More Than Words
Page 44

I am almost thankful to be back at camp now, where the rules are different, where I am still playing a part and yet I am somehow more free. The focus has turned, once again, to the strategy of war and whether it is best to press our advantage and take Paris. Olivier says he agrees with Jehanne’s assertion that we should, though Charles wavers, swayed no doubt by the opinion of his court. Sometimes I grow so weary of all this war, I think I might scream. Why should God care about our victory? Aren’t there English soldiers in their tents right now praying to the very same God? Why should he answer some prayers and not others? Jehanne says I ask the wrong questions, but I don’t know what the right ones are. Perhaps if I could cease questioning as she does, my mind would find peace. Perhaps God is attempting to lead us all to peace, but if no one but Jehanne has faith in his calling, we are destined to fail. For one girl cannot save an entire nation by herself, no matter how devout she may be. Indeed, one girl cannot save anyone—not a country, nor a man—lest they believe as strongly as she.
He was dreaming again. This time I knew what he was dreaming about as he whimpered softly, the sound a child would make, and clenched the sheets in his hands.
I’d been dreaming, too, of the translation I’d worked on earlier that day. Dreaming of coronations and secret kisses, war troops and military camps, and a young girl trying to navigate it all. But his cries had woken me, and now my dream faded away like late-morning mist.
“Callen,” I whispered, shaking him gently. “Callen, wake up. You’re dreaming.” He flailed slightly, his head turning as if he’d taken a sudden smack on the cheek, his eyes springing open. He blinked at me in the low light of my room, reality dawning, the shadows in his eyes fading as he released a long breath and pulled me close.
I ran my hand down his cheek, feeling the roughness of his jaw. It had to be close to morning. I’d have to roll away to glance at the bedside clock, and I didn’t want to turn from him, even for a second. “Same dream?” I asked.
“Yeah. Same dream.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” I whispered. Only he was hurting him, wasn’t he? How could I help him stop allowing his father’s words to poison his mind? “His words are lies.” I scooted closer, pulling him tight, feeling the quick beating of his heart against my shoulder. After a few minutes, it slowed, his body relaxing.
“Come live with me, Jessie,” he whispered against my hair. My eyes blinked open, and I tilted my head back. “Live with you? In L.A.?”
“Yes.”
A shimmer of happiness ran through me, but so did a jolt of uneasiness. Move to Los Angeles, where the life I’d been confronted with in his room upstairs was everywhere around him?
“Why are you so quiet?” There was vulnerability in his voice, and I realized how difficult it must have been to ask the question. Was he suggesting he’d change? Change his lifestyle altogether for me? It’s what I wanted, right? Only why did I feel so unsure? Because his words from yesterday were still so fresh in my mind. “God, Jessie, if I could change for anyone, it would be you. I don’t want to be that man. But it’s who I’ve become. It’s who I have to be.” If he could change …
“It’s just … my job is here.”
“It’s temporary, though, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But I was hoping it would lead to something permanent.”
“I understand how much you love your work. But couldn’t you work in Los Angeles, too? Aren’t there translating jobs there?”
There were things I could do there, I supposed. I could teach, maybe, or translate books perhaps … I sighed. It just wasn’t exactly my dream. But Callen was my dream … He always had been.
“I’d feed you French chocolate,” he whispered, leaning down and rubbing his lips over my forehead. I could feel the smile he wore, and I could feel when it faded. His breath misted over my skin. “The music plays when I’m with you.”
“And if it stops again? Even when I’m there?” I asked. Please don’t want me just for that reason alone. Love me, Callen. Love me and I might follow you anywhere.
“I … What do you mean?”
“I mean, will you turn back to other women if I can’t make the music keep playing for you?”
He was quiet for several long moments. “I haven’t looked at another woman since we’ve been together, Jessie. I haven’t even thought of another woman. Not once.”
That wasn’t exactly a denial. “I know,” I said softly. Something inside felt like it was squeezing, a familiar ache, the same discomfort I’d felt every time one of those hotel room doors would open and the sound of my mother’s sobs would fill my ears. Oh yes, I had my own ghosts, too. And maybe Callen’s hesitation was because of his shaky trust in himself, but how could I hang all my hopes on him—move back across the world—when he wasn’t able to reassure me of his faithfulness. If he couldn’t trust himself, wouldn’t I be a fool to trust him, too? “You could move to France,” I said, the hope clear in my voice. “You can compose from anywhere.”
He was quiet another moment. “It’s not that. It’s … I know L.A. I know the streets and the stores, how to get places, where to go for things. I have people who read contracts for me and restaurants where I know what to order. I work with conductors who know my style, what they consider my quirks, and are comfortable interpreting the things I don’t write on my scores. It’d be … starting all over again in so many ways. I’d be dependent and working with two languages I can’t read, instead of just one.”
He feels safe there. Safe from the discovery of being illiterate. Safety can be a type of prison, though, too. A wall to hide behind. “You did great when we went away for the weekend, though. You’d never been to any of those places.”
“I did well because Nick helped me.”
“Nick … he knows?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
I was surprised. I’d gotten the impression he hadn’t shared it with anyone except me. But of course there would have to be a few people who knew … his trusted friends, perhaps even his secretary, the people he hired who knew to be discreet … Still, to have to depend on so many people instead of yourself, what a burden to carry.
“You can learn to read, Callen. You are not hopeless because your father said you were. Stop repeating his words. Prove he was wrong.” Fight. Go to battle even though you’re afraid.
“And if I can’t? Will that prove he was right?” He rolled away from me, turning onto his back and staring at the ceiling.
I watched him in the low light, the beauty of his profile, the tense way he held his jaw. So that was it. That was the rub. He was terrified to try, terrified all those words that rang in his head would be corroborated by his inability to learn, even now. Oh, Callen.
“He was wrong,” I whispered. “I wish I could prove it to you.”
He sighed, turning toward me again, his fingers running through my hair until I sighed as well. “What have we gotten ourselves into, Princess Jessie?”
“We find ourselves in a treacherous land,” I whispered, teasing. He chuckled, leaning his forehead against mine. “Fraught with swamps to swallow us up and quicksand that can suck a man under in three minutes flat.”
“What will we do?”
“Have faith, Prince Callen.”
He let out another gust of breath, pulling me close again. “That was the part I was never very good at.”
* * *
In the year of our Lord 1429, on the twenty-seventh day of October
I am shaking as I write this, and yet the most profound sense of peace fills me.
Olivier and I stole away for a time, and as we were walking back toward camp, the subject of Jehanne came up. “You don’t like that she’s here,” I accused. He denied it, saying that he is happy for any and all inspiration for his men. “But you don’t believe that she is divinely led?” I asked.
He faced me and said, “No, I don’t. But if they do, does it really matter?” I had no answer for that, though my heart felt heavy and troubled.