Chapter Eighteen

The One

After throwing on a pair of leggings and a dress over the top, Clementine put on her shoes and grabbed her bag from where it sat on her desk chair. She checked to make sure that everything she needed was inside it – her mobile phone, her purse, Jehan's book – and then she swung it over her shoulder and left her room, locking the door behind her.

It had been very warm out for the past few days and she knew that she'd want a drink sooner or later when she was out, so she decided to stop and fetch a bottle of water from the kitchen.

To her surprise, Noémi was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. "Morning," she said.

"Morning," Clementine replied. She opened the fridge, ducking down to get a bottle of water from her shelf.

"You're leaving already?" Noémi lowered a spoonful of cereal back into the bow before her, a frown marring her brow. "Our class isn't for another hour yet, you've not even showered…"

Clementine shut the fridge door and tucked the cold bottle into her bag. "No, I know," she said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. She hadn't even bothered to brush her hair in her hurry to leave the flat. She dragged her fingers through her hair now, hoping to rearrange it into an acceptable state. "I'm not going to class, I'm going out."

"Out?" Noémi looked puzzled. "But you are coming back for class, aren't you?"

Clementine shrugged. "Uh, I'm not really sure," she said. "It depends on how things go. I've got some things to do."

"You can't miss class," Noémi objected. "You've never missed class – not once, not since you've moved here!"

"I'm not intending to, but I might run a bit late," Clementine said. "I'll just slip in at the back, no one will notice."

Noémi looked like she was going to complain a bit more so Clementine waved her hand at her. "I'll see you later," she promised, before hurrying out of the flat.

III

She had worried that it would be too early for the fortune teller's to be open, but it was. Margaux was sat behind the counter, today wearing an oversized, red velvet top with short sleeves; her hair was in two long braids, and from one ear hung a spoon, and from the other hung a fork. A yellow scarf was tied in a bow around her neck.

"I had wondered when I would see you next," Margaux said, drumming her bright blue fingernails on the countertop. "Come through."

In the small back room, Clementine sat down on the overstuffed green chair. Margaux drifted past her, her floor-length black skirt dragging over the wooden floorboards.

"How have you been?" Margaux said.

"I'm fine," Clementine said.

"I must say, you do look happier now," Margaux commented, lowering herself into the wooden chair opposite the round table. "But I guess that's what the first blossoming of love does for a girl."

Clementine felt her cheeks heat up. "I wouldn't call it love."

"No, neither would I," Margaux said, a gleam in her eye. She leaned her elbows on the table and linked her fingers together, her numerous golden rings clinking together. "It is much more complicated than that. Too often do you normal people dismiss feelings as love when there could be so much more involved."

"Well, that's why I'm here," Clementine said. "I want to ask you about…Jehan and I."

"Jehan," Margaux echoed. "You call him Jehan. How sweet."

"He prefers it," Clementine explained. "His…his friends call him Jehan. That's what he said."

"And he's quite right, they do." Margaux examined her thumbnail. "So, what is it you wanted to ask? Specifically, I mean."

"Last night – when I was talking to Jehan – he said that something has forced us together, so it must be able to find a way for us to be together," Clementine let out in a rush. "Is he right?"

"That's not what you want to know," Margaux responded. "There is another idea in your head, Clementine. Why don't you say it out loud? This might be your only chance."

Clementine stared down at the tabletop. She cleared her throat. "Is…Is my…job, the whole reason for me meeting Jehan – is it because he's – I feel so silly for saying this – the one?"

"The one," Margaux repeated, a small smile playing on her bright, cherry-red lips. "Are you referring to soul mates? Are you asking if he is your other half, the person you're destined to be with?"

The blush on Clementine's cheeks deepened considerably. Her face felt too hot to bear. "I suppose that's what I'm asking, yes," she said. "Oh, but it sounds so silly when you say it out loud. I'm twenty. I'm…I'm too young for this. I haven't even finished my degree yet and I'm in love with a man from another century."

"Stranger things have happened," Margaux said, waving one hand in a dismissive way. "Don't feel embarrassed about it. So that is the reason you came here? You want to know the answer to what your purpose is?"

"Yes."

"I told you that you would not be happy if the verse of Jean Prouvaire ended," Margaux said. "Did you decipher the clue?"

"I…I thought it meant he couldn't die," Clementine said. "At the barricades, or whatever it is that's going to happen to him –"

"You were right when you said the barricades," Margaux said. "So you have deciphered the clue to mean that you must stop Jean Prouvaire from dying, otherwise, you will not be happy."

"Pretty much." Clementine pushed her hair out of her eyes. It sounded so silly to her own ears.

"And then your final question is does this mean Jean Prouvaire is your soulmate," Margaux continued.

Clementine swallowed.

"The answer to that question lies with you, not me." Margaux sat back in her seat, laying her hands flat on the table. "It depends on what you believe happiness entails. If you think it means finding the one…"

"I've never really thought about it," Clementine admitted. "But…I've always thought I'd get married and have children and find the one…So I've no reason to think that isn't what would make me happy."

"There is your answer, then." Margaux cocked her head to one side. "Ensuring that Jean Prouvaire doesn't die means you live your life with the one and you are happy. That is your job."

She leaned over the table, her eyes widening a fraction. "Well done, Clementine, you cracked the code," she said. "Now, do me a small favour: get Jean Prouvaire's book out of your bag and check page 100."

Clementine frowned. "But…"

"Just do it," Margaux commanded.

Without speaking, Clementine reached for her bag and pulled out Jehan's copy of Aeschylus' plays. She flipped to the hundredth page of the book, making sure that none of the numerous notes that now filled it since Jehan had started leaving her messages fell out.

And there it was, what Margaux obviously wanted her to see. Scrawled in the middle of the page, over the top of the text, a passage from Seven Against Thebes.

GENERAL LAMARQUE IS DEAD

She read the message again, and then again, and then too many times to count; her mind raced at a million miles an hour. "But didn't…didn't his death prompt the rebellion?" she asked, her question quiet.

She looked up at Margaux. Margaux pursed her lips, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged, all in one movement.

"I suggest you go home and find out," she said. "Until we meet again, Clementine."