Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 72: Sanctuary at the Inn
Paris, 1795
A further year passes after the Terror ends. The city feels different now. Not safer ... these days, Paris is never truly safe ... but quieter, as though the fever has broken and left only exhaustion behind. The shouting crowds have thinned. The guillotine no longer stands in the Place de la Révolution. The tricolour banners hang limp in the summer heat. People speak in softer voices, glancing over their shoulders less often.
Nicole stands at the window of her attic room, watching the street below. A cart rattles past, its wheels clattering over the cobblestones. A woman sells bread from a basket. Two men argue about politics, but their voices lack the sharp edge of last year’s fury.
Nicole whispers, “It feels less dangerous now.”
I whisper back. ‘The worst is over.’
She exhales, shoulders relaxing for the first time in months.
Robert enters the attic room carrying a small tray of bread, cheese, and a cup of watered wine. He sets it on the table and studies Nicole with a thoughtful expression.
“The city is slowly changing,” he says. “People are tired of killing.”
Nicole sits, tearing a piece of bread. “Am I still in danger of arrest?”
Robert shakes his head. “It’s unlikely they will arrest you now. The committees have dissolved. The prisons are emptying. Names are being removed from the various wanted lists.”
Nicole lowers her gaze. “I wish Louise had lived to see this.”
Robert sits beside her. “She would have been proud of you.”
Nicole swallows hard. “I don’t feel proud.”
“You survived,” Robert says gently. “That is enough.”
Nicole nods, though her eyes glisten.
She spends her days helping around the inn ... washing linens, sweeping floors, peeling vegetables, carrying water. Her hands are rough now, her nails broken, her posture changed. She moves with the confidence of a working woman, not a noble.
She blends in effortlessly.
One afternoon, Robert’s daughter, Moira, hands Nicole a tricolour ribbon. “You should wear this,” she says. “People still expect it.”
Nicole ties it to her dress without hesitation. “Does it look right?”
Moira nods. “You look like one of us.”
Nicole smiles. “Good.”
I whisper. ‘You have learned well.’
Nicole touches the bracelet lightly, acknowledging me.
The inn is busy again. Travellers from around the country return to Paris ... merchants, soldiers, families seeking lost relatives. Revolutionary women still gather in the evenings to drink cheap wine and argue about politics. Nicole serves them without fear now, her accent roughened, her manner confident.
Nicole feels safer now, but safety isn’t the same as belonging.
Nicole sits in her attic room at night, staring at the small window. The rooftops stretch into the distance, dark against the sky. She touches the bracelet, feeling its warmth.
“Jeannia,” she whispers, “what do I do now? I don’t know how to go forward without Aunt Louise.”
I manifest softly, rising from the bracelet, shaping into my form. Nicole looks up, eyes tired but calm.
“You forging your own future,” I say. “Every day you survive is a day she would have wanted for you.”
Nicole nods slowly. “I want to leave Paris.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But soon.”
She frowns. “Why not now?”
“Because some in the city still watch,” I say. “Papers are still being checked. But peace has been made with Spain.”
Nicole’s breath catches. “Spain...”
“Yes,” I say. “Soon you can travel there safely.”
Nicole closes her eyes. “I want to go somewhere no one knows me.”
“You will,” I say gently. “But you must wait a little longer.”
She nods, accepting the patience she has learned through hardship.
Nicole never speaks of the day she left the inn without Robert knowing, but I remember every step she took.
She slipped out before dawn, wrapped in her plain dress and scarf, her tricolour ribbon pinned to her chest like a shield. She walked through streets still wet with night rain, past shuttered shops and silent doorways, toward the square where Paris gathered to watch its own devour itself. I whispered warnings, begged her to turn back, but grief is a force stronger than fear. She needed to see. She needed to know. The notice of that day’s scheduled executions contained a name Nicole hoped to never see on that list; Louise de Marillac.
Place de la Révolution was already crowded when she arrived ... women with knitting, men with hard eyes, children perched on barrels to watch the spectacle. The guillotine stood in the centre like a dark altar, its blade glinting in the pale morning light. Nicole pushed through the crowd, her breath shaking, her disguise holding only because she had learned to wear it like a second skin. I felt her heart break the moment Louise appeared.
Louise walked with dignity, even then ... her back straight, her chin lifted, her hands bound but steady. She didn’t search the crowd for a familiar face. She didn’t cry. She didn’t plead. She simply moved forward, as though she were entering a salon rather than her death.
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