I Should Die

—mentioned his family, and that dated from the tenth century.”
    “Hmm. This line of guérisseurs , who happen to be specialists on revenants, have been passing down their family secrets since at least the Middle Ages. No wonder both the numa and the bardia wanted to get their hands on them. They must possess a veritable wealth of information.”
    He puffed on his pipe for a few seconds, and then leaned back in his chair and eyed me. “What we can deduce is that if this process of re-embodying wandering bardia souls actually exists, it fell out of revenant lore and oral history well before the sixteenth century. So we are looking for ancient examples, which falls within my area of specialty. I certainly don’t recall coming across anything like this in direct reference to revenants, but I will begin to put my mind to it.”
    I watched my grandfather jot down a couple of notes onto his leather-edged blotter, and felt overwhelmed with gratefulness. I hadn’t specifically asked him to help. But he had jumped right in and taken on the task. Because he loved me.
    And he also loved a good treasure hunt, his treasure of choice being esoteric knowledge of ancient things. Like revenants. Whatever it was, I was glad he was on board.
    “Thank you, Papy,” I said, walking around the desk to hug him.
    “Don’t worry yourself, ma princesse . But tell me as soon as you know what is in the guérisseurs’ account so I can start my research with as much information as possible.”
    “I will,” I promised, and left my grandfather alone in a cloud of pipe smoke and musings about immortality.

NINETEEN
    I SAT IN BED, WAITING TO FALL ASLEEP BUT unable to keep my mind from wandering back to La Maison and the library where Bran searched for a way to give Vincent a body. I wondered if he would look the same, and quickly decided that I didn’t care. To be able to touch him, see him, have him back . . . I didn’t care what he looked like as long as he was flesh and blood.
    I distractedly picked up a book from the stack next to my bed, and seeing the title, I smiled. The Princess Bride . I had read it three or four times. Minimum. I had gotten it out a couple of weeks ago for a certain reason. And stuck here with no other recourse but to obsess about something that was out of my hands, any distraction was welcome. I let the words of “S. Morgenstern” draw me away from my reality into someone else’s fairy tale.
    I had gotten to the sword fight with Inigo Montoya, which contains my favorite-ever fight-scene repartee, when my thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the words, What are you reading?
    I snapped my book shut and sat up in bed. “Holy cow, you scared me,” I said.
    I’m sorry, mon ange . I thought you’d be expecting me.
    “Well, I was hoping you’d come, but wasn’t sure if you’d remembered that promise—after all of the archives excitement,” I admitted, squirming.
    How could I forget wanting to see you? he asked, and his words were like a hug. Um, Kate—why are you shoving that book under your blanket?
    I sighed and pulled it out, holding it up to the air and flapping it around since I didn’t know where he was.
    He laughed. Don’t tell me you’re still trying to win our longest-running argument.
    “The book is better than the movie, Vincent. I just think that because you read it in English, you didn’t get the irony or the dry humor.”
    Don’t tell me we’re going to argue about this while I’m volant and you’ve got the book in your hand. Talk about an unfair advantage .
    I ignored his plea for a time-out. “The movie doesn’t have Fezzik’s and Inigo’s backstories,” I insisted.
    The book doesn’t have Billy Crystal playing Miracle Max, he rebutted.
    “Touché,” I mumbled, unable to argue with that point, “but this debate is not over.”
    It’s a date.
    I smiled. Placing the book on my bedside table, I sat up on the bed and crossed my legs, as if I were having a chat with a real person who sat right in front of me. At least I could pretend.
    I focused on a framed picture on my dresser taken of me and Vincent on my last birthday. In it, we’re about to leave for our rowboat date, and the two of us are smiling like idiots. Something pinged painfully in my chest like a snapped rubber band.
    “I can’t believe we’re even talking about this,” I said wistfully, “when this morning I didn’t know if I would ever talk to you again.”
    I know what you mean , he responded.