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❝She remembered him.❞ 1968 — Italy
Cheerful streams of tone and colour painted and drowned her senses in a haze of warm jove. The slightly orange, hazel stone radiated a pleasant peace for Jane; reminding her of the times when she was in France. A much simpler time.
A much, much simpler time.
Her tinted hair swayed with the rhythm of the elements; Eyes allured towards the orange trees and bright tapestry of Florence. Though she was a beauty without doubt, whispers of her appearance became the great gossip of the 1900s. There was a portrait released in 1899, transfixing Jane to a silver plate and frame to forever be adored by her aging eyes in centuries to come— at least her eyes are guaranteed safety. It was painted by the great artist Pierre-Auguste Renior. He adored her gentle exotic features. Those almond eyes of hers attracted many, but not as much as her voice.
She remembered him. Klaus.
The man who swept her off her feet in absolute passion. He adored her voice, her stature—everything about her. She was his muse and lover. But Jane ran from him when New Orleans burst into flames, fearing for her life. He may have loved her, but he would've still betrayed her if the right circumstances were raised. So she left and betrayed his heart first.
It was only a matter of time to see him once more, but Jane didn't fret. The anger and wrath of her lover wouldn't last long so long as she was there, dressed in her satin dress.
Still lost in her thought, probed around the market, looking through the piles of fresh produce. Jane wasn't planning to buy anything at all, but she saw a small charm. It was a crafted horse, hung on a band for the neck. It was exactly like the charm he had given her all those years ago. She wondered if he even knew if she was still alive, after all she followed him closely by whenever he was in Europe. Just shy as window away.
"It was crafted by my father's great-grandfather. A very fine charm, don't you think so, miss?" a mid-century American man excitedly told Jane.
"Ah, yes. It's a very fine charm indeed, sir," she replied in an accented English. "How much will it be?"
She was a bit foolish, knowing that the necklace was under a spell—If it was really hers. But hers had burned in her escape, so it was impossible for it to have survived. But then again, she'd seen two great fires in her life. The one in Poitiers in the 1790s, and the flames of New Orleans in the 1850s. And she had survived both infernos.
"Thank you."
Jane went about her day, entertaining the small children in the village who played around her cottage. Singing to them lost tunes and songs. Even the ones from Joseon, a language far, far from their Italian and European.
By the time she got settled in her nightgown, it was just after midnight. The warm glow of the timid candle beside her tinted her ashy blond hair in an orange gloss. She sat by her desk, engaging in lettering a note to Klaus. Something she'd done for years, but always ended up in watching the passionate and apologetic letter burn. The words she wrote in the elegant font spelled her sorrows and love, but she couldn't and would never send the letter to him.
It was betrayal. There was no forgiving that.
Dearest Darling, she wrote. Hand stopping for second, her mind jumbling about the storm of words in her head.
How do you do? Are you in America? New York, perhaps, or in Marseille painting the colourful Riviera. Whatever it is, I hope you are well. And not storming in your dread. You know, I've written this letter to you more than a thousand times. They've all started the same. But today's version is different as I happened upon a necklace that looked awfully like the one you craved for me when your family took me. Funny how I ended up falling for your devilish charms. I really wish that instead you'd only look at me as another sister, as my guilt is paramount as your muse and lover. Maybe behind this letter, you'll find my hidden lust to return to your side but alas I am bound to only wait. Forgive me, Nik. If I added to your anguish, I am sorry. And my regret and guilt accompanies me everyday. I knew your pain, but I was afraid. Say, this note will burn with the others. And morph into the ashes of our scintilla. Forgive me.
I love you.
Yours, Jeanne she ended the letter there. Her cheeks were morose due to the heaviness of her chest. Jane folded the letter that referred to her real name—adoptive name. She was Jeanne Françoise de Marseilles in 1789. That was the name her mother Athenaïs had given to her, although her birth name had been Dalhae. The moon and the sea. Jane never told him that.
She folded the letter, staring at the celestial body. The wane was white and bright despite not being a full moon. It was another note to Klaus that would be lost to the ashes. And as she stared at dancing flames eating away at the note, the memory of him returned like a ghost that she cherished. She missed him, but her shame for the betrayal was far stronger than any love she had for him. Besides, the peace she lived was great. It was all she ever wanted with her merchant Marseilles family.
The note eroded away with another scratch of her love.
