Page 72 of Chateau Reverie

‘He was a brother to me, in the end,’ he says. ‘For all that came between us.’

Claire squeezes his hand. ‘We will remember him, once we leave. I am determined to remember all of it.’

A futile hope. Still—‘You are remaining Claire, then?’ Leander asks. ‘After all of this?’

‘Yes. The Lady agreed.’

‘Will you return to your life as Genevieve?’

She replies, ‘I will return to my grandfather in Devonshire, and I will tell him the truth. If he will allow me to continue caring for him, I shall. And you will come with me, of course.’ She pauses. ‘You will, won’t you?’

Leander tells her, ‘You have made an utter fool of me, Claire Marchand. I will follow you to the ends of the earth and beyond them, if you ask it.’

She smiles up at him, her mouth crinkling at its corners, and he wants to kiss her. Then he realises that he can kiss her, nothing is preventing him from doing so, and so he does.

She hums in pleasure and surprise, then returns the kiss. After, he pulls her close to him, and he buries his face in her hair. Claire fists her hands in his coat. He can hear her breathing, ragged and thick with tears. Behind them, the Château’s heart beats, slowly, steadily. In the distance, a lion roars.

It is morning now, and with the sun has come a riot of flowers, bursting from the earth of the gardens as if they have been growing there all along. They cover the gravel with ruby petals and peridot stems, crunching beneath their feet.

‘Lady Reverie will allow us to leave?’ Claire asks Leander.

‘She must,’ he says, although his tone is somewhat uncertain. ‘She promised she would.’ Leander tips his head back, and a gentle breeze comes to ruffle his hair. ‘Farewell,’ he murmurs—perhaps to the Château itself—and then he takes Claire’s hand, leading her insistently away.

They do not go to the front gate. Instead, they wind their way back to the mountain’s edge, where the steep path tumbles down towards the river and the bridge.

‘Why are we going this way?’ Claire asks.

‘I don’t know. It feels correct. Perhaps this is the way I came, whenever I first arrived here. I cannot remember.’

‘Will your memories ever return?’

‘There’s no way of knowing.’ He shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter, not anymore. I don’t think I need to remember. For now, all I want is to live, Claire. When I die, I want to be able to say, Oh, I have lived. How much I have lived, in those years since the Château, since I left that place and found something better.’

Claire opens the gate. As she steps out, Leander pauses, turning his head back and gazing up at the top of the Château.

She follows his gaze. On the uppermost floor—in the room, she thinks, where the birdcages are—a figure is standing at the window. She sees a flash of bronze and dark hair.

Slowly, uncertainly, Leander raises a hand to him and waves.

Orestes bows in return.

Together, Claire and Leander descend the mountain for the final time. She is certain the forest is beautiful in the morning, dew drenched and verdant, but all she can look at is Leander’s face. His brow furrows in concentration as he helps her leap the stream, and on occasion he glances back nervously, as if he fears the Château will follow them down the path. Claire wants to reach out and smooth the lines from his forehead, to kiss his cheek and tell him that all will be well. But the easiest way to reassure him is to leave this place, and so they do not stop until they have reached the bridge.

The soil, freshly churned by the water, permeates the air with the scent of mud and reeds and summer wildflowers. The bridge itself, in its perfect circle, seems even taller than it was before; a thin layer of ivy has grown over its parapets, and Claire wonders if this will make the stone harder to grip.

But she cannot feel fear. Not now, not so close to liberty. She steps forward confidently, and Leander trails behind her, his hand still in her own. She must release him to ascend, gripping the parapets, the leaves crushing beneath her grip and staining her palms green. Leander follows.

Then, quite suddenly, he stops.

Claire turns to him. She is just past the apex of the bridge—beyond the land of the Château, she realises—and Leander remains a few paces back. He looks at the foot of space between them with his eyes hooded. His hands are gripping the edges of the bridge with desperate force, his arms held rigid at his sides.

‘Claire,’ he says.

‘What is it?’

He laughs breathily, eyes darting to the roaring water beneath them. ‘I’m afraid.’

‘You need not be.’