Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 110: Growing Together
Evergreen Valley, California, 1862–1868
Time moves differently when you are bound. For me, years pass like seasons ... warm, cool, bright, dim ... each one shaped by the pulse of the wearer. For Rebecca, time is a river, carrying her from childhood into adolescence with a speed she barely notices.
We grow together.
Not in the same way ... I grow because she wishes it, because her mind shapes my form, because her pulse pulls me forward ... but the effect is the same. Each year, she becomes taller, stronger, more thoughtful. And each year, I match her, my corporeal form shifting subtly to mirror her age. By the time she is eight, she no longer sees me as a magical playmate. She sees me as a sister. Her brothers seem almost relieved that they don’t need to include Rebecca in their games.
We spend our days in the orchard, weaving between rows of orange trees, climbing low branches, racing along the irrigation ditches. Rebecca’s laughter fills the valley, bright and unrestrained. I laugh with her ... not because I must, but because her joy is contagious.
She teaches me games she invents on the spot. I teach her how to listen to the land.
“Jean Genie,” she says one afternoon, lying on her back beneath a tree, “how do you always know when it’s going to rain?”
I tilt my head, listening to the faint hum of moisture gathering in the air. “The leaves tell me.”
She giggles. “Leaves don’t talk.”
“They do,” I say. “Just not with words.”
She rolls onto her side, studying me with the seriousness she reserves for magic. “Will you teach me?”
I nod. “If you listen long enough, you’ll hear it too.”
She tries. She always tries.
Rebecca is not a child who expects magic to do everything for her. She wants to understand it, to meet it halfway, to learn its language rather than command it.
That is rare, precious and beautiful.
Sarah watches us constantly. Not with suspicion ... that faded after the first year ... but with a protective vigilance shaped by her past. She stands at the edge of the orchard, arms folded, eyes narrowed, reading the world for danger.
She sees everything. She sees Rebecca’s growing confidence. She sees my growing presence. She sees the way we move together, think together, breathe together.
Sometimes she calls Rebecca back early, claiming chores or lessons. Sometimes she asks me to help with small tasks ... carrying baskets, fetching water ... not because she needs my help, but because she wants to understand me.
Sarah asks questions quietly, carefully.
“Can you feel pain?”
“Do you sleep?”
“Do you remember my mother?”
I answer honestly.
“Yes ... No ... Yes.”
She listens, absorbing each answer like a stone sinking into deep water.
Sarah never asks the question she fears most: ‘Will you take my daughter from me?’
She doesn’t need to. She knows the answer. Rebecca has the same streak of independence that Yalitza had at her age.
By the time Rebecca is ten, her wishes change. They are no longer about dolls or blossoms or finding lost toys. They are about understanding, about connection, about the quiet mysteries she senses but cannot name.
One evening, she sits beside me on the porch steps, her knees drawn to her chest. The sky is streaked with orange and gold, the foothills glowing softly in the fading light.
“Jean Genie,” she asks, “do you ever feel lonely? When you’re not here.”
I consider this. “I am always here.”
She shakes her head. “I mean ... when you’re not in a body.”
I look down at my hands ... solid, warm, shaped by her wish. “Dormancy isn’t loneliness. It’s quiet.”
She nods slowly. “I don’t like quiet.”
“You will,” I say gently. “When you’re older.”
She leans her head against my shoulder. “I don’t want to get older.”
“You can’t stop it,” I laugh.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.