The whole town had been singing that bloody Bobby Lee song for days. Nothing like death to make the living appreciate an artist; all the greats, their works only seemed to become valuable when it became apparent there wouldn't be any more of them. Everybody venerated the dead, didn't they? Even Lucien. Before he'd gone to Shanghai, before he'd learned of Mei Lin's fate, whole weeks had passed when he'd not thought of her at all, but now that he knew she was dead it was as if his mourning had begun afresh, and his thoughts turned to her often, to the memory of her voice, to her many virtues, and any flaws she may have possessed faded from his mind, gently erased by the venerable hand of death. Was it not the same for Jean, he wondered, Jean who still spoke her Christopher's name in a voice heavy with longing, Jean who still wore his ring and kept his pistol close? There is no love like the love of the dead, he thought, for the dead cannot wrong us ever again.
Perhaps he was simply being maudlin.
Bobby Lee had died for the sake of love, a love borne by a stranger, a love of folly, and the love of a father. Died for the sake of a lie; well, perhaps lie was too harsh a word. It was an untruth, a dream. Is this what we've come to? He wondered as he made his way back home. A little girl so confused by the world, by the workings of her own body and the very nature of life, that she does not know fact from fiction? How desperate, how sad, how small must a life be, to hang such love, and such hope, on the face of a stranger? The way the girls had cried for Bobby Lee tugged at his memory, all of them weeping for a man they'd never known, a man who - to hear his friends tell it - hadn't been worth weeping over. Did it matter who Bobby Lee had been in life? Now that he was dead, only the dream of him would linger.
"You're doing it again," Nemea's voice rumbled at him from the backseat of the car.
"I'm sorry, my darling," he told her.
"What happened to that boy is tragic but there's no need to go all moody over him. You didn't know him, either."
No, Lucien had never had the pleasure of meeting Bobby Lee. But he'd heard the song, and picked it out on the piano, and listened to Jean's sweet voice singing along to it. Bobby Lee had made music, and it had made Lucien glad, but there would be no more songs from Bobby Lee, not on this plane. The girls would not cry for him much longer; someone new, someone young and fresh would come to take his place, and Bobby would be forgotten, same as the musicians Lucien had venerated in his youth had been forgotten. Those years he'd spent in Berlin felt as if they'd happened in another life; had he ever been so young, so carefree? Had he ever been so light, so unbowed by grief?
"Lucien," Nemea growled warningly. She did so fret for him when he got like this, all bleak thoughts and grim memories.
"What would you have me think about instead?" he asked her, trying and failing to sound lighthearted.
"Something that makes you glad," she answered.
Something that makes me glad, Lucien mused to himself. There were, he supposed, a few things that made him glad. Old Agnes Clasby, irascible and short-tempered as ever, she made him glad. Li made him glad, was chiefest among the small happinesses of his life, and he had written to her already, and expected to receive a response from her any day now, and thought often of her, and his grandchild, and the unrelenting passage of time. Jean made him glad, too, Jean who was so kind to him, Jean who sang so beautifully.
"Who knew Jean could sing so well, eh?" he said.
"I think our Mrs. Beazley is full of surprises," Nemea told him wisely. Lucien reckoned that was probably true.
At last he'd arrived at home; Mattie was off in Melbourne again, but Jean would be inside, waiting for him. It was the middle of the afternoon, and no doubt she'd be busy, bustling about, industrious as ever, but perhaps he could tempt her with a cup of tea and some of her own very fine biscuits. Perhaps she would sit with him, and talk with him awhile, and perhaps that would make him glad, too.
With Nemea by his side he made his way into the house, and was greeted at once by an unexpected cacophony; the wireless, turned up nearly as loud as it would go, belting out the measures of that bloody Bobby Lee song. It was coming from the parlor, and so Lucien followed the crooning sound of the dead lad's voice, came to a stop there in the doorway and stared at the scene before him in wonder.
Jean, lovely Jean, in one of her smart skirts and that old cream colored housecoat, was making some attempt at dusting the shelves, but she was distracted from her work by efforts at dancing. A grin spread across his face as he watched her, the swing of her hips, the playful gestures of her arms. She was singing, loud and carefree, and Halcyon was wheeling through the air above her head, joining his voice to hers, and the sound of them singing together was quite the loveliest thing Lucien had ever heard.
I ought to leave them to it, he thought, for Jean looked quite happy, and would no doubt be embarrassed at having been caught out, and he did not want to trouble her, did not want to be the reason care settled once more on her shoulders. He turned to go, but he didn't have the chance to take a single step before Halcyon had caught sight of him.
"Lucien!" he called shrilly, and Jean gasped, and Lucien spun back around just in time to see Halcyon nearly tumble from the air in his surprise, to see Jean's cheeks flush scarlet with shame while she clutched the feather duster to her chest.
"Don't stop on my account!" Lucien called cheerfully; he almost had to shout to be heard over the racket from the wireless, and Jean raced to it at once, turned the volume down to a much more bearable level, though he noticed she didn't turn it off entirely.
"I do beg your pardon, Jean," he told her. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Please, enjoy yourself."
"Oh, I think I've heard enough," she said breathlessly.
