Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 100: The Theft
Uxmal, Yucatán, 1829
Studying the glyphs at Uxmal takes several months. Ixchel is concerned that Harrington continues to hover around Yalitza. He’s careful not to do anything overt, but he’s a constant presence in the background. Yalitza is at an impressionable age and feeling the changes brought on by puberty. Despite the difference in their ages, she is susceptible to Harrington’s wiles. Ixchel does her best to protect her, but Yalitza is headstrong and values her growing independence. I do my best to protect Yalitza, but my influence over Harrington’s mind is temporary at best.
The air is warm and still when night settles. The sky is a bowl of stars. Ixchel sleeps lightly beneath a woven blanket, her hand resting near her wrist ... near me ... as though she senses danger even in dreams.
Yalitza sits outside, perched on a low limestone step, polishing the little moon‑stone Harrington gave her. She hums softly, proud of herself, proud of being seen.
I feel her pulse ... bright, eager, trusting.
Then footsteps approach. Harrington emerges from the shadows, carrying his sketchbook under one arm. His smile is gentle, almost apologetic.
“Yalitza,” he whispers, “still awake?”
She brightens. “I wanted to finish polishing the stone you gave me.”
“It suits you,” he says. “You have a good eye for detail.”
She beams.
I feel Ixchel stir faintly in her sleep ... a ripple of unease ... but she doesn’t wake.
Harrington sits beside Yalitza, lowering himself to her height. “I’ve been thinking about your question earlier.”
“Which one?”
“How you can help Ixchel.”
Yalitza’s breath catches. “I want to.”
“I know,” Harrington says softly. “And you can.”
He opens his sketchbook. Inside are diagrams of Venus, the lunar node, the Maya glyphs ... all drawn with meticulous care.
“I’ve been studying the cycle,” he says. “But there’s one piece I can’t understand without seeing it directly.”
Yalitza tilts her head. “Which piece?”
Harrington’s gaze drifts ... just for a moment ... toward Ixchel’s sleeping form.
Then to her wrist. To the bracelet.
“The bracelet,” he says gently. “Just for a moment. I only need to sketch the symbols.”
Yalitza hesitates. I pulse sharply ... warning, pleading. But my ability to communicate directly with Yalitza is something I think we’ve lost forever now that she’s older.
Harrington’s voice is soft, warm, careful.
“I’ll give it right back,” he says. “Before Ixchel wakes. She’ll never know. And you’ll have helped her more than anyone else.”
Yalitza’s fingers tighten around the star‑stone.
“She trusts you,” Harrington says. “And she trusts me. We’re scholars, all of us.”
Yalitza looks at Ixchel ... sleeping, peaceful, unaware.
She wants to be helpful. She wants to be grown. She wants to be worthy of Ixchel’s pride.
Her hand trembles. Then she reaches for the bracelet. The moment her fingers close around the bracelet, I feel the binding wrench.
A violent, tearing shock ... not physical, but cosmological ... ripping through the fragment and through me. The hum becomes a scream inside my mind.
Ixchel gasps in her sleep, clutching her wrist.
Yalitza freezes as Ixchel calls out. “Jeannia?”
But Harrington is already moving. He takes the bracelet with practised speed ... not rough, not cruel, but efficient, as though he has rehearsed this moment in his mind.
The instant he lifts me from Ixchel’s wrist, the world tilts. I feel the bond stretch ... thin, fragile ... then snap. A soundless cry tears through me.
Ixchel wakes with a sharp inhale, eyes wide, reaching instinctively for her wrist.
Empty.
Her face breaks.
“Yalitza?” she whispers, voice trembling. “Where...?”
Yalitza turns, smiling at first, ready to explain, ready to be praised. Then she sees Ixchel’s expression. The smile collapses.
“I ... I was helping,” she whispers. “He said...”
But Harrington is already backing away, the bracelet hidden beneath his coat, his expression calm, almost regretful.
“I’ll return it,” he says softly. “I promise.”
Ixchel rises to her feet, shaking. “Give it back.”
Harrington’s eyes flicker ... not with guilt, but with determination. “I can’t. Not yet.”
He turns. And he runs. Ixchel lunges after him, but the settlement is dark, the paths uneven, and Harrington moves with the speed of someone who has planned his escape.
Yalitza stands frozen, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I didn’t know,” she whispers. “I didn’t know.”
Ixchel stops, breath ragged, staring into the darkness where Harrington vanished.
Her hand trembles. Her voice breaks. “Jeannia...”
I reach for her ... but I am already too far. The binding pulls me toward Harrington, toward the fragment’s echo, toward the next step in the cycle.
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