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“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable if you’re going to be babysitting me?” Arthur suggests. He nods toward an overstuffed armchair across the room. I drag it near the bed and try to sit in a way that I can hold the notebook on my knee while trying to still look somewhat competent—I want to nail my very first job in La Maison. But the chair’s so deep and cushy that I finally give up and scoot back, fold up my legs, and let it envelop me.
Arthur eats a few more things from the tray, then leans back and closes his eyes. I read in the notebook’s previous entries that Bran and Siaka have tried four variations of potions on Arthur over the last few years. Side effects have ranged from temporary blindness (only temporary because the next time Arthur was dormant, his body reset and reanimated with sight intact) to the humiliating hair loss Bran mentioned. From the dates, it looks like Bran spaces out treatments by at least six months. Probably to measure long term effects—whether negative or positive.
I flip through to some sections further back listing non-medicinal treatments they’ve tried. Acupuncture, meditation, aromatherapy... “Thermal baths?” I ask incredulously.
Arthur opens his eyes, sees what I’m reading, and smiles. “Yeah, that was one of my favorites. Gaspard arranged a one-month stay in Ischia.” Noting my lack of recognition, he explains. “It’s a volcanic island off the coast of Italy. Famous for the healing hot springs on its beaches.”
“Wow. That must have been really difficult for you,” I say with mock pity.
“Yeah, even more difficult because I convinced my girlfriend—I mean, Georgia—to come with me.” He grins slyly.
“Definitely better than cat-piss flavored potion,” I agree. “So, are you not supposed to use the label ‘girlfriend’?”
Arthur leans his head back, as if the mere subject exhausts him, but his grin remains. “Georgia is Georgia. She isn’t my girlfriend because she isn’t anyone’s anything, as she likes to put it.”
“But, from what Siaka says, you’re doing all these...” I gesture to the notebook, “...experiments for her.”
“That is true.” Arthur’s smile dissipates. “But then, I would do anything for her.” No more joking around. Now he’s one hundred percent earnest.
“Let me get this right.” I lean forward out of my chair-cocoon. “You’re how old?”
“I was born in 1472.”
“So, you’re over five hundred,” I say. “I thought the desire to die grows less over the years. That bardia like you...”
“Us geriatrics?”
I laugh. “Yeah. That you can hold out for a really long time before feeling the urge to die saving someone.”
“That’s true. We can hold out,” he replies. “I could age along with Georgia until I was around fifty. Sixty maybe. But after that, it would be like she was living with a drug addict. I’ve done it before. Let’s just say I’m not the most pleasant person to be around after a thirty-year stretch.” Looking tired, he closes his eyes, inhales deeply, then continues.
“So, let’s say Georgia and I make it to fifty. Okay, she would be fifty-three and I would be fifty. I died a few months ago—accident—so she’s technically three years older than me.”
“Does that bother her?” I ask.
“Au contraire. She loves it. Calls herself a cougar,” he says, wryly. “But if we both make it to fifty, she’ll be at the prime of life. And I’ll be bad tempered and shaky and itching to dive in front of every jaywalking pedestrian in hopes of getting run over by a delivery van.”
He opens his eyes, pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip. “Already I can’t offer her children, which she claims she doesn’t want anyway. Then, there’s the fact that I’m an integral part of an insular group of supernatural beings whose entire existence is dedicated to a cause. But she insists she’s a part of the group too, since her sister is the Champion. I just feel like if I can get this one thing sorted out, maybe she will have me.”
“Because she won’t have you now?”
“At twenty-three, who knows what they want?” he replies. “She’ll move here with me for a few days, then goes running back to her apartment in Batignolles saying she needs space. Or I’ll stay there with her, and after a couple weeks when I offer to help pay for utilities or something, she freaks out and says, ‘What do you think we are, grown-ups?’”
“Wait. Doesn’t she have to be a grown-up to pay her bills?”
“She put everything on automatic payment. And she has this online assistant who takes care of all the other ‘boring details’ of her life.”
“She has an assistant?” I’m not sure why this is so surprising to me.
“Georgia runs her own extremely successful event planning business,” Arthur replies, proudly. Which seems kind of messed up. He’s been saving lives for five centuries and she throws parties. Shouldn’t she be the one who’s proud to be with him?
Noticing my expression, he laughs. “I know. Event planning sounds frivolous, right? Like non-stop parties. That is how it started. Georgia’s always been the consummate party girl, so it was a natural extension of her personality. But get this....”
He leans toward me, eyes bright with excitement. “For every ten launch parties, corporate functions, or celebrity mixers she organizes, she hosts a charity benefit. She’ll get Adidas to sponsor a dance party for underprivileged teens, where every kid goes home with a pair of top-of-the-line shoes. Or get Red Bull to pay for ski camp for inner-city kids whose families normally wouldn’t be able to send them to the Alps. Believe me, Louis. This girl is one of a kind.”
When he talks about Georgia, Arthur’s face is transfigured. His handsome features radiate joy. And I feel that pang again. The pang of craving. Of desire. Not just the desire to fit in—to have a group who accepts and values me. But to have my own person to love. Someone I can feel for like Arthur feels about Georgia.
He interrupts my musing with his own question. “So, I’m barely back to life here, but I couldn’t help notice some...frostiness between you and Siaka.”
Wow. Is it that obvious? “Um, yeah, I guess five years in Brittany was enough time to lose all my social skills. It might take me a while to get used to being around people,” I say.
“Is that it?” Arthur asks. “You seemed to get on extremely well yesterday. Maybe well enough to cause a conflict of interest?”
Oh my god. Georgia has definitely talked to him about what she saw between me and Siaka. Or, rather, me toward Siaka. “Um, that’s not... It’s not!” I sputter. “I mean, you guys brought me here to do a job. And that’s totally what I’m going to do. ‘Conflict of interest’ can’t come into it. That’s why I’m determined to keep things professional.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun.” He masks a smile by popping a grape into his mouth.
“Is ‘fun’ supposed to come into it when you’re entrusted with a project that has world-changing potential?” I ask.
“Preferably,” Arthur replies, amused. “I am of the personal belief that fun should be had in every serious endeavor. In fact, the more serious a project, the more fun is needed.”
I can see he’s not joking. I don’t know how to respond, so we sit in silence.
“I’m not trying to interfere, or anything,” he says finally. “But I would like to tell you something about your new ‘colleague.’ A few months after his mom died, he joined me and Ambrose as counselors for one of Georgia’s ski camps. You should have seen him with that group of kids.
“I don’t care how a person acts around their peers or out in public. Get them around a kid who is starved for love, and you will see the ‘real’ them come out. People either detach and become distant or they open up. And I’m telling you, I’ve never seen anyone give of himself like Siaka did for those disadvantaged, attention-deprived kids. He was a hero. The real deal.
“So whatever questions you might have...” Arthur looks at me intently, “I can assure you he is worthwhile. The best of people. You can trust him, Louis. Don’t let doubt, especially self-doubt, get in the way. If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s been to not let the details get in the way of something profound. Whatever that something may be.”
“I don’t,” I start, but falter. “I’m not sure...”
“Don’t respond,” he replies. “Just think about it. And now, shouldn’t we be getting on with the patient supervision? Because right now, I can feel that cat piss coming back up, and things are about to get ugly.”