you must already know of the Byron house on the river Seine. You'll find us there."

"I'll be over later tonight, then. Have a good day," Matisse answers, nodding his goodbyes and continuing briskly down the path.

Adelaide glares in his wake, before turning back to me with a strained smile. By the time we return to the house, the cozy smell of cooking soup fills the air. I welcome the warmth the way I did her embrace; these things, big and small alike, all distract from what I really need to be feeling but somehow cannot — the loss, the guilt, the confusion. For now, with steady Adelaide nearby, everything remains bearable.

Ruby and Topaz haven't reappeared since I last spoke with them, but I almost don't mind; I hardly know if I can stand to see the grief sprawled so vividly across their familiar faces, anyway. But the soup is almost finished — I lift the lid and stir it briefly to check — and Ruby will be down to eat; she's always been good at caring for herself, even through traumatic times. Topaz, though — judging by his reaction this morning, I suspect that he'll isolate himself as much as possible for as long as possible.

After rifling through a few cabinets, I locate a small stack of bowls to use. I set them on the countertop beside the stove, fidgeting idly with their placement just to occupy my hands. Everything I've done leading up to this day once seemed purposeful or productive; now, I know not what to do with myself. Adelaide watches me in silence for a moment then steps closer, tugging my wrists away from the counter.

"Come, sit with me."

Distantly, I allow her to lead me into the living room. Without really reading the titles, she selects a random book from the shelf on the wall, then settles us both on the settee and flips to the first chapter. Her voice is benign as she begins to read, just loud enough for the two of us. I listen not to the words themselves, but to the way her tone lilts softly with each syllable, serene as winter's first snow. Though the evening barely approaches with the setting sun, I feel as if I could easily doze off by her side. How strange to think — I've combated my feelings so long that I never even noticed this considerate, loving side of her. She looks so beautiful this way, somehow more alive.