Chapter Text
The train wailed into Gare du Nord, metal screaming against metal before collapsing into a hiss of steam. Dorothea sat still until the car had emptied, until the shuffle of impatient passengers had passed her by, leaving behind scraps of conversation and the smell of cheap coffee. Only then did she rise, dragging her suitcase from under the seat.
It felt heavier than when she’d left Lille that morning. She hadn’t packed much, really, a week’s worth of clothes, a few books, the photograph of her grandmother at First Communion shoved between sweaters so no one could see it. But the handle tugged at her wrist like lead. Grief added weight to everything, even polyester and denim.
She stepped down onto the platform. Rain beat against the glass roof in a steady, mocking rhythm, seeping in through cracks to leave slick puddles across the stone. The crowd surged toward the exits in a wave of umbrellas, suitcases, crying children. Dorothea braced herself against it, dragging her own case behind her.
Paris.
It smelled like wet pavement and perfume, exhaust and cigarette smoke. Very chemical like, eugh. The city was too loud, too crowded, too theatrical in its grayness. She hadn’t been here in years. Not ever since Emilie Agreste was still alive to insist on yearly visits, smiling too brightly as she tried to force warmth into rooms where it never belonged.
But Emilie was gone, and her grandmother was gone, and now she was here, exiled to a mother who had never wanted her.
Dorothea craned her neck to stare up at the great station clock. The second hand ticked in sharp little jerks, each one a reminder that Nathalie was late. Which was strange. Nathalie Sancoeur was not the type to be late.
She set her suitcase down beneath the clock and sat on it, arms folded across her chest. Her reflection stared back from the darkened glass of the arrivals board: pale face, black hair, eyes ringed with sleepless shadows. At seventeen, she already looked older than she felt.
She could almost hear her grandmother’s voice, sharp as ever even in death:
“Sit properly. Keep your head up. A Sancoeur does not sprawl like a heathen. The Lord sees slouching as clearly as sin.”
Dorothea hunched further out of spite, letting her knees knock together. A priest in a black cassock walked by, glanced at her with pursed lips, and she nearly laughed. Grandma would have eaten that look up, nodded along, muttered about discipline and purity. She’d died clutching her rosary, muttering prayers that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with shame.
Shame for her runaway daughter. Shame for the illegitimate child. Shame for the mess that clung to the Sancoeur name like mildew.
Dorothea knew all of this because her grandmother had told her. Repeatedly.
She rubbed her thumb against her knuckles, the ghost of a bruise there from where the old woman had smacked her hand with a ruler last winter for speaking out of turn at Mass. Just a tap, she’d said. Just discipline. But the mark had lingered for days.
And now she’s gone, Dorothea thought. The idea didn’t feel real yet. Sometimes she caught herself expecting to hear that voice again, nagging her to kneel straighter, praying harder. The absence was almost worse than the presence.
And worse still: it left only Nathalie.
The voice came like a knife, cutting through the crowd.
“Dorothea.”
Her head jerked up.
Nathalie stood a few paces away, as though she’d materialized out of the shadows. She was dressed as if the station were an office: black blazer, red turtleneck, black slacks pressed to perfection. Her hair was pulled taut, face pale and sharp as glass, her posture ramrod straight. Not a single detail was out of place.
Dorothea had the unpleasant sensation of staring at her grandmother’s ghost, reimagined in sleeker clothes.
She smirked without humor. “Nathalie.”
Something flickered in her mother’s eyes at the name, sort of an almost imperceptible recoil, as though stung. But it vanished instantly.
“You have everything?” Nathalie asked. Her voice was smooth, precise, the kind that carried without needing to rise above the noise.
Dorothea gestured at the suitcase. “Unless you wanted me to bring the coffin too.”
Nathalie’s mouth compressed into a line. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Most things are anyways.”
A silence stretched between them, sharper than any insult. The station bustled around them, umbrellas dripping, shoes slapping against tile, vendors calling out. Nobody looked at them. Nobody cared.
It was almost funny really. Two women bound by blood, facing each other like strangers in a crowd.
No, not strangers. Strangers would have been kinder.
Nathalie’s pale eyes narrowed, though her face remained unreadable. “Come,” she said finally, turning on her heel. No embrace. No welcome. Just command.
Dorothea stayed where she was for a beat, staring at her mother’s rigid back. She noticed how straight Nathalie’s spine was, how precise the tilt of her chin, how her every step was measured. She hated it. God, she hated it because she recognized it.
She dragged her suitcase off the bench with a loud clatter and followed.
Outside, Paris smelled of rain and exhaust. Cars honked as they inched through slick streets, headlights glinting off of wet cobblestones. Nathalie led the way with brisk steps, weaving through the crowd as if she were untouchable, untouching.
The car waiting at the curb was black, sleek, gleaming despite the state of weather. It looked less like transportation and more like a hearse. Nathalie opened the trunk with a flick of her wrist, loaded Dorothea’s suitcase inside, and shut it again with clean finality.
Dorothea stood on the curb for a moment, raindrops gathering on her coat. She thought again of her grandmother: so rigid, pious, merciless. Then she thought of Nathalie. So rigid, pious in her own way, merciless without scripture.
And she thought of herself, standing there between them.
I’m just as bad, she realized, with a strange twist of nausea. Just as cold. Just as heartless.
Nathalie slid into the driver’s seat without looking back. The gesture said everything: this wasn’t a reunion. It wasn’t even a beginning. It was an obligation.
With a final glance at the glowing station clock, Dorothea opened the passenger door and climbed in.
The car smelled faintly of leather and rain.
They didn’t speak as Nathalie pulled away from the curb, merging into the gray Parisian traffic.
They didn’t need to. The silence was already suffocating.