Anne strolled through Saint James Park, her parasol folded. It was one of those rare, fine mornings, the sky as blue as a robin’s egg and flowers blooming brightly in their beds.
The spring weather had attracted Londoners from all quarters, some having picnics in the grass, others letting their children run and shout in the open parkland. She chose a path around the lake, searching for a vacant place to sit in solitude.
And for an instant she saw a man in a black coat through the trees, his back to her. Her pulse quickened, but when he turned his face … Anne gripped her parasol and continued walking.
She’d never spoken a word to anyone of the Beast of Gévaudan, but she kept a guilty eye on the newspapers, scanning their pages for reports of animal attacks on the French coast.
There were none. She thought perhaps the Beast had grown accustomed to its diet of deer and rabbits and no longer hungered for the flesh of men. She only hoped that would remain the case.
And on sleepless nights, of which there were many, she found solace in imagining him running through the ancient forests with the mate Gabriel had tried unsuccessfully to capture. If his she-wolf still lived, Anne knew the Beast would find her.
She’d lingered at Park Place, needing be to near those she loved. Vivienne and Alec had tried to distract her, each in their own way, her brother with his laboratory and Vivienne by dragging her out to parties.
They had such passion for each other. Too much, perhaps, to become lovers. Yet Anne sensed a new tenderness between them, as though old walls had cracked — if not tumbled down.
Neither would admit this, of course.
Henry Sidgwick had offered her an assignment in Brazil following up on sightings of a curupira, little fairies with orange hair and backwards feet. Anne turned it down.
She was starting to feel the old restlessness, but she had stayed in London.
Just one more week, she’d told herself the day before. Then I’ll go.
Now she found an empty bench beneath the willows and sat down, her heart beating a little faster as took the letter from her pocket.
It had arrived in the early morning post and she’d been sure to get to it before anyone saw. In fact, she’d been keeping a close eye on the post.
She studied the exquisite penmanship, the exotic postmark.
It was the second letter to arrive at Park Place, although the first been addressed to Mr. Alec Lawrence and was delivered three days after Gabriel leapt from the tower. It was dated the day of her birthday, just as he had promised her.
The language was curt, but in essence it said exactly what Gabriel had claimed. That he would trade Vivienne’s cuff for the rose cross and set Anne free. Further instructions would follow. The signature was a harsh scrawl.
This letter was different. It was addressed to her and the script had been formed with care, with many flourishes. She raised the envelope to her nose and fancied she could smell coffee and flowers and a hint of him.
Anne had waited to read it until she was alone. She glanced around, half expecting Gabriel to be watching, although she knew in her heart he was far away.
The page contained three lines.
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth.
La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve, Anne.
Yours always, La Belle
She recognized the first passage. A quote from Frankenstein, the last book she’d read aloud to him. It was her favorite for the scientific bits and his for the terrible pathos of the monster.
As for the second, the words were simple enough to translate, even with Anne’s rusty French.
Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.
Something sweet and deep stirred in her as she watched the young mothers pushing prams and couples strolling arm in arm.
It didn’t feel like a final parting.
It felt more like … an invitation.
Anne examined the stamp. She smiled and tucked the letter in her pocket.