Redemption: Supernatural Time-Traveling Romance with Sci-fi and Metaphysics

by Jacklyn A. Lo

  It’s him, she thinks, her heart skipping a beat as she realizes who he is. The man I was dreaming about so much and for so long! The man who kicked off my new life stream! I know it’s him, without a shadow of a doubt!

  “It’s a delight to get to meet you, Isabelle,” he says as he straightens up. She looks into his eyes for any sign of recognition, but there is nothing. Not even a glimmer.

  “You too, your grace,” she replies, giving him a flirtatious look and pushing him away. “Though maybe not so close.”

  He steps back a little. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. Did you not get my letter?”

  “Your letter?” she asks, surprised.

  “Indeed. I sent it with the roses this evening.”

  “Ah. I see.” She thinks back to the pile of unopened letters. “But I’m afraid I received so many…”

  “Oh.” He takes off his hat and fiddles with it, looking embarrassed. “You are so popular, my dear.”

  She smiles self-confidently. “But of course, your grace.” She pauses, enjoying the concern in his face. Then, with her most seductive smile, she continues, “But let’s not allow my popularity to get in our way, Henri.”

  He bows to her again, and as he does so Isabelle looks over his head to see the lady-in-waiting’s jealous eye boring into her again. And not only hers, but those of the three young women gathered around her. What’s going on? An unpleasant chill runs down her spine. I wish I knew what the story was with these women. But I know nothing about palace intrigues and the gossip of the King’s court. Nothing. I don’t even know anyone on the inside, except Babette, and I’ve had no time to talk about such things with her. And why didn’t I find the time to give Babette a present to secure her favor?

  “Let’s walk a moment,” she says, slipping an arm through Henri’s in a determined effort to distract herself from this worried train of thought. “So, how long are you staying here at the palace, milord?”

  “Unfortunately not for long,” he replies, as they begin to walk around the outside of the crowd. “I have to leave Saint-Germain-en-Laye in the morning. I have urgent business with Louis de Bourbon, the King’s general. However,” he squeezes her hand gently to press his point, “it would be a wonderful pleasure for me to meet with you again, mademoiselle.”

  Pretending to stumble, Isabelle grips his arm. “Oh!” adding after a moment, with coquettish smile. “Anything is possible, Henri.” She is pleased to notice his cheeks flush and she judges this is the time to leave him… for now. As Lucie would say, Once you’ve got them hooked, let them swim for a bit so you can reel them in all the easier. She stops and lets go of his arm. “If you will excuse me, milord,” she says curtly. “There are some people I must meet with this evening.”

  “Of course,” he bows and, as she turns and walks away, she can feel his eyes still watching her and smiles contentedly. I’ve got him hooked! And I’m not even sure I really need him anymore.

  “Isabelle!” She turns at the sound of her name and it takes her a moment to spot Babette waving to her a short distance away. “Come here!”

  Babette is standing in a company of two other magnificently dressed women.

  “I want to introduce you to Lady Aurora de la Maume.” Babette indicates a tall, middle-aged woman with large teeth and a face that reminds Isabelle of a short-sighted horse. “And Lady Colette de Dallos.”

  Isabelle turns to look at this second lady and a chill runs through her again as she finds herself staring into the face of the queen’s lady-in-waiting.

  “Lady Aurora,” says Isabelle, getting a grip on herself and nodding to the horsey woman before turning to the other with another nod. “Lady Colette. We have met before, though only briefly.”

  “But of course,” says Lady Colette with a charming smile that fails to reach her eyes. Isabelle examines her carefully, taking in the pleasant features and her skin as pale as the moon reflected in the canal. “And may I say what a wonderful performance you graced us with in this evening’s opera.”

  “Thank you,” Isabelle replies, conscious that both these ladies are busy examining her in return, no doubt looking for a point of weakness they can exploit.

  “I know His Majesty, the King of France and Navarre, was delighted with it!” says Babette, nodding her agreement.

