“Sieur Philippe worked on this letter for over an hour. He made me read it back to him when he finished, to be sure that it captured what he wanted to say.”
“When?” Matthew asked hoarsely.
“The day he died.” Alain’s expression was haunted.
The shaky handwriting belonged to someone too old or infirm to hold a pen properly. It was a vivid reminder of how much Philippe had suffered. I traced my name. When my fingertips reached the final letter, I dragged them across the surface of the envelope, pulling at the letters so that they unraveled.
First there was a pool of black on the envelope, and then the ink resolved into the image of a man’s face.
It was still beautiful, though ravaged with pain and marred by a deep, empty socket where once a tawny eye had shimmered with intelligence and humor.
“You didn’t tell me the Nazis had blinded him.” I knew that my father-in-law had been tortured, but I had never imagined his captors had inflicted this much damage. I studied the other wounds on Philippe’s face. Mercifully, there weren’t enough letters in my name to draw a detailed portrait. I touched my father-in-law’s cheek gently, and the image dissolved, leaving an ink stain on the envelope.
With a flick of my fingers, the stain lifted into a small black tornado. When the whirling stopped, the letters dropped back into their proper place.
“Sieur Philippe often spoke with you about his troubles, Madame de Clermont,” Alain continued softly, “when the pain was very bad.”
“Spoke with her?” Matthew repeated numbly.
“Almost every day,” Alain said with a nod. “He would bid me to send everyone from that part of the chateau, for fear someone would overhear. Madame de Clermont brought Sieur Philippe comfort when no one else could.”
I turned the envelope over, tracing the raised markings on the ancient silver coin. “Philippe expected his coins to be returned to him. In person. How can I, if he’s dead?”
“Perhaps the answer is inside,” Matthew suggested.
I slid my finger under the envelope’s seal, freeing the coin from the wax. I carefully removed the fragile sheet of paper, which crackled ominously as it was unfolded.
Philippe’s faint scent of bay, figs, and rosemary tickled my nose.
Looking down at the paper, I was grateful for my expertise in deciphering difficult handwriting.
After a close look, I began to read the letter aloud.
Diana—
Do not let the ghosts of the past steal the joy from the future.
Thank you for holding my hand.
You can let go now.
Your father, in blood and vow,
Philippe
P.S. The coin is for the ferryman. Tell Matthew I will see you safe on the other side.
I choked on the last few words. They echoed in the silent room.
“So Philippe does expect me to return his coin.” He would be sitting on the banks of the river Styx waiting for Charon’s boat to bring me across. Perhaps Emily waited with him, and my parents, too. I closed my eyes, hoping to block out the painful images.
“What did he mean, ‘Thank you for holding my hand’？” Matthew asked.
“I promised him he wouldn’t be alone in the dark times. That I’d be there, with him.” My eyes brimmed with tears. “How can I have no memory of doing so?”