The Meeting
The next Thursday, Hariel arrives at the café earlier than is her usual. In fact, she arrives slightly before the time the café opens, which is 6am on the dot, just to make sure that she does not miss the child.
"Hariel!" Sebastien's cry of delight upon seeing her waiting outside his café echoes loudly in the still empty Parisian street, his French tongue rolling the 'r's so he pronounces her name as 'Arriel'. "I thought you had abandoned me for a younger man! It has been a whole week!"
"Impossible!" Hariel exclaims playfully, "You know I could never abandon you, Sebastien." Hariel responds in French, leaning up to kiss both his cheeks in greeting. "I love your pastries too much."
"You wound me, beloved!" Sebastien cries dramatically. "To think that I would only be loved for my confectionaries! How cruel!"
Hariel giggles, but it lacks the light-hearted chime-like sound that used to characterize it.
"Hariel, are you well? You are usually not here this early," The patissier comments, worried eyes taking in the pallor of the young woman's skin and the dark circles under her eyes. She, who usually looks so vibrant and beautiful, now looks frail and sickly. "Perhaps you should go home and rest."
"I'm quite alright, Sebastien. Thank you for your concern," Hariel gives him a tired smile that only serves to worry him more. "But I do not think I shall go to classes today. I'm afraid I'll simply loaf around your shop all day."
What Hariel does not tell him is that she has not been to any of her classes all week, citing a family emergency. She has been so busy researching rituals to get rid of the curse, collecting the correct ingredients, and writing down runes in her own blood that she has barely had the time to eat, much less go to class.
The combination of sleepless nights, hours holed up in her apartment rifling through books, and the loss of blood have exhausted her, but she will not rest until she is certain the child is free of the curse.
"Well, that sounds like an excellent idea! You know you can always loaf around here as much as you want, chérie!" He cheers, unlocking the front door of the café and opening it for her, the familiar chime of the entrance bell ringing when she enters, Sebastien quickly following and heading to the kitchen to prepare for the day.
As Hariel settles down onto her usual table, Sebastien comes out of the kitchen and hands her a steaming cup of Earl Grey.
"Here, chérie, it's on the house. You look like you need it." He smiles, and Hariel is reminded of why this café has become her very favorite spot in all of Paris.
"Thank you, Sebastien." Hariel holds the cup like a lifeline, and, at the moment, it is.
She will need the energy to get through the day.
.
.
.
As morning turns into afternoon and the hours continue to pass, Hariel worries that the child will not come today.
She has been at the shop for hours now, and has devoured twenty-three cups of Earl Grey and seven pastries.
The sugar helps keep her awake, if slightly nauseous.
It is now four o'clock on the dot, the time that Sebastien told her is when the child always arrives at the café, every Thursday afternoon.
Hariel stares at the door with single-minded focus, as though through sheer force of will she can summon the child.
As the seconds go by and still the child does not appear, Hariel worries. Sebastien had said the child is punctual, had he not? What if the child does not appear at the café? What if Hariel never sees him again? What if she can never find him, never remove the curse that is eating at his soul?
Hariel is usually not one to allow such negative thoughts to overcome her, but she is sleep-deprived, stressed, and in dire need of some sort of blood transfusion. Or sleep. Ideally both. Simultaneously.
The bell signaling the entrance of a customer chimes, however, and Hariel feels intense relief wash through her as a tiny foot comes out from behind the bookshelf near the entrance door.
Hariel steels herself against the suffocating presence of the curse. This time, she will not be rendered useless because of it.
As the child comes into sight, Hariel can see the ominous black miasma surrounding him, like poison and sickness and famine given form, sucking his soul from him, taking the essence of his very being like leeches with toothless, greedy, black holes for mouths-
Hariel takes a deep breath.
She can do this.
She will do this.
She will free this child from his curse.
Watching as the child looks over the array of confectionaries, Hariel rises from her seat and takes a step forward.
If it is a little more hesitant, a little more unsure than usual, then no one notices.
.
.
.
"Your name is Bise, right?" Hariel asks in French, trying to seem as friendly as possible. She is standing beside the child, pretending to look through the confectionaries as though deciding which one to purchase.
Breathe, Hariel, breathe. Don't frighten the child.
Being in such close proximity to the curse is deeply unsettling, and Hariel is hyper aware of it, as though each cell inside her body recognizes it for the danger it is and is ready to flee at any moment. Hariel fights off a grimace and reminds herself to be careful with her expressions. Already, she knows she looks horrible from the lack of sleep and blood loss- disgusted or hateful expressions will not win her the child's trust.
Going against her every instinct, the witch waves an experimental hand through a small section of the visible black miasma emanating from the pacifier. She immediately regrets it. Unlike its smoky, oily, appearance, moving through the curse feels like moving through water- no, like something more viscous than water, more like tar, a sticky substance that sucks you in like quicksand, engulfing you and preying on you and not letting you leave if you give it even the smallest opportunity.
Immediately, Hariel feels the overwhelming urge to wash her hand, but she's not sure if an entire bar of soap and a canister of phoenix tears can cleanse her skin of this putrid filth.
The green-eyed witch steadies herself, pushing through the unease she feels, her hair standing on edge, pushing through the almost crushing feeling of wrongness emanating from the child, the desire to get as far away as possible.
Hariel smiles at the child, but feels it strain around the edges.
"Are you thinking of buying the strawberry millefeuille?" She asks, and the triviality of the question mocks her when the violating presence of the curse brushes against her skin. There is so much more she needs to ask – to tell – to scream at this child.
"Oui, madame," He replies with a kind smile, much more genuine than her own. "I am not fond of the chocolate ones, for they are too rich for me. But I confess to a weakness for strawberries and raspberries."
The witch is momentarily distracted from the curse by the child's formality in both words and bearing. How precocious!
Hariel smiles, and this time she manages to make it a little more genuine, although it still does not quite reach her eyes. "Then let me buy it for you. You deserve a reward for coming here every week by yourself."
She gestures for the millefeuille to the part-time worker Sebastien had employed not two months ago, and he dutifully starts wrapping up the confectionary.
"Oh, no, madame. Truly it is not necessary-"
"Nonsense. It is a child's prerogative to accept gifts from adults," She waves a hand dismissively.
Looking down at the child, Hariel sees a flash of something in his eyes, before he gives her a polite smile and nods.
Hariel pays for the strawberry millefeuille. She considers buying something for herself as well, but she has already eaten seven small confectionaries that day, and the nauseating presence of the curse has made her lose her appetite.
Grabbing her purse, and strategically keeping the millefeuille package with her so that the child cannot leave without her, she follows the child out of the café, waving a hasty goodbye to Sebastien.
Standing outside in the slight chill of Paris in early March, Hariel bends down to hand him his package.
It's now or never, Hariel.
"Why don't you come with me, Bise?" Hariel viciously pushes down the headache that comes with being so close to the curse and smiles, trying to make it as non-threatening as possible. "It will only take a second, and then you can go back to your parents, all right?"