Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 37: The House of Dupré
Episode 6: Nantes and Paris, 1673 - 1676
Nantes, July 1673
The coach rattles down the last hill toward Nantes. The city rises before Marie like a great, restless creature. Roofs crowd together in uneven rows, chimneys smoke in the warm air, and the Loire River gleams under the afternoon sun. Ships pack the waterway so tightly their masts look like a forest stripped bare.
Marie leans forward, clutching her satchel. Her breath catches.
“It’s enormous,” she whispers.
I feel her emotion before she speaks it, a combination of fear, awe, and hope tangled together. I’m not summoned, so I cannot speak. I can only sense her, and nudge gently at her heart to steady her.
The coach enters the riverside quarter. The noise hits Marie next; the numerous bells, the raucous gulls, sailors shouting, barrels thudding across planks. The smell of tar and fish and hot rope fills the air. Marie presses a hand to her chest, overwhelmed.
She has never seen so much movement. So much wealth on display, and so many people with the ambition to make more.
The coach stops near a busy square. Marie steps down, alone now, swallowed by the swirl of merchants, clerks, and porters. She needs to find both accommodation and employment and she decides to use the remaining hours of this afternoon wisely. She walks toward the waterfront, weaving between carts and shouting traders. She asks at three warehouses, two merchant counting houses, and a shipping office for a job. Each time, the answer is polite but firm:
“No vacancies.”
“We’re full.”
“Try again next season.”
Her shoulders tighten. She pauses beside a stack of barrels, staring at the river. Her breath trembles. I feel her fear rising as a sharp and unsteady wave. She touches the bracelet for comfort and I appear in my ethereal form, visible only to Marie.
A wish forms in her heart. So far it isn’t spoken. It isn’t even a conscious or deliberate wish; just a small, accidental plea born from exhaustion and uncertainty.
“I wish ... for a chance,” murmurs Marie, barely audible.
The bracelet warms faintly on her wrist. A subtle ripple moves through the air that is barely noticeable. But I feel it. The magic stirs, responding to her need.
Across the square, a clerk stumbles out of a counting house, pale and sweating. He leans against a post, coughing hard. His merchant employer rushes to him.
“Jules? You look half‑dead.”
“I ... I can’t work today,” the clerk gasps. “Maybe not tomorrow either.”
The merchant curses under his breath, scanning the square for help. His gaze lands on Marie. He recognises her as the girl he sent away only half an hour earlier. The girl who came asking him for a job.
“You there! Girl. Are you still seeking work?”
Marie startles. “Yes, monsieur.”
“Come with me.”
She hesitates only a moment before following him inside. As I prepare to return to the bracelet, I flicker. Just once, a faint distortion in the air. It’s a sign that Marie’s well of spirit magic is running dry and that our time together is coming to an end. The bracelet feels it too, tightening around me with a possessive pulse. Marie doesn’t notice. She is already stepping into the counting house, into the first doorway Nantes opens for her.
Her accidental wish has nudged fate. A small shift. A gentle turn. And her new life begins.
Monsieur Henri Dupré’s counting house sits just off the waterfront, a sturdy timber‑framed building with wide shutters and the smell of wine casks drifting from the cellars below. Marie follows him inside, clutching her satchel, her heart still racing from the sudden opportunity. The interior is dim and cool. Shelves of ledgers line the walls. A long table is strewn with quills, ink pots, and stacks of parchment. Jules’s abandoned chair sits askew.
Dupré gestures sharply. “Sit. Show me your writing.”
Marie takes a quill, dips it, and writes a line of neat, steady script. He watches closely, arms folded.
“Good,” he says. “You’ll do. Temporarily.”
Marie exhales, relief washing through her. I appear beside her like a ghost. My form is faint, a soft shimmer in the corner of her vision. I cannot touch anything, but I can speak to her.
“You’re safe for now,” I murmur.
Marie’s shoulders relax. But before she can speak, a voice cuts through the room.
“Henri.”
Madame Colette Dupré stands in the doorway, tall and severe, her gown a deep green that catches the light like polished leaves. Her dark blue eyes sweep over Marie with swift, surgical precision.
“A newcomer?” she asks.
“Temporary,” Dupré replies. “Jules is ill ... again.”
Madame Dupré steps closer, her gaze narrowing. “Where are you from?”
“Canada,” Marie says softly, using the colloquial name for New France. “Montréal.”
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