Chapter Ten

The Revelation

Clementine woke from her dream feeling desperate to return. She'd always felt it was one of the worst feelings in the world, to wake from a lovely dream you were enjoying; to be snatched away from her conversation with Jean – no, Jehan – before they could even begin to talk felt like a hammer to the stomach.

To her amazement, it was daylight outside, even if she felt like she'd hardly slept a wink. She showered in an attempt to ease some of the grogginess she felt, but it didn't help. She went to lectures with her mind drifting back to Jehan, to the sound of his voice and the feel of his hands on her shoulders. Noémi seemed to notice that something was wrong but didn't say anything.

She couldn't wait to go to sleep that night. She even went to bed early, at around eight o'clock, but found that sleep itself didn't come for another three hours. She spent those hours tossing and turning, her limbs growing heavier as she found herself wanting to throttle her flatmates who didn't know the meaning of being quiet.

After making herself a cup of warm milk and honey (to the amusement of Sophie and Pauline, who were still sat in the kitchen playing Facebook games on their laptops), she finally succumbed to sleep.

She was back in Jehan's bedroom before she knew it, this time sat cross-legged on the bed. He was lying beneath the covers next to her, one arm flung over his eyes, and she kept very still for a few heartbeats.

"Jehan?" she tried, looking at the sleeping man. He didn't stir. She poked his shoulder gently. "Jehan."

He dragged his arm away from his eyes, and rolled over to face her, a soft groan leaving his throat.

"Jehan," she said, a little louder, and shook his shoulder. He awoke, his whole body jerking. When he saw her, looming over him, he flung himself away from her with a windmill of his arms, tumbling over the edge of the bed.

Clementine couldn't hold back the laugh that bubbled up at the sight of him, lying on the floor in a tangle of bed sheets. "I'm sorry," she said, crawling to the edge of the bed. He stared up at her with wide eyes. "I didn't mean to scare you."

His face relaxed from one of bewilderment to one of understanding, and began to rearrange the bed sheets so his legs were no longer wrapped up in them. "I wasn't sure if you'd be back tonight," he said.

"Neither was I, but I'd hoped I would be," she replied, reaching out a hand to him. "Want some help?"

He hesitated a few seconds before placing his hand in hers. His hand was bigger than hers, and it felt warmer, his palm very smooth. There were splotches of ink along the back of it and smeared across his wrist, before his arm was obscured by the sleeves of his nightshirt.

She backed up across the bed as she helped him to his feet. "Thank you," he muttered.

"Today has been the longest day of my life," she said, kneeling with her feet tucked beneath him. She rubbed her hands on her thighs, a sign of her agitation and excitement.

"And mine," he agreed, slowly lowering himself back onto the bed. He was staring at her as if he was a cat and she was a bird he was trying not to scare away. "Sorry," he said, after a few moments. "You disappeared very suddenly last night. I fear…"

"I woke up," she explained. "That's all. I didn't want to go. We still have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

He gave a small chuckle at those words, but there was very little humour in his laughter.

"Have you managed to get over your shock from yesterday?" he said.

Clementine nodded. The night before, she had felt sick and shaky, but today she only found herself feeling excited and pleased to see him again.

"It was just a bit unexpected," she said.

"That it was," Jehan agreed. "So, you said we had a lot to talk about…"

"Yes, we do." Clementine brushed her hair out of her face. "We've both been dreaming about each other, haven't we?"

"You, always you, usually with a man," he said. At the mention of the man, one of his eyes twitched. "You are in love with him, and he looks like me."

Clementine hadn't expected him to be so blunt. She raised her eyebrows.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she said. "Certainly not one that looks like you."

Jehan bit his lip. "What do you dream of when you dream of me?"

"You, usually with your friends, in some building like a restaurant," she said.

"The Café Musain, probably," Jehan said, nodding. "We meet there a lot."

"That's funny, then," Clementine said slowly. "I dream of something you recognise, and you dream of something I do not. What does it mean?"

