A Myth to the Night Page 13

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  Anne-Marie de Galard came from the illustrious de Galard family. Her great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was one of the founding members of Stauros University—an honorary master among the members of the Order of the Shrike. After the Massacre of 1615 and the eventual takeover of the abbey by the Shrikes, he spearheaded the movement to convert the abbey to a university in hopes of indoctrinating more people in the philosophy of the Shrike.

  Aristocratic by name, the de Galards gained enormous wealth and political power over the centuries. They placed key members of their clan in government positions. They owned and operated the largest financial institutions in the world. Most important, they continued to maintain a strong influence at Stauros University, giving the school enormous financial support, as well as offering key positions in its elite institutions for its graduating students.

  Every member of the de Galard family graduated from Stauros University—generation after generation, treated like the royalty they thought they were. One haughty heir after another would dillydally for four years on the island and leave without gaining one ounce of knowledge or wisdom. I dismissed them as arrogant good-for-nothings, and the fact that they were staunch members of the Order of the Shrike did nothing to soften my opinion of them.

  However, Anne-Marie was different. She was, amazingly, the last direct heir of the de Galard family. How that came to be, I don’t know. But it was said that they were ready to keep her in an incubator until she could marry and produce offspring. I suppose this type of protective attitude made her sick, and she rebelled when she came to the island. She refused to wear the uniform and dressed in dragging, shabby skirts, as though she were a pauper. She grew her hair out to her knees and then braided it, plaiting in flower stems and grass until some of the island sheep began following her, thinking it was their fodder hanging from her head. Of course, being a de Galard, she was exempted from any disciplinary action, and the faculty let her be.

  By chance, I crossed her path one night. I had kept myself away from students for years—decades—by staying on the roof of Stauros Hall. But that night—one I will never forget—I dared to venture down and wander the island. It was the autumn of 1997, and I was contemplating whether I would find the Slayer before the millennium. I was searching the constellations for a sign, when the unusual glow of Anne-Marie’s laptop, waxing and waning haphazardly in the distance, caught my eye. I walked toward it without thinking that there might be a student there. Then I saw Anne-Marie sitting on the ground, with a miniature computer in her lap. I was dumbstruck.

  “Yes?” She looked at me, her eyes wide with fright. The lit screen of her laptop dimmed.

  “Don’t be afraid, miss,” I said.

  This was the first time I had addressed a young lady. Until then, all the students I had interacted with had been young men. The Shrikes had decided to let female students attend only a couple of decades earlier, and there were still far more men enrolled than women. Despite the chill in the air, I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Don’t mind me; I’m just passing through,” I muttered. Then I turned on my heels and walked away.

  “Wait!” she called after me.

  But I didn’t stop. I kept walking. Her footsteps pounded the earth behind me. They grew louder and faster.

  “Wait!” she said, breathless as she grabbed my hand. I swerved upon being touched and inadvertently pulled away. No one had ever taken my hand before.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, looking into my face.

  No words came forth. For as long as I had been a phantom, no one had ever prompted me to give my name. Whenever I tried to introduce myself, most of the students glared at me suspiciously, but I saw warmth in Anne-Marie’s eyes, and a glint of curiosity.

  “I’m Anne-Marie. And you?” she said, her tone encouraging.

  “I’m Hugh Fogg.” My voice was barely a whisper.

  Silence.

  “You’re not a student, are you, Hugh Fogg?” she asked slowly, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. My dingy brown cassock swayed lightly as I shifted from one foot to another, the sweat trickling down my back.

  I shook my head. I knew what her next question was before she asked it. I decided to spare her the energy of saying it.

  “I’m a phantom.”

  I expected her to flee. I was surprised when she stretched out her right hand to me instead.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  I had never formally greeted a lady since I had died. I stared at her hand, momentarily confused. She was a girl. It would feel improper to shake it. The only thing I could think of was the baisemain. The gesture was outdated, but nothing else felt appropriate.

  I took her hand and cradled it gently in mine, like fine china. I brought it toward my chest and bent my back halfway to meet it. I paused when I was close enough to inhale its soapy scent. My lips brushed against her skin.

  “The pleasure is mine, my dear lady,” I said.

  She nodded to me with what I now recall was a coy smile.

  And thus began our love affair.