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Chapter 7 - chapter 6

Julian lay awake long after Claire Beaumont's footsteps faded into the night. The locket sat on his desk, glinting faintly in the dying candlelight. He had accepted it as a soldier, a token meant to comfort a family, yet the words she had spoken echoed like a drumbeat in his head: You are watched more closely than you think.

By whom? His men? Other officers? Or had she meant something more sinister—spies, informants, the whispers of unrest growing louder with each week?

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, forcing himself to breathe steadily. He was a soldier. He had no time for riddles or shadows. At dawn, he would march. Duty demanded clarity, not questions.

Still, as he finally lay down on the hard cot, sleep eluded him. His thoughts returned again and again to Evelyn—the way her voice had trembled when she asked him to come back, the fragile courage in her smile as she told him to go. He wondered if she was awake too, if she felt the same ache clawing at his chest.

---

The city was still gray with early light when Evelyn stirred. Her apartment was hushed, the streets below empty but for a milk cart rattling past. She rose slowly, her body heavy with the weight of little sleep. The white rose stood in its glass, petals fuller now, as if it had bloomed overnight just to mock her solitude.

She moved to the piano almost by instinct, her fingers brushing the keys though she did not play. Her heart was elsewhere—back on the riverbank, where Julian's lips had pressed against her forehead with reverence that had nearly undone her.

She wondered if he thought of her now.

A soft knock startled her. She rose, pulling her robe tighter, and opened the door. To her surprise, a boy of perhaps twelve stood there, a messenger's satchel slung across his shoulder.

"Are you Mademoiselle Evelyn Hart?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes," she whispered, her pulse quickening.

He held out a sealed note. "A soldier gave me this. Said it was urgent."

Her hands shook as she broke the seal. The handwriting was hurried, strong strokes pressed deep into the page:

If the music carries, know that I am listening, wherever I am. Do not let the silence take you.

She pressed the paper to her chest, closing her eyes. He was leaving. She knew it before the words fully sank in. He was leaving, and this was all he could give her.

"Did he say anything else?" she asked, her voice almost breaking.

The boy shook his head. "Only that I must give it to you before the morning was gone."

She thanked him, slipped a coin into his hand, and shut the door softly.

Alone again, she leaned against the wall, clutching the letter as though it might dissolve if she let go. She read it once more, every word etched into her heart, every silence between them louder than the notes of any concerto she had ever played.

And for the first time since her childhood, Evelyn Hart hated the piano. Hated it for being the very thing that had brought her to him—and yet the thing that could never keep him here.

---

At the same moment, Julian tightened his sword belt as the regiment assembled in the courtyard. Boots struck the ground in unison, the air sharp with discipline. He glanced once toward the city as if he might see her silhouette in the pale light, standing by a window with the rose he had given her.

Then, with no time left for hesitation, Captain Julian Reed mounted his horse and led his men eastward, toward the unknown.

The rose would stay in Paris. He would carry only her memory.

The hours after dawn seemed endless. Evelyn moved through her apartment as if in a dream, the letter never far from her hand. The ink had smudged slightly where her tears had fallen, but the words remained steady, strong—like him. She read them again and again until they were etched into her memory.

Yet as the day passed, Paris would not pause for her sorrow. Her name was on the lips of every patron, every critic, every eager student. The city had crowned her its newest star, and she was expected to shine.

By afternoon, she forced herself into her gown and cloak, driven to rehearsal at the Conservatoire. She played faultlessly—her fingers dancing across the keys with all the precision she had trained for—but her soul felt strangely absent. Every crescendo rang hollow, every delicate trill felt like a shadow of something real.

"Brava, Mademoiselle Hart," her conductor exclaimed afterward, clapping his hands together. "The hall awaits you again tomorrow. Paris cannot get enough of you."

She bowed her head, murmuring thanks, but her heart was elsewhere—listening for the rhythm of soldiers' boots fading into the distance.

