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Introduction

I ran.

For some time I heard his voice, perplexedly repentant and desperately insistent, shouting my name over and over: Esmée, Esmeé, Esmée. Soon enough it was nothing but a distant whisper—faint and dreamlike—fading slowly and surely into the inexorable drone of the forest. Panting, stumbling, tear-stained, and runny-nosed, I pressed forward, exhausted and miserable, and yet driven by the juvenile impulse to get as far from him and that mortification as I could.

I should have known that there was no easy way of escaping it. I think I did, though I was too shaken to think rationally about anything. Even as I was sprinting shakily through the verdant forest, I felt the unshakable weight of it all. How could I possibly ignore it? It—all of that horrible scene—hovered precariously in the back of my mind, waiting for the moment to strike.

And of course it did, the moment my legs give out beneath me and I tumbled clumsily onto the damp forest bed of rotting leaves and moist earth. I did not move. I merely laid there tremulously, unable (or unwilling) to tear myself from wallowing in the multitudinous seas of self-loathing and regret.

His eyes, dark and disbelieving, blinking at me abjectly… as if there was nothing in the world more repulsive to him than what I had said… Mon dieu! Had his voice ever sounded so terribly strained? So wavering in its deep and throaty timbre? "Esmée, I cannot… Désolé… I-I don't know what to say. It's just… Je ne sais pas. I… You're so young…"

So young… and stupid, yes. Dirt, sweat, and tears coalesced ingloriously. I hiccoughed wretchedly and struggled for breath. Oui… que stupidée! Who but a child would throw such a self-indulgent tantrum? Who but a child would run away? Who but a child would be so delusional?

It was juvenile, perhaps, but I could hardly stomach the thought of facing them all again. It would be thankless—et très cruelle—to leave without saying goodbye, or "Merci", or "Vous j'aime beaucoup". It would be terrible to never tell them that they were the only family I'd ever known.

But I could not bear to go back, knowing that he would only ever say "mon petit chèrie" in that maddeningly paternal tone. Did he know what a torture it was? Could he possibly understand how near I was to screaming when he sang out those words with a condescending grin? Those very same words might easily be whispered tenderly between lovers and sealed with a kiss. Perhaps he never thought of that. I could not help it. It was all I could think.

But I would never be anything more to him than the child I'd been when we met. The timid five-year-old who smiled only for him, who trailed behind him tirelessly and trustily, who was so hopelessly enamored with him that she dreamt of his face at night and longed for the day when she would be old and pretty enough for him to love with… Bon sang!

No wonder he saw me the same. I was old enough by my reckoning, but I had not changed at all.

'So young'? Certainement! As far as he was concerned, I might as well be five!

I would not go back. I could not.

"Je t'aime, Aristide," I murmured into the dark heart of the forest, wiping off my face with a quivering sigh. "Plus que tout le monde, et toujours."

And so I climbed unsteadily to my feet and began to walk, not knowing where it was I was headed.