I have not been tempted to tell him my truth. There’s no reason to do so. He thought my clothing seemed odd but chalked it up to fashion. If he thinks I seem odd—which I am certain I do—he has chalked that up to my quirks of character. I do not need to tell him I have not yet been born. I will never need to tell him that. We will enjoy our time together, and then he will bid me a fond adieu, and we will part with him being none the wiser, which avoids any conversation in which he might need to assess my sanity.

I will not grieve for what is yet to come. Or, if I do, I will allow it only as a reminder that these incredible moments with an incredible man will come to an end, and he will leave me with memories I shall cherish forever.

19

I wake to a most delicious smell, rich and deep and vaguely familiar. I reach for Nicolas, only to find the blanket empty. I crack open my eyes to see him sitting cross-legged on the other side of a low fire. He has what looks like a small cup beside him, steam wafting from it. He’s sketching and engrossed in it, biting his lip in a way that makes my heart give a little flutter, it is so boyishly earnest.

I keep watching him until his gaze lifts to mine.

He gives a start. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long. How do you feel? You must be sore from your fall last night.”

He smiles. “Did I fall last night? I scarcely remember. The end to the evening seems to have wiped my memory quite clean of the rest.”

My cheeks heat.

“And how are your injuries faring?” he asks.

“Also oddly driven from my mind. You are drawing something?”

“You, of course.”

He turns the pad to show a sketch of me asleep on the blanket. I am naked, as I am in life, but he has artfully rearranged my hair and my legs to cover the most private parts.

“It is lovely,” I say.

“One cannot do anything else with such a subject. I believe I could draw a hundred of you, chérie, and still not feel I have truly done you justice, nor tire of the attempt.”

He says it so simply and honestly that I am doubly flattered, and I must cover my blush by lifting my head to look about.

“What is that I smell?” I ask.

He lifts that tiny cup. “You have not drunk coffee before, crécerelle?”

I make a face as I thump back to the floor. “My brother-in-law is fond of it. Foul stuff.”

“Your brother-in-law can easily procure it?” His brows rise. “That is a feat in this country.”

I hesitate, confused, until I realize we are a half century before my time, and I quickly say, “He is in shipping. He can easily procure most things, even that dread brew. No offense intended.”