My heart feels ripped out of my chest. Siaka is dead. It’s the first time I’ve felt this strongly about someone. And knowing he was murdered by such a vile leach of a man, after being betrayed by his own family, well it’s too much. I take a step toward him, and my knees buckle. Gaspard wraps a firm arm around me and walks me to the side of the casket, helping me stand. Reaching in, I brush my fingers against Siaka’s cold cheek, then tentatively begin to work the knot on the scarf.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” I hear Jeanne say from behind us, but Bran hushes her. The knot finally loosens and I slowly unwrap it, afraid of what I’ll see. Preparing myself for the torn flesh where the lifeblood poured from...my boyfriend.

The silk scarf falls to one side, and my heart stops in my chest. Siaka’s skin is perfect and smooth. The wound is gone.

“It’s healed!” I cry, and Gaspard and Bran jump into action.

Jeanne takes Gaspard’s place, propping me up so that I can watch. “Ssh,” she coos, brushing my hair out of my face.

Propping Siaka’s head up, Gaspard forces his lips open, pouring a small amount of water into his mouth. The water spills out the sides of Siaka’s mouth and his head lolls back. Bran holds Siaka’s hand between his and rubs frantically, trying to get the blood flowing again.

“Siaka,” Bran says. “Can you hear me?”

Gaspard gives the water another try, but it puddles on either side of Siaka’s head drenching the casket pillow.

“Maybe he’d respond better to someone else,” Jeanne says softly. She helps me turn so I can lean over the casket, propping me up so my legs don’t give out. I smooth Siaka’s dark curls with my fingers, then lean over and give his forehead a gentle kiss.

With all of the emotion in my heart, I say, “Siaka, wake up.”

My heart beats once. Twice. A muscle twitches in Siaka’s forehead. Then, furrowing his brow and squinting, his beautiful green eyes open and look into mine.

Chapter Twenty Seven

“Louis, what’s taking you so long?” A voice calls from outside my door. It’s Charlotte.

“Come in!”

She steps in. Her blonde hair is loosely attached with a sprig of white lilacs and tumbles down her bare shoulders over a shimmering copper floor-length dress.

“Wow, you look gorgeous.”

“And you look like a mess,” she says, laughing.

“I don’t know why I chose a real bow tie.” I yank the purple silk from beneath my starched collar. “I should have gotten a clip-on. I can’t figure this thing out.”