by Tamer Lorika
Jeanne frowned. “What…”
Jericho put a hand over Jeanne’s heart, on top of her night shirt. “You were troubled.”
Jeanne looked down at the long, slim fingers against the fabric, and wished they were warmer. “No, not at all.”
“Do not lie to me.”
It was an order, and Jeanne knew Jericho was angry and annoyed but… “You’ll get angrier if I tell you the truth.”
Jericho didn’t argue. “Tell me anyway.”
“I—I…” Jeanne didn’t look up from the hand on her breast. She couldn’t. There was no way she’d meet Jericho’s eyes because, even if she could feel everything the creature was feeling, even now, if she saw it reflected in that glass blackness, she felt she’d…implode, perhaps. Something. Something violent and messy.
“I hate when you leave me,” she finally gasped out. “I don’t want you to go, even though I know you say you will come back and you always do, but you’re just here when I’m dreaming, so maybe my whole life is a dream and I’m just waiting for the day when I wake up.”
Jeanne’s eyes squeezed shut, as if she expected a blow or a sudden rush of expletives, but she was met with only tense silence and an ugly brown swirl of emotions leaking from the one next to her. After a long, long moment in which no reply was forthcoming, Jeanne’s eyes inched open again.
“Jericho…?”
She lay on her back, eyes glaring determinedly at the ceiling. Her lips were moving, and after a long moment, Jeanne realized she was saying a prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”
“Jericho—”
“Damn it, Jeanne,” she murmured, her gaze still on the ceiling. “Damn it, I don’t know what else I can do.”
Jeanne felt guilty. It wasn’t Jericho’s fault, not really. She always came back, always. Jeanne was just…she wasn’t sure. She felt so on edge lately, as if some vital part of her was lost, as if she were walking around with a missing piece, off balance.
“I’m sorry.”
Jericho shook her head. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what I can do.”
“Why can’t I see you every night?”
The moment the question left her lips, Jeanne felt like she had broken something, some sort of taboo. She had never asked the question before, only waited, patiently. She had always wondered but never questioned her good fortune. Maybe Jericho wouldn’t return; the fear was always on her mind. But wasn’t that fitting? Jericho didn’t belong here, and Jeanne wasn’t sure what she had done to get her attention—that in itself was a forbidden thought—but she was waiting for life to go back to what she deserved, walking around in the shadowed mortal plane.
She was asking too much, she realized. “I’m sor—”
“Forgive me.” Jericho interrupted.
Jeanne blinked. “What…?”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to come more often, and I’m sorry I haven’t told you why. I suppose I was caught up in what we were. It didn’t matter much, the details, but it is different for you, isn’t it? I forget it is different when you don’t know the answers.”
Jeanne stayed quiet, tense. So Jericho would tell her…
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
And there was the bullet, Jeanne thought absently, as Jericho continued to speak.
“I’m not supposed to be here. I can’t leave my home so easily.”
“So why did you?”
Jericho shifted uncomfortably. Jeanne almost laughed, despite everything, at the sight—oh, she had never understood what age Jericho was; Jericho was ageless, it seemed, something altogether impossible and wise beyond everything, and the way she looked changed from moment to moment in the dim darkness—yet, at that moment, Jericho looked no more than a guilty child caught in a lie or a prank.
“I…couldn’t help it,” she said, fidgeting. “We were warned—never to contact the person we were to watch over, but I saw you and I thought, if I could just speak to you once…”
“You’re supposed to be watching over me?”
“Yes. I’ve known since I was born, since you were born. I was supposed to be your guardian and you were mine to look after. I never understood it, though—the rules are so complicated. I could not speak to you or touch you or intervene. There were things I could say but I could only speak when spoken to, and…”
“What are you?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Everything. Choose.”
Jeanne frowned. “No.”
“So be it, then.”
Silence stretched again, but it was less tense than it had been. Jeanne’s mind turned. Everything Jericho had said made sense. That wasn’t the problem.
“Are you going to be in trouble?”
Finally, finally, Jericho met her eyes. “Why would that matter?”