That evening, she joined her friends at a small café on Rue Saint-Honoré. Camille chattered brightly about new dresses, while Josephine teased Evelyn about her growing fame.

"You hardly look like a girl who just conquered Paris," Josephine remarked, narrowing her eyes. "You sit there with your coffee as though you'd rather be anywhere else."

Evelyn forced a smile. "Perhaps I am simply tired."

"Tired?" Camille laughed. "You should be jubilant. Girls would trade everything to be in your place."

Evelyn stirred her coffee in silence, the spoon clinking gently against porcelain. I would trade it all, she thought, for just one more hour by the river with him.

But she could not say it aloud. They would never understand. To her friends, love was a pastime, something light and fleeting. To Evelyn, it was already something that threatened to consume her.

Later, when she returned to her apartment, the streets hushed beneath the glow of lanterns, she paused at the sight of a newspaper posted on the wall. Its headline shouted of rising tensions, of troops moving east, of whispers of unrest across the borders. She traced the ink with trembling fingers, though Julian's name was nowhere to be found.

Still, her heart knew. Wherever the soldiers went, he was among them.

She climbed the stairs slowly, unlocked her door, and stepped into the solitude of her room. The white rose greeted her softly, its petals now fully open. She touched it gently, almost reverently.

Then she sat at the piano, laying the letter above the keys. Closing her eyes, she began to play—not for Paris, not for fame, but for him. The melody was soft and mournful, carrying across the open window into the night air.

Perhaps, she thought, if music truly carried… somewhere beyond the city, across miles of road and forest, Julian would hear it.

---

At that same moment, far from Paris, Julian led his men into the thick woods of the Ardennes, the sound of marching boots steady and relentless. He could not hear the notes Evelyn played, yet his chest ached with the strange certainty that somewhere, she was calling for him.

And he answered silently, with every beat of his heart.The following days passed in a blur of rehearsals, polite dinners, and endless invitations. Evelyn smiled when she was expected to, curtsied to patrons who showered her with praise, and nodded as critics compared her to the greatest pianists of the age.

But when she returned home each evening, she shed her gowns like armor and sat before her piano in silence. The letter remained on the music stand, a talisman she could not bring herself to move. She read it so often that the paper grew soft at the folds, yet every time the words cut her the same: wherever I am.

Where was he?

Camille teased her one afternoon after rehearsal. "You look as though your soul is not in the room. Is there someone you've left behind, Evelyn?"

The question startled her, and for a moment she feared her secret would be exposed. She laughed it off, but her voice shook. "Perhaps I've simply left my soul in the music."

Josephine, sharper than Camille, narrowed her eyes. "No, no—it's not music. It's something else. Or rather…someone."

Evelyn turned back to the piano before them, pretending not to hear. Her fingers pressed the keys with unnecessary force, drowning the moment in sound.

---

Far from Paris, Julian and his men wound through the narrow paths of the Ardennes. The air was damp, filled with the scent of pine and earth, and the forest seemed endless. His soldiers were disciplined, but even the strongest grew weary beneath the constant march.

"Strange, isn't it?" muttered Sergeant Havers, riding beside him. "Feels too quiet. As though the trees themselves are listening."

Julian nodded, his gaze sharp. The silence was unnatural—too heavy, too complete. Even the birds seemed to have fled.

He thought again of Claire Beaumont's warning: You are watched more closely than you think.

By whom?

That night, as the regiment camped near a clearing, Julian walked the perimeter restlessly. His men cooked, sharpened blades, polished boots. The routine of soldiers. Yet he felt it again—that prickle at the back of his neck, the certainty of unseen eyes.

He drew the locket from his pocket, running his thumb across its smooth surface. He had not opened it yet, respecting the girl's request. But now, with the firelight flickering, he wondered if it might contain more than a simple keepsake.

Forcing himself to stillness, he returned it to his coat. He could not afford suspicion—not yet.