Jehan's lips pursed together and he looked down at his hands, his fingers spread wide. "That is a very good question, Clementine, but neither of us can answer it, can we?"

Clementine twisted her fingers together. "Is it worth trying?"

"Another very good question."

"We must have to understand at some point – me, at least, because I have to make sure –" And then it happened again, as it had happened the night before; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. No amount of force could make her tongue move. It was like the muscle and flesh were fused together.

There was an alarmed look on Jehan's face and he put his hand on her shoulders again. "Whatever it is you keep on trying to tell me, stop," he advised in a soothing voice. "I do not understand much about this situation, but I understand I am not supposed to know what you have to say."

She stared into his bright blue eyes and felt her tongue unglue as the words she wanted to say to him left her mouth. The woman said your verse must not end…and I know you're going to die…

Her mind cleared a little. He was going to die, on the barricade, during a failed revolution, but Margaux had said his verse could not end – if his verse could be translated into life, which it so easily could, was her job to make sure he didn't die? But Jehan couldn't be told he was going to die – because that would be too easy. Too easy for whatever higher power was forcing this upon them.

She covered his hands, still resting on her shoulders, with hers. "I think I know what I'm supposed to do," she said. "But I can't tell you."

One side of his mouth quirked up in a sad, half-smile, and his thumb brushed over the back of her hand. "I must say, you have an unusual accent," he said, completely out of nowhere. She couldn't help but feel bewildered. "Whereabouts in France are you from?"

"I'm not," she said, her mind still half-focusing on her revelation. "I'm from England, but my grandmother is French. She's from Dieppe."

"You're English," he said. A quizzical expression flitted across his face. "But you live in France, yes?"

"I live in Paris at the moment," she said. "I'm at university."

His eyebrows raised into his hairline. "But you're a woman."

Clementine cocked her head to one side. "In the twenty-first century France, women are allowed to attend university just as men are," she said, clearing her throat and pulling away from his grip.

"Please, do not think I disapprove of the idea," Jehan said, in a reassuring voice. He let her slide away from his hands. "The opposite – I do not see why women shouldn't be educated as men are. It just – it surprised me – in a good way – to learn that, in your time, women are educated."

"A lot has changed," Clementine said.

"For the better?"

"In some ways," Clementine said, cautiously. "But things are still changing."

"But progress is made?" Jehan urged. His eyes were searching her face.

"As I said," she replied, "Things are still changing, everyday."

For a few more heartbeats, all they did was stare at each other, without speaking.

"This is a puzzle, really, isn't it," Jehan said in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "The whole thing."

Clementine nodded. "I've always hated puzzles," she said. "I'm too impatient for that. Same with mystery novels. I always want to read the ending. I used to, when I was younger – I'd read the end of the novel before I bought it, because if I didn't like the ending, I didn't see the point in wasting my money or time on it."

"But you're taking away one of the greatest pleasures of fiction," Jehan said. "When you know the ending, it loses its fun."

"Not always," she disagreed. "I remember, when I read The Iliad for the first time, I'd already watched the film – wait, never mind. Have you read The Iliad?"

"Bits and pieces, but I know the story," he answered.

"Hektor is my favourite character," Clementine said. "After Andromache. I find their story beautifully tragic – the scene where they're together, with their son, made me feel so sad. And I knew he was going to die before I read the chapter where he died. The anticipation of knowing what was going to happen just made it worse – the build up to it was worse because I knew what was going to happen."

"I see what you mean," Jehan said, slowly. "I was touched by the story of Hektor and Andromache. The way she draws him a bath…"

"She didn't think he was going to die," Clementine murmured. "She thought he was coming home, and he was going to live."

Her nerves were fraught, they must have been, because she felt tears burning in her eyes at the very idea.

She felt Jehan's hand touch her cheek.

"It will be fine," he said. "Whatever is going on here – we will work it out."

"I know," she replied, even though her mind knew that this was not a matter of 'we', but a matter of 'her' working to save his life. If she could find out how to save Jehan's life, she already knew with her whole heart that she would do everything in her power to make sure he lived.