Jeanne smiled. It really was that simple, with them, she thought. It never occurred to Jericho to look out for herself. Jeanne shook her head, still smiling. “So, you broke the rules and came to talk to me anyway.”
“Yes. What else could I do? If there is someone out there who belongs to you, isn’t it only right to find them and never let them go?”
“Yes.”
Jeanne sat up and put her hand against Jericho’s, interlocking their fingers. “Jericho, can I ask you to do something for me?”
Jericho frowned. “Of course.”
“Would you cut my hair?”
That visibly threw the creature for a loop. “I—why—”
Jeanne flushed. “That’s an odd request, I know. I just—what—I want to do something with you. Anything. Prove to myself you are real. Can we do something…regular people would do?”
“Would regular people…cut hair?”
“Maman does it for me all the time…” Jeanne trailed off, becoming more and more self-conscious. “I’m sorry. That really was odd. I can’t believe—it was just something I had been thinking about…”
Jericho sat up in a single, fluid movement, putting a soft finger against Jeanne’s parted lips. “Be quiet. I’ll do it. I’m not sure how, but I’ll do it.”
Jeanne nodded, smiling. “The scissors are in the cabinet in the bathroom.” She padded in bare feet across the floorboards, but Jericho stopped her with a hand on her arm.
“Wait.” Jeanne looked up. “It’s all right to be in your room like this, because it is so dark, but…it will be harder to see me if I’m in the light. But I won’t leave your side, all right? Trust me on that.”
Jeanne nodded. She said nothing. Jericho reached in front of her and opened the door.
Although the hallway was not lit with candles or electricity, it was much brighter than Jeanne’s room. Soft light glowed from the bottom of the stairs where the living room blackout curtains had not been closed all the way. She could easily shuffle down the stairs in the blueness, and turned to make sure Jericho—
—was gone.
Jeanne stopped moving, her breath catching in disappointment and slight panic, but no, Jericho promised she was still there, so Jeanne just had to keep moving forward.
She felt a rush of warm air against her neck and long fingers weaving their way through her own. “Jericho?”
Her hand was squeezed in reassurance, and Jeanne realized Jericho mustn’t be able to talk. She continued her quiet descent, reassured by the solid, invisible presence beside her and the double echo of footsteps on the stair.
She slid open the door at the foot of the steps and moved into the living room, turning the corner until she got to the bathroom. Pulling Jericho in with her, she shut the door. All was black.
“That was…an adventure. Did anyone hear us?”
A pair of strong, smooth arms wrapped around Jeanne’s waist; the voice was buried in her hair. Jeanne smiled. “I doubt it; Papa snores like an old truck so no one else can hear anything.”
They could see in the bathroom because Jericho brought with her
that silvery, otherworldly sort of light. Jeanne fumbled under the sink, coming out with a thick pair of silver scissors. They gleamed white-steel.
Jericho looked at them as if they were a puzzle, then said, “Sit on the floor and put your back against the bath, all right?”
Jeanne nodded. “Why?”
“You look as if you are about to fall asleep. It’s okay to close your eyes. I won’t leave until I am done.”
“I won’t fall asleep!” Jeanne retorted. Still, she was happy. She relaxed with Jericho’s fingers in her hair.
Jeanne leaned back, her head over the rim of the tub. Jericho climbed inside, settling gracefully with her legs crossed. She pressed her lips to Jeanne’s scalp. “How would you like this done?”
Jeanne yawned, feeling the hour creeping up on her. “Can you do it like yours?”
Jericho’s voice quirked in amusement. “Like…mine? I’m not sure—”
Already beginning to doze, Jeanne raised a hand ineffectually. “Just…I trust you…”
Somehow, that made Jericho smile. Jeanne fell asleep to the cold shick of metal against her skin and the feeling of strong fingers knotting in her hair.
Chapter 4
“Jeanne…? Where are you, dear?”
There was the sound of a wooden door creaking open, then—
“What on earth—?!”
