Page 47 of Even Angels fall
“Those aren’t new,” Cassiopé says in a whisper.
“Some are older than others,” I answer with the same level of voice. It feels like the proper way to address it: low, like it’s a secret.
Except, it has never been a secret. Everyone knew about my scars in Versailles, and they either ignored them or believed that it wasn’t their proper archangel who laid them on my back.
“What excuses did he find to give you these?”
I’m grateful that’s the way she chooses to ask the question. I’m not sure if I would have broken if she had asked, “What did you do to deserve them?” even if my answers would be the same.
“I exist,” I say on an exhale.
And truly, that’s the only reason I found. My animal, my wings, my existence, they’re all a burden to my father.
I was born so he could step down as Michaël.
I was born to end his reign.
So, of course, my mere existence is what he loathes the most.
Cassiopé doesn’t question me, she just keeps tracing the scars as if they aren’t even there, and then, all of a sudden, she surprises me.
“I hope he gets what he deserves,” she says coldly, and I can hear her father in those words.
She might not be a warrior, she might live among books, but she has a backbone of steel and a temper to match.
I take advantage of her outrage to turn again and lie against the headboard of my bed.
“What is it?”
“What is what?” I ask.
She grabs Léandre’s book with avid eyes.
“Oh, I’ve always wanted one of those. They’re truly wonderful. Is it yours? Of course it’s yours. We don’t have any of those in ND,” she says with light in her eyes. It looks like the book brought her back to her very shiny and talkative self.
“Wait, Cassiopé, are you telling me there isn’t an edition ofThe Hunchback of Notre Dameinside the archives of Notre Dame?” I ask in disbelief.
“Don’t be silly, Angie, we have a first edition of the book here,” she says as she keeps looking at my book, turning it in every direction, opening it, looking at the pages and starting again. “We don’t have one of the 2024 editions. I’ve always wanted one of these.”
I don’t understand how this edition can make her react like this. I thought it was just a standard edition. A nice reminder of Léandre, because we both knew there wasn’t a grand chance for us to see each other ever again.
In retrospect, I’m a shitty friend, because I didn’t get him anything when I left.
But what could I have given that would remind him of me? One of my daggers? One of my shirts?
Yeah, I totally see him wearing one of my shirts. I chuckle at the thought. I’m not sure he could breathe if he wore one. He might not be as built as Elhyor, or even Emmanuël, but he still packs some muscle. All shifters do. The shifting process is so painful that it’s worse than a workout. I, on the other hand, have muscle because I built it myself.
“What’s so special about it?” I ask when the suspense is too intense. Did I get hooked on her non-stop talking speech and now want to know what this is all about? Of course! Now I need to know what makes that book so special. Maybe it’s something small, but if it’s Léandre’s, I need to know.
“You don’t know?” she asks in disbelief. “It’s one of those special editions. They work like some sort of escape game. This one is a beginner’s level, but see, the pages aren’t exactly the same. You need to compare, and in the end, it’ll give you a message.”
Fuck.
Is there a message from Léandre in there? Could I have found out about it days ago?
Why didn’t you say more, Léandre?
Now I feel like a fool and an even worse friend.
