Chapter Twenty-three

The day and night passed somehow, in pacing and uneasy sleep. And the next day I smoothed my skirts, wiped my face as best I could, combed my hair with my fingers, and stood, waiting for the door to open.

I looked about the cell. I had served my time here, as long as I had served my lady. I stood in the very center of it, in the square of dust-filled light from the window, a strong, keen light, for it was now midday.

I had thought these walls would be my tomb. I had lain on the floor, unable to lift my head, my clothes seeped through with damp, waiting for death. And now I must fix all my thoughts upon Jean, his newfound bravery, his will. If he could be bold, quick, persuasive as I knew myself to be, then they would let me out. I would leave here forever, and not with a rope about my neck.

And then what?

I pushed away that thought. It was too big, too uncertain. And it was now too late to ponder it. I was in the grip of my strange fate, and would see it through. I would marry the hangman.

Something glittering in the corner caught my eye. Stooping, I gathered up the fragments of my broken mirror. It was mostly shards, silver slivers too little for any use, but there were one or two larger pieces. Careful of my fingers, I found the bent and twisted frame and laid the shards of mirror inside it, seeing the oval of glass take shape. There were gaps and cracks, but there it was.

Peering into it, I was surprised, almost, to see I had exactly the same face. I thought perhaps that all my trials and desperate ventures would have marked me more. But I was still a thin, spindling, pale thing, with dark hair hanging loose, quick eyes, a small determined mouth. I was a little older, and I looked tired, but I was the same girl who had stood looking into Madame Pommereau’s mirror. Even in my prison smock, I was still myself, as I had been in my borrowed finery and the rags of my parents’ home.

The sight of my face troubled me, for the missing slivers gave the effect of holes, as if I were unstable, shifting, unreal. I thought of my future life. My reflection put me in mind of conjuring the woman in the mirror: Show me a husband. Now I would see him plain. The red-haired, fierce, dreaming boy who’d chased me through the streets; the young recruit, arrogant and full of watchful fear, wishing for great things, terrified of shame. And now the hangman, whatever that would mean.

Whatever I had whispered in the dark, I knew we would both shrink from the knowledge of what it was he did, what necks he broke, what tears or prayers he heard. I would make a haven for him, a place to forget the lives he took. I understood that I must do that now and forever. I must give him a place to make up for what I had asked him to become. What he had become, for me. I must make it up to him, in gratitude for my salvation. It felt, in that moment, a burden too great to bear.

I shivered. What would we say when we saw each other for the first time? In the light, no walls, what would we find to say? Would he remember me? Would I disappoint him? Would we love each other, as I had promised?

I strained to hear the key turning in the lock, opening the door of my cell. But all was still. What if he had failed in the task, seeming only a timid boy unhardened to the world? What if they had laughed at his petition, and mocked him for being taken in by me, called me a whore as the warden had done? Indeed, what if Jean had changed his mind, and would not come for me? Seeing the air, the day, the bustle of the town, all the richness of life outside these walls, perhaps he would discover that I had asked for what he could not give. It is easy to feel the magic of a stranger in such a dreary place, but with the whole world open before him, I might fade.

I looked again into the mirror. I saw the set of my chin, the life of my eyes. I would not fade. I would triumph. Jean would neither fail nor forget me. I had won, against all odds, against death, against the fate others had set before me. Anyone who liked might call me shameful, but I would not feel shame.

I would be free. And I would carry with me my escape, and whatever waited beyond these walls, that knowledge would give me strength. I nodded to my reflection. And then I smiled.

Behind me, I heard the door open. I gathered up the pieces of my mirror and hid them in my pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Françoise. Come out.”

And I turned and walked through the low doorway to where he stood, waiting for me.

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