Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 38: Ledgers and Secrets
The Dupré garden is small but carefully tended with its trimmed hedges, a few rose bushes, and a stone bench warmed by the afternoon sun. Marie sits there during her brief break, stretching her fingers after hours of writing in ledgers. The air smells faintly of river water and crushed leaves.
I hover near her in ethereal form, visible only to her. She hasn’t summoned me; the bracelet simply anticipates her need for my presence. A sign that it has grown accustomed to her. Unfortunately that liaison is slowly coming to an end as Marie’s spirit magic becomes delpeted.
Light and quick footsteps approach, as though with a purpose. Marie looks up. A young woman stands at the edge of the path, sunlight catching the pale blue ribbons threaded through her chestnut curls. Her gown is fashionable ... Parisian in cut, though slightly outdated ... and her green eyes sparkle with curiosity.
“You’re the new clerk,” she says.
Marie rises quickly. “Yes, mademoiselle.”
The young woman smiles. “I’m Élise Dupré.”
Her voice is warm and musical. She displays the confidence of someone accustomed to being the focus of conversation.
Marie bows her head slightly. “It’s a pleasure.”
Élise steps closer, studying her with open interest. “You’re from Canada. That’s terribly exciting. I’ve never met anyone from so far away.”
Marie blushes. “It’s not so exciting when you live there.”
“Oh, but it must be,” Élise insists. “Snow, forests, adventure. And now you’re here, in Nantes. Do you like it?”
Marie hesitates. “It’s ... overwhelming.”
Élise laughs softly. “Yes. It overwhelms everyone. But it’s nothing compared to Paris.”
Marie’s breath catches. “Paris?”
Élise’s eyes brighten. “I’m going there someday. I must. The salons, the fashions, the court at Versailles. Everything important happens there.”
She sits beside Marie, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “You know, you have uncanny luck.”
Marie stiffens. “Luck?”
“Yes.” Élise tilts her head. “You arrive, and suddenly Jules falls ill, although admittedly that’s not for the first time. My father hires you without hesitation. And Laurent ... well.” She waves a hand as though seeking the right words. “He’s always unpleasant, but he’s been unusually quiet since you arrived.”
Marie’s pulse quickens. Laurent is the chief clerk and a dour man who watches Marie like a hawk.
I drift closer, whispering softly, “She sees patterns in events. Be careful.”
Marie doesn’t answer Élise’s speculation. Élise leans back, studying Marie thoughtfully.
“I don’t mind. Luck is useful. Especially for people with ambition.”
Marie swallows. “I’m not ambitious.”
Élise smiles knowingly. “Everyone is. Even if they don’t admit it.”
A soft movement draws Marie’s attention. Awa steps into the garden carrying a basket of herbs. She pauses when she sees Marie and Élise, her posture straightening instinctively.
Élise brightens. “Awa! Come here.”
Awa approaches quietly, her eyes flicking to Marie with a hint of warmth. Élise pats the bench beside her.
“Awa is my maid,” she says proudly. “Well, she’s mama’s and papa’s maid as well. She helps me with everything.”
Awa sits carefully, hands folded in her lap. Marie notices the faint tension in her shoulders; the practised stillness of someone who has learned to make herself small.
Marie offers a gentle smile. “Hello.”
Awa returns it, soft and cautious. “Hello.”
Élise looks between them. “You should be friends. You’re close in age, and you’ll see each other often.”
Awa’s eyes lower. “If mademoiselle wishes.”
Marie’s heart tightens. I drift behind them, observing. Awa’s gaze flicks briefly to Marie’s wrist where the bracelet rests. She looks away quickly, but I see the recognition. Her culture is aware of the same ancient lore that powers the bracelet, even if Awa cannot make sense of it.
Élise continues chatting about Paris, about gowns, about the latest gossip from the riverside, but Marie’s attention drifts to Awa. The slave girl listens quietly, her expression polite but distant. When Élise isn’t looking, Awa meets Marie’s gaze for a brief moment.
There is something in Awa’s eyes; a cross between curiosity and recognition. And a quiet, aching hope. Marie feels the bracelet warm faintly against her skin. An awareness.
Élise rises suddenly. “Come, Marie. I want to show you my dresses. You must tell me which ones would look best in Paris.”
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