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lips together and could only stare at her from his hood. “I need bread.”
Ah. That was so wrong!
    A gentle smile made her face glow in the morning’s light. It lit so, on her face and in his heart, that sudden equations sprang into his mind. Like the sun. When it ruled the planets. Like rotations. Beauty turning over.
Like starlight forever shining.
But he could only pull deeper within the cloak and nod as she handed him the steaming loaf.
    He reached into his pocket, then stilled. He’d not thought to bring money. He thrust the loaf back toward her, turning away.
    “Wait.”
    Her voice was like the power of sound . . . wave after wave after wave . . . resounding in his chest and in his heart. The sound of his own heartbeat roared in his ears.
    She held it out to him, leaning in. Her breath fanned across his cheek, sending him reeling back a step or two, clutching the loaf like some gift from heaven.
    He looked down at the present thrust into his hands. Regaining his voice, he spoke low, leaning toward her. “My thanks.”
    It was all he could manage. He didn’t know if she heard the low words but didn’t turn back. As his footsteps rang over the old stone bridge back to his crumbling castle, he found something inside him that hadn’t been present in a very long time.
    Hope.

Chapter Five
    1789—Paris, France
     
    Jasper pulled Christophé from the middle of the deafending mob to a side street and supported the young man as they half-walked, half-ran from the ghastly scene. Christophé’s body shook uncontrollably within his grasp. Jasper saw the silent tears on Christophé’s cheeks and felt his own heart break with a thunderous crash. How could this have happened?
    Jasper had never married, had no children of his own, and had never grieved a loss. His father, an alchemist with a small shop in one of Paris’s business districts, had died several years ago—leaving Jasper his trade, his shop, and all his knowledge. The shop’s steady clientele believed their concoctions could cure everything from stomachaches to the plague. He did particularly well when some pestilence struck the city. He was an old man, but happy in his solitude. He had his laboratory, his experiments and books, and the cryptic recipes he reworked and refined. He was content—until the day a ten-year-old boy ran into him, knocking them both down.
    Now, as he looked down on the man that boy had become, intense gratitude swelled within. He didn’t have much faith in God, had never really needed Him, but even he recognized that it was the hand of fate that brought him and young Christophé together that windy day on a kite’s tail. Without the boy, he would have never known the joy of having a child—nor the sorrow. After all they’d witnessed this terrible day, his heart lay broken and heavy, but he knew that was nothing compared with what Christophé must be feeling.
    “Come now. Almost there.”
    Christophé had stopped shaking and was walking beside him, stiff, stilted . . . like the dead upright. Jasper reached his door, fumbled for the key, and ushered the young man inside. “Come, sit by the fire,” he ordered his friend in a voice meant to soothe.
    Christophé obeyed, collapsed on the floor in front of the small flames, and held out his hands. When he appeared to begin studying the back of one hand in a lost way, Jasper set into motion. He quickly poured Christophé a cup of two-day-old tea, then rummaged around the cupboard until he found a loaf of bread and a crock of butter, setting them side by side on the plate. He sliced the bread into hearty slices then brought the refreshments over to Christophé. He sat the tray down next to the young man with a clatter. The noise had Christophé turning and finally noticing that Jasper was in the room with him. “Here,” Jasper held out the glass. “Drink this.”
    Christophé turned his head away from the offerings.
    “If you don’t drink it and eat a little, I shall make you a