The shrill, panicked tone of Maman’s voice caused Jeanne to sit straight up. The moment she did, she wished she hadn’t so quickly; her neck hurt abominably from leaning backwards over the lip of the tub all night, and her limbs were sore from the cold tile floor.
But it had been for a reason, hadn’t it, her being down here?
“Jeanne, what did you do to your hair?!”
Oh! She stood up in excitement, rushing over to the little mirror to peer at herself. She smiled. Perfect—her hair had been cut in uneven layers, the longest reaching just past her shoulders, the shortest almost at her ears. The way her hair curled—it looked nice at this length.
“Jeanne, Jeanne, I don’t understand. It looks like you went at it with gardening shears in the dark!” Maman moaned. She grabbed Jeanne’s arm, using the other hand to run through Jeanne’s curls. “Oh, chère, what on earth—were you sleepwalking?”
Had she been sleepwalking? It didn’t feel like it. But Jeanne nodded anyway. Inside she glowed. Jericho was real; this was proof, she thought, or as close to proof as she could get. Though maybe she had dreamed it all…
“Oh dear, I didn’t know you could sleepwalk; you never have before.” Maman’s hands fluttered uselessly over Jeanne’s forehead, as if she were ill. She didn’t feel ill. She felt good. Happy. “I can’t even get it into braids any longer. The top layer is so short…why did you do this, Jeanne?”
Jeanne blinked slowly. “I don’t know.” It wasn’t a lie.
Maman frowned. “Go upstairs and change,” she finally said with a sigh. “I will start on breakfast. Gramaman made cinnamon rolls last night because the supply truck came in.”
Jeanne nodded, going upstairs to dress. This was the first morning she could remember Maman had not come to sit on her bed and braid her hair. Maybe that was important, Jeanne didn’t know. She just pulled out a starched skirt and knee socks, and wondered if Paris would like her hair. It was Saturday; she could run over to her friend’s house and show her. She bet Paris would be excited. Her mother, all strict bun and heavy scowl, would not be so excited.
Jeanne bounced back down the stairs, liking the way the shorter strands swung into her face.
Gramaman, sitting at the kitchen table and sipping coffee, looked up in surprise. “Well, now, I’ll be…your Maman was right. You really have chopped off all your hair.”
Jeanne carefully poured herself coffee with a heavy dose of milk and sat down next to her, making a face. “It’s not all off—it even covers my shoulders, see?”
“That it does,” murmured Gramaman, shaking her head.
Jeanne happily accepted a cinnamon roll from Maman, who moved with jerky, agitated movements. Maman looked harried, jumping when Suzette began to cry for attention.
Gramaman looked suddenly tired as well. “I don’t know what your father will say when he sees this,” she said conspiratorially. “But I think you look rather cute, chère, though you may have just about given your Maman a heart attack. I’m just glad your Papa didn’t find you—he’s still sleeping, the lug—but it’s not his fault. That couple next door was playing their record player so loud—and into the night as well!”
Gramaman’s bedroom, as well as Jeanne’s parents’, was on the second floor, and they both shared a wall with the Guises next door. Their attic, unlike Jeanne’s own, was unoccupied at the moment, for which she was grateful; the walls here were thin.
Swallowing her last bite of roll, Jeanne stood. “I’m going over to Paris’s house for a little while.”
“All right. Avoiding your Papa?”
“Maybe,” Jeanne admitted.
Gramaman shook her head, her face of dough-creases wrinkling. “Sleepwalking…maybe warm milk before bed will help.”
Jeanne just kissed her cheek, reveling in the cinnamon in the air. “I’ll be fine, Gramaman.”
Slipping on her shoes, she ran out into the Saturday morning.
* * * *
“Good morning, Madame Orange,” Jeanne said, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.
The sharp-beaked hawk of a woman stared down at her with impersonal scorn. “Your mother at you with the kitchen shears again?” Orange asked, blocking the door.
“Did it to myself,” Jeanne replied, suddenly struck with a fierce wondering if she was actually telling the truth. Even this physical reminder wasn’t enough—did Jericho wield the scissors, or was all of this the product of an elaborate dream?
