Page 13 of Kept 4
I haunt the kitchens where she spent so much time both before I knew her, and after. I lay on her bed and breathe in the last of her scent. I walk the paths her feet trod through my gardens, down past the cemetery, through the rooms of Constance’s home. It feels as though she has touched every part of my existence and is now, like my first love, dead.
But I know she is not, just dead to me, as it must be.
I could stop feeling her emotions if I chose. I have that ability, to dampen the link I have with her, the blood tie that allows me to feel her passions.And yet, still I keep it, because it allows me to fool myself that she is with me. No, I do not yet wish to sever the tie that binds us.
I should.
I can.
But I won’t.
At first, I told myself I needed to keep the link, open myself fully to it, to ensure her safety. After all, I have yet to begin my hunt for Elsbeth as I must do so if Josephine is to truly remain safe.
But I lied to myself, of course, it was not this that made me draw in her feelings and wear them like a cloak – no, it was my desire to feel what she felt and in doing so reassure myself that she loved me as she said she did, that she too suffered from our separation.
I should not havedoubted.
She suffered, and through her, my own feelings were magnified. As her grief overtook her like a wave crashing upon the shore, so mine became a tsunami, engulfing all rational thought. I fell to my knees as the train left the station, my head in my hands.
Contemporary views of manhood would have me deny my feelings, tell me to control them, act strong. But I shun all such false pretences.
I cried.
I shed tears aplenty onto the tracks long after the sound of the train that carried her from me receded into the distance, and I feel no shame admitting it, only renewed sorrow.
It was a long time before the tears stopped flowing and I don’t know how long I knelt there, beside the tracks, before a wet tongue invaded my ear, a cold nose pushed aside my hands and sniffed my face, and my gamekeeper growled low at his dog, Sally, to leave me be, as he raised me from the ground and lead me back to my manor.
Now, I wander my estate, bereft, all thoughts of retribution against Elsbeth subdued and seconded to my loneliness and self-pity, even though I know, as a rational man, that this too must pass; the quicker, the better.
Still, my rational brain cannot, it seems, control my heart.
It is as though if I turn fast, I will catch a glimpse of her, out of the corner of my eye. But I know I won’t, and such maudlin thoughts and self-deception only deepens my grief at losing her, she, only the second woman in 500 years to steal my heart.
The tears begin to start then, and I put my phone down, I can’t read any more tonight.
6
The church is dark and forbidding from the outside, covered in gargoyles and intricate carvings. I see a Latin inscription over the doorway ‘Mors Non-Est Finis’ and screw up my nose. Every Latin saying I had googled so far had been something ominous. No doubt this would be too.
I almost don’t go in. But at the last moment, I steel my resolve and walk up the steps, pushing open the heavy timber doors, which surprisingly, are well-oiled, and I imagine, often used, because they open with ease.
I’m here on my last day in Rennes to see if I can find out any information about my family. My grandparents left here to settle in the U.S; that is all I know about them.
I hold out a faint hope that the church might hold some records of them and any other relatives, no matter how distant. I’d dreamt since I was young of being enfolded in the arms of a large French family, perhaps second cousins, or old aunts or, well, it didn’t really matter, anyone would do. Anyone who could rectify the fact that I was all alone in the world, completely and utterly alone.
Standing at the threshold, I wonder if I might be struck down by lightning, or have one of the ornate candle-holders high up in the ceiling come crashing down upon me, squishing me into jelly if I enter. After all, aren’t I a creature of the night now? A Kept? Wouldn’t my entire knowledge of horror movies, garnered through months of enforced watching by the horror-enthusiast Margarita, all be pointing to the obvious conclusion that I was evil and therefore unable to venture into one of God’s buildings.
Not that I’d ever believed in God. Losing both parents at a young age had convinced me early on that if one did exist, he was a cruel and heartless despot. Far better to believe there was no such thing. Nicholas and I had that in common. He had lost his faith when he was betrayed by a priest and Constance had died.
Still, I liked to hedge my bets, and since discovering vampires existed, I was a little more open to their counterparts, maybe angels? Also having a foothold in reality.
Ignoring my racing heart, I step into the building, one slow foot at a time, and make my way towards the altar. As my common sense suggests, nothing untoward happens. Despite this, I am still feeling on edge, until seeing an elderly man enter from a small pair of timber side doors, I realise I am not alone.
“Bonjour,” I say quietly as he meets my eyes. He looks ancient to me, maybe in his late nineties, small, wizened, but his eyes are bright, sharp. “parlez vous Anglais?”
“Of course,” he says, stepping closer so I can see he wears the white collar.
“Oh great,” I let out a sigh of relief, “you might be just the man I need. I’m looking for records, family records for the city.”
