Until I Die

to this being the right place, honestly … what were the chances that this old lady was the descendant of the healer in the book? After all these years? And out of the thousands of guérisseurs that must exist in France?
The woman’s needles stopped their clicking, and she stared at me, giving me her full attention for the first time. Suddenly I felt extremely foolish. “A certain type of immortal being … called a revenant,” I clarified.
She stared for another second, and then, placing her knitting in a tapestry bag next to her chair, she put her hand on her chest and leaned forward. At first I thought she was having some kind of attack. And then I realized she was laughing.
After a few seconds she stopped to catch her breath. “I’m sorry, dearie. I’m not making fun of you. It’s just that … people think that we guérisseurs are magic, which leads to all sorts of misconceptions. And I know that the shop below must add to my mystique—all the religious artifacts make locals think I’m a witch of some sort. But I’m not. I’m just an old lady whose father passed a simple gift to her: the gift of healing. But that’s all there is to it. I can’t conjure up spirits. I can’t cast evil spells on your enemies. And I don’t know anything about … immortal whatever they are.”
I felt my face redden, not only from shame but from the weeks of pent-up expectation that had been mounting inside me. Which had all just run headfirst into a brick wall. My eyes stung, and I took a deep breath to keep myself from crying. “I am so sorry to have bothered you,” I said, and stood to go. “Um, am I supposed to give you something for your time?” I began fishing in my purse.
“ Non ,” she said sharply. Then, her voice softening, she said, “All I ask is that you write your name on one of those cards, and place it in the dish. That way I can send you good wishes in my prayers.” She nodded to a stack of index cards on the table next to my chair. I scribbled my name on the card and leaned over to place it in the bowl. And froze.
Painted on the inside of the dish was a pyramid inside a circle. A pyramid surrounded by flames. I spun to see the old woman sitting immobile, staring at me with one eyebrow raised. Waiting.
I thrust my hand inside my shirt, pulled out my pendant, and held the signum out for her to see.
She sat there stunned for a second, and then stood to face me. “Well, if you had shown me that when you arrived, we wouldn’t have had to go through this charade, my dear,” she said, her expression changing from distant and professional to complicit and friendly. “Welcome, little sister.”
It felt like a dozen bees were buzzing around in my head as I sank back down into the chair. I couldn’t believe it: Was this really happening?
“Are you okay, ma puce ?” she said, looking worried, bustling over to a sideboard where she poured me a glass of water from a pitcher. She set it on the table next to me and then sat back down.
“Yes!” I said, a little too loudly, my voice sounding strange to my still-ringing ears. “Yes, I’m fine. I just … I’m so surprised that you’re really …” I didn’t know what else to say, so I just shut up and waited.
“Ha! Yes, I am really. Or rather, my family is. Although I’ve never been consulted on the subject of revenants. It’s been a few hundred years since one of us has. So this is quite exciting for me, really.” Her eyes sparkled, as if to prove it. “You must have found both of the books?”
“Um, yes. How did you know?”
“Ah, well, we had a bit of a problem back in the eighteenth century. Some of the baddies—the numa, they’re called—got their hands on one of the books and came to find us. Very nasty occasion, that was. So my ancestor took possession of it and tracked down the nobleman who owned the only other existing copy. They are the ones that did that little bit of ink work on the two manuscripts to make us hard, but not impossible, to find. We do have our purposes,” she clucked proudly. “You don’t happen to have the books with you, do you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Well, that’s a shame. I would have loved to see them. All I’ve got is a handwritten copy of the text that my ancestor made. We couldn’t exactly keep the originals. That would be a bit counterproductive, wouldn’t it?”
“Um, yes,” I said, working hard to keep my thoughts moving as rapidly as she was throwing out new information.
“So, tell