  Isabelle clears her throat, trying her best to ignore the awkwardness of the situation. “I’m glad you and His Majesty enjoyed it,” she says. “It was my pleasure to entertain you. It is wonderful to see how fully Paris has embraced the opera.” She fixes Lady Colette with her most ingratiating smile. “The King of France and Navarre seems to have developed quite a taste for opera. A real passion, you might say.” A look of concern flitters across Lady Colette’s face and her smile begins to falter.

  I don’t like the look of this, Isabelle thinks, as the women turn to general small talk about life in the court. What is Babette doing with these horrible people? They clearly don’t like me. In fact, this Colette looks at me as though she badly wishes I was dead or tortured at least! Could Babette be part of this? She looks around at the faces of the crowd and suddenly they all seem to be unfriendly, full of envy and malice. It’s not a good sign. I am surrounded by enemies, she thinks, her panic returning. I need to get out of here! Now! Why won’t these wretched women go away so I can have a moment to speak with Babette? But none of them show any signs of wishing to depart, and Isabelle is forced to carry on listening to them, nodding occasionally whenever it seems appropriate. She is not really paying any attention to them, though, but finds herself beginning to suffer with a headache and slight nausea. The wild thoughts that are dizzying her head do not help and finally she cannot take it anymore. I need to go and rest!

  “Please excuse me, Lady Aurora, Lady Colette, Lady Babette,” she says, cutting across the tedious conversation. “It’s been a long day and I must get some rest for fear off collapsing right here.” Babette doesn’t offer to accompany her and again Isabelle feels a sickening stab of worry. Somehow she finds her way back to her room, though she cannot remember how. A couple of the servants help her on the way and by the time she gets there she feels feverish from anxiety and the sense of impending trouble.

  Who can help me with the affairs of the King’s court? Her thoughts dart through the faces of all those she knows, but there is no one she can turn to, not Albert, not Henri, not even the King himself. If these women are out to get her, no one can protect her. For a desperate moment she considers going to see Lucie. After all, it was Lucie who helped me on my climb all the way to the palace. Lucie knows people… but not the right people. Lucie isn’t involved in the King’s Court and palace life herself. No, Lucie can’t help me. Nor do I have time to make new friends of influence. I’m all alone, she thinks, sitting down at her dressing table and staring at nothing. I’m in a trap like that wretched deer, in the forest, back when I was hunting for Albert. Isabelle’s head hangs down, face in her hands, as she tries desperately to think of a way out, a way to escape the envy. She knows without any doubt that those envious women want to get rid of her and they will do everything in their power to do it. Raising her head she catches sight of herself in the mirror. Look at me! She rubs her eyes and looks again at the large, black circles around them. How is that even possible in just one night?

  She goes to bed, trying to sleep, but she is shaking from her fever and spends the next hours tossing and turning, unable to settle. So she calls for her maid, Giselle, to make up a bath in her chambers in the hope that it will help stop her shivering and she can get to sleep.

  Isabelle looks at Giselle as her maid fills the tub, a small, round woman in her fifties, her face and hands rough from years of hard work. Surely, Isabelle thinks, she must know at least a little about what goes on behind the scenes here at the palace. Maybe I can get some useful piece of information from her.

  “Giselle?” she says, as she lowers herself into the steaming water.

  “Yes, milady?” Giselle’s voice is as rough as her
hands, the sort of voice a crow might have if it could speak.

  “You’ve worked here for a long time, yes? And had many other mistresses before me?”

  Giselle smiles, spreading wrinkles across her face. “Oh, indeed, milady. Many years and many mistresses. Before you there was Madame Yvaine de Beaumont, a lovely old dear if I may say so. And Mademoiselle Beatrice Dupont. She was a funny one.”

  “Quite,” says Isabelle, interrupting her quickly. “And were any of these ladies objects of envy or intrigue? Did they ever fear for their lives?”

  “Why all of them, milady.” Giselle looks surprised, as though this is obvious. “I never knew a lady in court who didn’t!”

  Isabelle considers this before asking, “So what did they do, Giselle? How did they avoid getting taken out by their enemies?”