---

Meanwhile, in Paris, Evelyn performed again at the Conservatoire. The hall was filled to the last seat, her name printed boldly on every program. She wore pale silk, her hair swept up with pearls, her beauty as luminous as the chandeliers overhead.

When she played, the audience leaned forward in awe. Yet behind every delicate phrase, every swelling crescendo, Evelyn's heart whispered the same refrain: Julian. Julian. Julian.

And though no one else knew, though applause thundered around her, she felt as though her music was being carried eastward through the night, into the shadows where he marched.

Evelyn could hardly walk through the streets of Paris without being recognized now. Vendors at the flower stalls bowed slightly when she passed, pressing a rose into her hand with a knowing smile. At the café near the Conservatoire, waiters hurried to seat her by the window, where curious onlookers could watch her sip her coffee. Her name appeared in journals and papers—la prodige anglaise, the English prodigy.

Yet none of this attention made her heart lighter. Fame was flattering, but lonely. For each bouquet delivered to her door, she longed for one single letter not yet written. For every applause that shook the hall, she yearned for a single voice—low, steady, and warm—calling her name.

One evening, after a particularly triumphant performance, Camille and Josephine insisted she join them for supper. The restaurant was grand, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and the heady scent of roasted meat. Camille raised her wine glass high.

"To Evelyn Hart," she declared, "the brightest star in Paris!"

Everyone clapped, even strangers nearby, and Evelyn flushed with embarrassment. "Please, Camille, don't make a spectacle," she murmured.

Josephine leaned closer across the table, her expression softer. "You should let yourself enjoy it, Evelyn. You've worked harder than any of us. Why hide your happiness?"

Evelyn smiled faintly. "Because happiness isn't applause. Not really."

The remark silenced the table for a moment. Camille arched a brow, mischief returning to her eyes. "Then perhaps it's a man. Tell us—who haunts that dreamy look of yours?"

Evelyn laughed, too quickly, shaking her head. "Nonsense. You read too many romantic novels." But her hands trembled on her lap.

Later that night, when she returned to her quiet apartment, she found her father waiting in the parlor. He stood by the mantelpiece, a tall, proud figure in a perfectly tailored coat. Evelyn froze in the doorway.

"Father," she whispered. "I didn't expect you."

Mr. Hart turned, his expression cool but softened by a glimmer of pride. "I read the reviews. They speak of you as though you were born to command a stage."

Evelyn clasped her hands, uncertain. "And do you believe them?"

He studied her for a long moment before replying. "I believe you've surpassed your mother."

The words pierced her, sharp and heavy. She had longed for his approval, but not in the shadow of her mother's absence. "That isn't what I wanted to hear," she said quietly.

His jaw tightened, but he said no more. With a stiff bow of his head, he left as suddenly as he had arrived, leaving Evelyn staring at the closed door, her chest hollow.

---

Far from Paris, Julian's regiment trudged through mud and frost. The Ardennes forest loomed like a cathedral of shadows, the air damp and biting. The men grew restless, muttering among themselves about phantom movements in the trees.

"Captain Reed," Sergeant Havers said one night, tightening his cloak. "We've lost two scouts. No sound, no struggle. They vanished as if the forest swallowed them."

Julian's gaze hardened. "Double the watches. No one travels alone."

He retreated to his tent, but sleep did not come. Instead, he drew out the locket once more. His fingers hesitated before unclasping it. Inside was not a portrait, as he had expected, but a folded scrap of paper.

Unfolding it, he found words written in a delicate, hurried hand:

Beware the man with no shadow.

Julian's pulse quickened. What kind of riddle was this? And why had the girl slipped it into his keeping as though her life depended on it?

The crackle of fire outside, the murmur of his men, the oppressive silence of the woods—all seemed to close in at once. For the first time, Julian felt a chill that no blanket could warm.

And yet, even with danger pressing in, one thought rose unbidden, steady as a heartbeat: Evelyn, seated at her piano, bathed in golden light, her music reaching for him across the miles.

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