Adelaide

Chapter XXXVIII

Adelaide DuPont
* TW: Blood *

Days pass in a blur of time spent between me and Emerald. We're always out together, browsing books and sampling fancy foods, or playing chess at home by the fireplace. Everything looks brighter, so much so that I even imagine a life ahead of us two. This euphoria is temporary, however, and I count down the hours until it begins to wear away.

During mid-morning of the sixth day after encountering Julian, I find myself alone while Emerald showers in the master bedroom. On a whim, I set my coffee down on the kitchen table and wander towards the base of the staircase. The ornate wooden door on the right catches my attention most — Sapphire's room. I wonder whether it's bad karma to walk in there. Emerald might object, but he's not with me right now, and he cannot see the curiosity brimming in my eyes. I feel detached from her death, as if it only happened in one dimension of time amongst many. If I concentrate hard enough, her blood never stained the earth, and her body never thudded dully to the ground when James dropped her in her grave. Now, I need some way to rid myself of this burden altogether.

I clench my fists into a tight ball, an anxious habit I picked up somewhere between now and the beginning of our trip to Paris. Nail marks bite into my skin, and I know Emerald worries, but it's the one thing that reminds me not to stray. Without a second thought, I quickly climb the stairs and push open the heavy door.

Even though only a few weeks have passed, dust coats the duvet and the nightstand and floats through the air. The bed is half-made, and books lie scattered across the floor. Hasn't Topaz been here? I suppose he caused the mess, since Sapphire was never an overly disorganized person.

When I venture farther inside the room, one thing stands out amongst the clutter: a blue leather-bound journal — Sapphire's drawing book. A sigh escaping from my lips, I pick up the sketchbook and carry it into the light of the parted curtains. Each entry is drawn in the same distanced fashion, all clearly depicting the outward emotion plastered on students' faces. As the sketches continue, Sapphire's skill develops as well. By the time the dates are numbered only days away from my own arrival to Soventi, her portraits are marvelous enough to display in a museum.

Flipping past a few more faces, I gasp quietly when I happen upon the old rendition of Julian, familiar restless energy dancing in his pale moonlight eyes. Now, he looks nothing like James to me. Hate for the latter burns in my chest, quickly turning into an ache for Julian himself. He's still in Paris, isn't he? Perhaps I should just invite him to dinner to smooth things over, to explain how his betrayal hurt me. If not for his leaving, I never would've thought to run from the school. James wouldn't have reentered my life, and Sapphire could still be alive. Guilt over her death consumes me, and with this thought I reach for the charcoal pencil collecting dust on the nightstand.

Tears distort my vision as I flip past Julian's face. 'It was James, Saph,' I scrawl across another page, 'The one I loved — it was him, and I helped him bury you like the fool I am. Your blood is on my hands.'

Something wet drips from my left hand onto the sketchbook. I glance down to discover carmine staining my palms where my nails cut too deep. The way my blood smears against the pure paper reminds me of Sapphire's own seeping through the clean linen sheet we draped over her cold body.

Hurriedly shoving the book under the duvet and throwing the pencil back onto the nightstand, I stand and exit the room without looking back. I press my palms together to slow the trickle of blood until I reach the kitchen sink, where I scrub my hands and pray that Emerald won't notice by the time he returns. Afterall, I need to be there for him — not the other way around.

When Emerald first strides through the parlor, his head is tipped downward as he towels his sable curls dry. Soon enough, however, his salient amber eyes settle helplessly across the tap water dripping from my clasped hands, tinged a pale rosé by diluted blood. He knows to watch for the physical signs of my distress by now — they've only worsened and worsened since Sapphire's death.

Without a word, he leans past my side to retrieve a fresh towel from the countertop. Cupping my smaller hands within his, gentle and attentive but resigned, he uses the terrycloth to place pressure upon the array of vermillion crescents pressed into my palms. I watch him work through a silent daze.

Emerald cares for me, even if it's not his job. James never failed to remind me that cleaning up the blood was my role. I've seen him murder, then hold my hands while his were still stained crimson with drying blood. Sapphire's blood was a vivid red, and so much of it streamed from her throat.

Frantically, I meet Emerald's golden eyes, retreating from his concern.

"I'm going to go out and get some fresh air."

Without awaiting an answer, I dart through the door. I begin to feel better the second I add some distance between me and the vacation home. My next steps lead towards the Seine and the quaint bookstore.

Someone needs to hear my pain, and the pain of every other girl James ever killed. I force a scream back into my chest as it claws its way up my throat, itching to escape. Gasping, I collapse onto a bench, the sharp cold of its metallic surface causing me to flinch. No one else is around, and only the running of the Seine fills the silence surrounding me.

I soon lose track of time, but once the moon begins to rise across the sky I vaguely wonder when Emerald will start worrying enough to search for me. I've been gone for a long while.

I'm staring up at the sparse stars that speckle the sky, when footsteps echo eerily along the empty cobblestone walk behind me. James — does he come to kill me at last? I turn warily to address the stranger, though their silhouette belongs not to whom I expect. Dizzying relief washes into my chest at once.

"Adelaide? It's freezing out here. What are you doing alone?"

His low voice spans the distance between us, a blur of English and French.

"It's so pretty, Julian."

"The river? Or the sky?"

"Both."

'And you,' I long to add, because he is — simple as that.

"Come on, you must be cold. Let's find you something to drink."

Of course, he's taking care of me, just like Emerald. Maybe James was trying to protect me in a sick way, too. I allow Julian to grasp my hand and usher me to the nearest café. Suddenly, the bustling warmth of a crowd engulfs us. Everything blurs, time distorting around me.

"Here."

He places something steamy in front of me — coffee, or tea. My perception only clears again once I stare into those beautiful moonlight eyes.

"Adelaide?"

Yes, seeking Julian was a good idea.