  “Well, many of them didn’t, milady.”

  “Didn’t? But they must have tried?”

  The maid picks up a lavender scented soap tablet and begins to wash Isabelle’s back. “Oh they tried all kinds of things, milady. Some would get servants to taste their food before they ate it or get them to try on their clothes before they put them on, to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with. Some of them even used to take a small portion of poison each day to build up an immunity, though that didn’t work so well for poor Beatrice.”

  “How do you mean?” Isabelle turns to Giselle with a concerned look. “Was she poisoned?”

  “Only by herself! She took too large an amount and ended up killing herself. Sad times, milady.”

  Isabelle faces away again, hoping her maid doesn’t see the look of despair on her face. “So there really is no obvious way to avoid getting killed?”

  Giselle stops a moment and thinks about this. “Not so far as I can see, milady,” she says, carrying on washing Isabelle’s back. “If court people want someone dead, they’ll get them in the end.”

  Thanks so much for a nice, relaxing bath, thinks Isabelle. There’s nothing for it but to get away from this place. Away from the palace and the ladies in court… She just sits there as Giselle resumes washing her back. And where would I go? I won’t go back to Jean-Pierre’s house… The slums? She feels giddy at the thought of her filthy, old home and orders Giselle to wash her hair quickly so she can get out.

  And if I do that, I’ll lose everything, everything I’ve worked so hard to get, the King, Albert, Henri, all my beautiful clothes and jewelry, the Opera and palace. Everything!

  When at last she is alone and lying on her bed, she closes her eyes and is overwhelmed by a sensation that she is falling, deeper and deeper, into a vast, black cavern. Eyes glare out at her from the darkness. The eyes of the women in Court, Lady Aurora de la Maume and Lady Colette de Dallos, and the eyes of Babette, eyes full of scorn and envy and hatred. She wants to scream and opens her mouth, but she can’t make any sound. She feels like all the air has been sucked out of her and she cannot breath.

  Suddenly she bursts awake, sitting up in her bed drenched in a cold sweat, her heart beating like galloping hoof beats. Her body shivers as an icy chill envelops her, but all the same, her brief, fitful sleep has helped her. She has made up her mind. She knows now what she is going to do.

  “I’m not leaving!” she says aloud, with a steely resolve in her voice. “I am staying here in the King’s palace, no matter what!” Even as the words leave her mouth, she finds herself finally beginning to relax and feel calmer. She hurries to her desk to write out a list of all her possessions, which she decides to send in a letter to Lucie in case anything happens to her. This done, she returns to her bed and settles quickly back to sleep.

  ~

  Isabelle’s daily routine begins an hour or so after the sun has risen and she emerges from her rooms looking resplendent in her favorite dress, her face delicately powdered and rouged, to cover any trace of the dark shadows around her eyes and the anxiety of the previous night. Hanging from her neck is the locket the King gave her, held in place with the blue silk ribbon. She has been asked to join Louis’ entourage as his guests are shown around the grounds of Saint-Germain-en-Laye, waited on by a hoard of smartly dressed servants. She makes small talk with some of the other women, smiling and showing an interest in all they have to say. In the eyes of many of them she sees the same envy that was so evident in those of the queen’s lady-in-waiting, and she finds herself just going through the motions in a kind of daze.

  So many enemies, she thinks, looking around her at the faces of the crowd. So much envy built up in a single night. How long before one of these vipers decides they need to strike?

  In one of the brief breaks in the day’s activities, Isabelle sees Babette approaching her along the corridor.

  “Good morning, Babette,” she says, slightly hoping that she was mistaken about her. But Babette nods curtly and carries on her way without looking back. All right. As I suspected, she is on their side. She shakes her head sadly at the thought. And Babette is not the only one. As the days go by, more and more of the women in Court begin to shun Isabelle, excluding her from their conversations, ignoring her when she tries to speak with them, walking away when she approaches them. She joins the Kings retinue less and less frequently. This is not only because of the attitude of the women, but something strange is happening to her. She starts to lose her appetite, refusing food and drink brought to her room, and her enjoyment in life begins to wane. A mere two months after her great performance in the Opera, she sends a message to Giuseppe to cancel her singing lessons and the sound of her beautiful voice is no longer heard in the palace rooms.