Lucien frowned. She had been quite happy, until she knew that she had an audience, and now she was not happy at all, and that didn't sit well with him. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering just what had happened to her, just why she was so reserved, so withdrawn at times, so dreadfully careful, while her daemon was bright and energetic and curious. Something had blunted the charm of Jean's own nature, but she could not hide Halcyon from him, and the little kingfisher revealed more of her secrets than Jean had ever done herself.
"It reminds me of the dances we used to have," Lucien said. "In Singapore, before the war."
The song was still playing and he had half a mind to turn the volume back up, and so he began to approach her, and the wireless, very slowly, with Nemea padding along silently behind him.
"We had dances here, too, you know," Jean told him. He knew that was true; there had been dances in Australia, and in England, even during the war; the lads who were stationed there would go out, and find some charming girl, and spin her all around a crowded room while she laughed, and they would be glad, and then they would go off to die, and leave behind only dreams.
"Though I'm not sure we ever played anything quite like this," she added quickly.
"No," he said, grinning. "I imagine not."
Lucien had always been rather fond of swing music, and as he looked at Jean he found himself wondering if she was, too. If she knew how to dance, really dance. He imagined it, for a moment, Jean in a frilly skirt, in his arms, letting him hoist and twist and spin her. Imagined her laughter, and her soft lips pressed against his cheek, and it was his turn to blush, now.
"Still, you managed to dance to this just fine," he said cheekily, and she swatted at him with her feather duster, a wry expression on her face.
"Oh, we love to dance, don't we, Jean?" Halcyon said then, fluttering down to land on her shoulder. "But it's been ever so long. We never get the chance to dance, any more."
"Lucien is a fine dancer," Nemea said, and Lucien spun to look at her, flabbergasted. Now why on earth had she said that? Her golden eyes were full of mischief and he spun back towards Jean, his mouth open to make an apology.
"Oh, well, that's perfect, isn't it, Jean?" Halcyon said, butting his head gently against her temple. "You can dance with Lucien."
For a moment they were silent, staring at one another, two gunslingers frozen in a face off they'd wandered into by mistake. Their daemons had well and truly trapped them both; there was no way, he thought, for him to tell Jean he didn't want to dance with her, and the truth was, of course, that he did want to dance with her. He found he wanted that very much, just now. He wanted to banish grim thoughts of death and embrace his life instead, and there were few activities that made him feel more alive than dancing. And she was beautiful, and clever, and kind, and musically inclined, and surely she'd make a fine partner, and surely, he thought, surely it would be wonderful to hold her, for a minute or two. But would she want to dance with him?
He half expected her to tell Halcyon to shush, to urge Lucien to leave her to her work, to make some excuse, but she didn't. She didn't, didn't admonish her daemon or turn away from him, and it seemed to Lucien that there was an expression rather like hope in her eyes, just now.
The Bobby Lee song had ended, and a slower one had started, and Lucien made up his mind right then. Carefully, trying not to startle her, he reached out and turned the volume on the wireless up, just a little.
"I think this tune is a little more our speed," he said. "What do you say, Jean?"
He held out his hand to her, and as he did he held his breath, too, watching her, and waiting. If she told him no, told him to stop being foolish, he'd not blame her. He'd be disappointed, but he would understand; what sort of a man asked his housekeeper to dance in the middle of the day? She probably thinks I'm mad, he thought.
But then maybe Jean was mad, too, for she smiled at him then, and set down her feather duster, and took his outstretched hand in her own.
"Oh, all right, then," she said. Said it like she didn't want to appear too eager, but Lucien was eager enough for both of them, and he could not hide the brilliant smile that spread across his face as he pulled her in close to him. They settled together easily; they had both known, once, how to dance. How to hold someone, where to put their hands, how to slide together, and they did it now with ease, and grace.
Slowly, very slowly he began to sway, letting his feet move only a little at a time, and Jean moved with him, followed him in a slow, easy circle there on the carpet in the parlor. In his arms she was warm, but small, delicate, almost. She smelled of rose petals, and when he turned she moved with him, and he felt her breath wash sweetly over his neck. He had found something else that made him glad; Jean, soft and close, calmed the racing of his thoughts, and quieted the distress of his heart. Dancing with Jean, he could feel the blood rushing through his veins, the sparkling sensation of the air on his skin, the turning of the world beneath his feet, and everything else, everything that was not her, faded away into nothing.
But the song faded out, too, and the announcer began to speak, and he and Jean swayed to a halt. One of his hands rested low on her back, and the fingers of the other had intertwined with hers, and her free hand was on his shoulder, her palm heavy against his jacket. For a moment he just looked at her, the shine in her blue eyes, the pink of her cheeks, the red of her lips, parted ever so slightly, the rise and fall of her chest in time to her unsteady breaths. Oh, but she was beautiful, and he wanted, very much, to tell her so.
"Thank you, Jean," he breathed. Perhaps she did not know what he was thanking her for. He was thanking her for this, for not giving up on him, for not turning her back on him when maybe she ought to, for trusting him, for being here. He was thanking her for reminding him what it meant to live.
"You're welcome, Lucien," she whispered back, and then she stepped away, and the momentary reprieve they'd found in one another shattered.
Enough, he told himself. For now, enough.
He smiled at her one last time, and then slipped quietly from the room, and as he did he heard Halcyon begin to sing, once again, that bloody Bobby Lee song. Just now, though, it did not make him sad. Just now that song made him glad to hear it; perhaps it always would, for perhaps it would always make him think of her, dancing and joyful and alive, as she always ought to be.
