“I am almost ready” came back to her muffled through the door.
She leaned her head against the wood and drew in a deep breath. The past two and a half weeks had been amazing with Jean-Pierre and with the breh-hedden. Love, after all these years, had found her again.
In the distance she heard the front doorbell ring, but she wasn’t expecting anyone. “Jean-Pierre, someone’s at the front door.”
“That is probably Carolyn and Seriffe. I asked them to come by.”
“Why?” She didn’t mind, not at all, but this was the first she’d heard of it. What was with all the secrecy?
He came to the door and slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind him. So she still wasn’t going to get to see what was in there.
“I am sorry, chérie, I should have told you.”
She looked him up and down. “You’re wearing a suit. Okay, what the hell is going on?”
His smile was slow. “You may wish to change into a dress, that very pretty Halston. The one Havily keeps calling a petal dress.”
“But—”
“Trust me. Put it on, chérie. I will see to our guests.”
“Okay, then.”
Stunned, she lifted her arm and folded to the master bedroom. She lived here now, in his house. No, their house. He kept correcting her. This was their house.
Her heart beat too fast in her chest. Jean-Pierre had something serious planned and he seemed very pleased with himself, but she couldn’t imagine what he intended. The whole thing made her nervous.
She dressed in heels and stockings and the cream-colored petal dress. She brushed her long hair, tidied her makeup, and tried to relax, but something about the secrecy of the visit, and the closed door to the sycamore room, told her that what was about to happen was … significant.
When at last she was dressed, she walked the entire distance, through several smaller rooms of the rabbit warren house, to the living room, trying to calm her nerves.
Jean-Pierre served champagne, his expression serious. He was a man of good humor most of the time, a lightness of spirit she adored. But at other times, like now, he could overwhelm her with the depths of his soul and his desire for her to understand what he valued in life.
Carolyn wore a lavender silk dress and heels. Seriffe also wore a suit. Both appeared solemn.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” she said to Carolyn, her voice low.
Carolyn kissed her cheek and squeezed her hand. She nodded several times. “You’ll love this, Mother. But you can’t blame Jean-Pierre, not entirely. He asked for my opinion and I told him exactly how to go about this.”
“How to go about what?”
Carolyn gestured to a long narrow white box on the table near the champagne. “This is for you. In a few minutes, we’ll go to the sycamore room and you can open it. Then you’ll understand everything.” Carolyn squeezed her hand again. “Don’t fret. Trust me and trust your breh.”
“Fine,” Fiona muttered. But she wasn’t happy about this. She thought she might need to have a conversation later with Jean-Pierre about how much she had never enjoyed surprises.
Jean-Pierre handed her a glass of champagne. He held her gaze. “Lately, I have been thinking of baby Helena’s christening and the ritual of the oil and the ash. I recall Sister Quena saying that we are born of ashes to serve Second Earth. I think this is very true, perhaps even in a larger sense, that very often our lives must be burned down to nothing before we can be born to greater acts of service and of love. So this is for you, my beloved Fiona: I dedicate this evening that I might express my profound gratitude that in the ashes of my life, I was born anew to be your breh, and to serve you, now and forever.”
Fiona blinked up at him. His words were beautiful, even profound. Okay, maybe she didn’t need to have that conversation with him after all.
He lifted his glass. “To ma chérie,” he said.
Seriffe and Carolyn lifted their glasses as well. “To Fiona,” they said, as one.
Each of them drank in her honor and she brought her glass to her lips and sipped as well, overcome. Her heart ached at so much love, at so much expressed respect and honor. She still didn’t know what this evening was about or what it was meant to be. And she didn’t have the smallest idea what awaited her in the sycamore room, but somehow it no longer mattered. To be with Jean-Pierre, her daughter, and Seriffe was enough.
“Come,” he said. He put his glass on the table and took hers as well, settling it beside his. “Come.”
Carolyn picked up the long box and smiled her encouragement.
Fiona didn’t ask any more questions. She put her arm in his as he led their small processional to the sycamore room.
When he opened the door, and she walked through, she didn’t at first understand what she was looking at. Off to the right, a copper basin of sorts sat on top of a broad pillar of mortared stones. Beside the basin, a single tall white candle burned, flickering slightly as currents of air passed through the outdoor space.
With a slight pressure on her waist, he guided her to the strange edifice. “What is this?” she asked.
“I suppose you could call it a pyre.”
She met his gaze. “For burning things? You made this for burning things?”
He nodded.
“What are we going to burn here then?” She was lost, totally at sea.
Carolyn held the box up. “I made this for you,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I got all the names right. Bev at Militia HQ helped me do this. The landing platform security cameras had a tape of the moment Rith showed up in that cage. I hope—” Suddenly Carolyn’s voice got stuck and much to Fiona’s shock, her daughter’s eyes filled with tears.
“Carolyn—” Fiona began.
But her daughter lifted her hand. “I can do this.” She cleared her throat and began again. “Mother, I hope this will give you some peace. When Jean-Pierre told me what he wanted to do, I felt in my heart that it was exactly the right thing. But we both agreed that if it isn’t, if you don’t want to do this, then we understand. Completely. Neither of us want you to feel pressured.”
Seriffe had his arm around Carolyn’s waist, a gentle, loving support.
As Carolyn held the box in her arms, Fiona lifted the lid.
Inside, tied together, was a bundle of small pieces of paper, none of them larger than two or three inches. On the first piece was a woman’s name. She recognized the name: the first woman who had died in Burma.