  Then, a few weeks later, she cannot find the energy and the motivation to get out of bed. Nothing Giselle does seems to make any difference and, concerned for her mistress, she sends a message to the Royal Chamberlain asking him to inform His Majesty of Isabelle’s illness. Before the sun has reached its zenith, Louis’ head physician hurries in to see Isabelle, but despite his best efforts nothing he prescribes can stop her condition deteriorating and she continues to grow weaker and less interested in life.

  Both the King and Henri come to visit her in the following days and they are both clearly upset to see her in such a state. She asks them for forgiveness for being unable to greet them properly, but they brush this aside. Their care and concern give her some comfort. It is good to know that not everyone is against me, she thinks, and that there are at least some who will miss me. There is no sign of Albert, but this comes as no surprise to Isabelle, who assumes he has been poisoned against her by Babette.

  Little by little she grows sicker and weaker, until late one afternoon, having slipped the letter with the list of her possessions to Giselle, instructing her to take it to Jean-Pierre’s house and place it only in Lucie’s hand, Isabelle feels herself fading and knows her time is over. With shaking fingers, she undoes the blue silk ribbon tied around her neck and fumbles with the clasp of the locket. It slips from her fingers and drops to the floor. With the last of her reserves of strength, she reaches a hand down to find it, but it has landed somewhere out of reach. Feeling under the bed, her fingers touch something that feels like the silk ribbon. Clasping it and bringing it up to her face, she sees it is a small doll. What is most striking is the tiny silk dress it is wearing, an exact replica of the one she wore in the opera. The hair, too, matches hers. So similar is it, in fact, that it could have been taken from her own head.

  “It’s me!” she whispers, her voice hardly more than a croak, her breathing ragged and shallow. In the body of the doll, in the place its heart would be if it had one, there is a single needle skewing it through. With shaking fingers, Isabelle reaches up to pull it out, but she has no strength left and her arms drop. The doll slips from lifeless fingers and the darkness closes in. A single tear glides down her cheek and Isabelle quietly passes away.

  Chicago, U.S.A. 2045

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ann blinked her eyes open, taking a moment for them to adjust to the light of a burning candle. She felt drained, wor
se than any of the previous times she had woken on this couch.

  “How long was I out?” she asked, turning her head to peer at the psychic.

  As before, the old woman was lighting another candle, the black one with the calming scent. “Oh, a couple of hours or so.”

  “A couple of hours?” Ann was surprised. She felt as though she’d been out more than a year! She rubbed a hand across her weary head. Beneath the tiredness there was a terrible sadness at seeing yet another death in her life stream. She had only just come to terms with the idea that Mi had died for freedom and Ra for love, but Isabelle… why did she have to have such a tragic end? Surely her fate could have been different?

  “Do you know what fate is?” asked Ann, sitting up and turning round to face the psychic.

  The old woman paused before giving her answer. “Fate is simply a script that is written for you.”

  “And can I change that script? Can I alter my fate?”

  “Of course not!” said the psychic. “No one can change their fate. It’s written for you and only for you, for your personal way to perfection. But you can make your own choice of how you react to what is written in that script.”

  Ann looked confused. “You mean fate and freewill are somehow compatible? That they co-exist?”

  “Exactly.” The psychic beamed, spreading a network of wrinkles across her face. “Now then, dear. Would you care for some tea?”

  ~

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Ann tried to focus on Rob’s screen. This third visit to the psychic had really taken it out of her. Thankfully she didn’t have to concentrate on driving, having decided to take the tunnel and leave the car in the safe hands of the SmartDrive system.

  “Mademoiselle?” repeated Rob, who was busy waving a hand to get her attention, dressed up in a black moustache and white jabot.

  “Yes, very funny, Rob,” she said. “What is it?”