“Mmm…” Orange hummed with habitual disapproval through her nose. “Well, you know where Paris’s room is. She’s still asleep. You may go wake her up.”
Jeanne nodded happily. Orange put up a good fuss, but Jeanne and Paris had been friends so long, there were very few boundaries in their houses any longer. Paris’s mother may have acted cold and reluctant to let Jeanne in, but Jeanne knew that was just the way the woman was.
She bounded through the Oranges’ spacious living room. Their house was much larger than Jeanne’s: two floors, with a yard out front, not squeezed into ramshackle rows like most of the rural abodes along the edge of the town.
She strode happily over the wood floors, tiptoeing into Paris’ room. The girl was tangled haphazardly in her sheets, limbs splayed awkwardly and mouth hanging open. Jeanne knew no one else ever saw Paris like this, undone and not impeccably coiffed and curled. Jeanne rather liked it.
“Good morning!” she shouted, throwing all her weight onto the mattress.
The movement carried in a wave, disturbing the bed, and Paris jolted upright with a yelp, clutching the blankets to her like a shield. “What on—Jeanne!” she yelled. “What—what in the world?”
“Hello there, sleepy-head.”
“What did you do to your hair?”
Jeanne made a face. “What do you think I did to it? I cut it—why does everyone keep asking? Isn’t it rather obvious?” Although Jeanne would give Paris credit. Of course the first thing Paris would ask about was Jeanne’s hair, not, “What are you doing in my room?” or “Why are you currently burrowing into my blankets?”
Paris blinked at the sight, trying to focus her sleep-blind eyes. “Hmm…well—it definitely looks nice…a bit uneven, I suppose, but…Hey, you can’t get it into braids now, can you? Why didn’t I think of that?”
Jeanne shrugged. “Maman says I was sleepwalking.” It wasn’t exactly lying. Maman did say Jeanne was sleepwalking; it just wasn’t the truth.
Paris blinked again, finally beginning to properly wake. She sat up now, and Jeanne sprawled on her pillow, staring at her.
“What are you doing in my room?” she asked, suddenly nonplussed.
&
nbsp; “Madame Orange let me in,” Jeanne said with a shrug.
“Oh. All right. What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Oh, buttons!” Paris exclaimed, scrambling out of bed. “I was supposed to meet someone!” She stood, slamming her dresser drawers, pulling out a dress and blouse, grabbing up a brush for her hair. “Jennie, help me do up my bun, will you?”
“Sure.” Jeanne sat, cross-legged, behind her on the bed and began to brush while Paris attempted to squirrel into her stockings. “Who are you going to meet?”
The girl suddenly froze. When she turned to face Jeanne, it was with an unholy smile on her face. “Louis.”
Jeanne resisted rolling her eyes. “Oh, lovely. Where?”
“The library.”
That resulted in a double take. “Since when do you go to the library?” Jeanne asked.
Paris pouted prettily. “Just because I don’t go on a weekly basis or something doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I don’t go because our library is a joke. If you want anything, you need to board a bus to the city.”":""""
“So why are you going?”
Paris shrugged. “It was Louis’s idea of a place to meet.”
Jeanne hummed quietly, beginning to pull Paris’s hair back. “Why do you want him so much?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
Paris shrugged again, almost dislodging Jeanne’s hands. “He’s gorgeous. All that blond, curly hair, and those big blue eyes…plus, he looks like a scared little puppy sometimes. Don’t you want to just take him home?”
“Umm…” replied Jeanne. “You can go ahead and have him.” She was quiet for a moment, thinking. She didn’t understand Paris’s preoccupation with anything of a ‘lost puppy’ sort, Jedrick included. Nor did she understand her version of ‘gorgeous.’ Any time Paris pointed out a boy, Jeanne had to really squint to see something special. Maybe she just had a different perception of beauty.
She thought Jericho was beautiful. Paris was, too. Jedrick could have been, if his eyes were a little bit bigger, his nose a little smaller; his features were already so delicate.
