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Atop a bell tower in Paris is where they find themselves one gray, rainy afternoon, like roughed-up orphans running away from the nobles after stealing food. But they aren’t, of course; Hélöise is one of the richest women in the city now, thanks to her husband’s overseas activities, and Marianne’s family business keeps her well-off enough to not want for anything. The fringes of Hélöise’s dress get swept up against muddy pavement as they climb the stairs, leaving the hem dirty and wet, but her hand never leaves Marianne’s, clutching it tightly to make sure neither of them fall. It’s so many stories to the top that they have to pause more than once to catch their breath, and when they do, Hélöise’s eyes meet Marianne’s briefly and they share a grin as they lean on the stair railing, panting. Finally, they start moving again, and before long, Hélöise bursts through the tower door leading to the annex, head held high toward the sky, and Marianne follows.
Up here, it feels free. Marianne can tell that Hélöise is delighted, the way she opens her arms wide to catch the wind billowing her cloak, her blonde hair loosened from its tight restraint and whipping around her head. When she turns around to look at Marianne, who is still a few steps behind, Marianne feels her breath catch in her throat, dizzy with a memory that nearly knocks her off her feet. It’s so reminiscent of the first time she ever saw Hélöise’s face at the edge of that cliff, a moment she didn’t know then would be the one that changed her life forever, her first glimpse of a face she would come to know with every aspect of her being—her hands, smoothing back Hélöise’s hair on the beach and thumbing at the tears rolling down her cheeks; her eyes, painting the portrait again and again in her dreams every night, but never able to finish it before she woke up; her mouth, pressed against Hélöise’s lips, arching deeper into a kiss that threatened to consume her.
The bell has long since stopped working; its bronze façade is cracked and greened with years of weather. The space at the top isn’t large, a bit like a hot air balloon basket but with stone on all sides and looking out over the city. Hélöise leans on the barrier, like a dream come to life, and Marianne wishes, not for the first time, she could freeze this moment and paint it til her heart’s content, capturing every detail so she can return to it again and again. Instead, she walks up behind Hélöise and wraps her arms around her waist, resting her chin on Hélöise’s shoulder. Even though they’re hundreds of feet above the rest of the city, it still feels like stealing a moment in public, always aware of the chance of being caught. Hélöise leans back and rests her head on Marianne’s shoulder, their cheeks pressed together, cold from the wind.
“It’s quieter than I imagined,” Hélöise muses. It had been her idea to escape to the bell tower—she’d wanted to go to the highest point in the city, spun around in a circle, and pointed. Though they only had a few hours, both their lives waiting to swallow them up whole when they returned to ground level, Marianne agreed and kept watch for the church groundskeepers as Hélöise attempted to deal with the rusted lock on the tower door entrance. It all felt so—silly in a way, that giddy kind of indulgence she only allowed herself when she was with Hélöise, the only person who, Marianne realized, had ever known that side of her. When Marianne heard a soft clink and turned around to see Hélöise holding the door open proudly, her mouth had dropped. “Where did you learn to do that?”
A mischievous smile flickered on Hélöise’s face. “You learn all kinds of things at the convent, Marianne.”
Now, her thumbs idly brush Hélöise’s hands, hands that are apparently capable of breaking and entering, trying to warm them up. Still looking out toward the city, she buries her face in Hélöise’s neck a bit more, resting her cheek against the collar of her cloak.
“Can you see your apartment?” Hélöise asks, her head tilting slightly toward Marianne’s for the question. Marianne smiles against the cloak and looks up, searching the vast array of tiny buildings and woven streets for a familiar landmark. To the west, she thinks she sees the sharp spiral towers of a church near her apartment, but she can’t be sure it’s the right one. Nonetheless, she nods.
“I can see the red curtains of the bedroom…and the ivy around the kitchen window…and the smoke from the pipe you left burning on the night table.”
Hélöise makes an indignant sound. “That was once.” Her arms wrap around Marianne’s, holding her closer. “Your gaze may be good, but it isn’t that good.”
“Mmm? What makes you so sure?”
Hélöise turns in Marianne’s arms so they’re face to face, finally, wrapping her arms around Marianne’s neck. Marianne thinks of how frightening it is that even when she is physically close to Hélöise in some way, it’s not until she sees Hélöise’s face that she feels a wash of relief, of familiarity.
“I have some experience in the area,” Hélöise says with a hint of a smile. Up close, her cheeks are reddened from the cold as she blinks against the wind, her hair a bit of a mess, her lips slightly chapped. She’s dressed and made up as the noblewoman she is, having to adhere to polite society’s expectation of what she ought to look like each day, but this version of her, the façade rubbed away by a little bit of adventure, is the one Marianne easily prefers.
“I suppose I’ll have to trust your judgment,” Marianne says, tucking a blonde lock behind Hélöise’s ear as she nudges forward, just barely, the promise of a kiss not quite reaching Hélöise’s lips.
“I suppose so.” Hélöise sounds slightly breathless when she says it, and Marianne tells herself it’s because of the gusts of wind, not because she still has that effect on Hélöise. Nonetheless, she lets her fingers trail down Hélöise’s cheek, tracing her jaw, then her collarbones, as low as she can go before reaching the dress hem. Hélöise’s eyes flutter closed as she whispers, “Kiss me, Marianne.”
So she does, and when their lips meet it still feels like the first time, every time, the thrill and the vulnerability they’d displayed to each other on the beach years ago coming back in the heady warmth of the feeling. She kisses Hélöise deeper, sliding her hands around the back of Hélöise’s neck and scratching at the strands of blonde hair, as Hélöise slips her tongue into Marianne’s mouth and they both sigh at the feeling. Marianne didn’t mean for the kiss to turn heavy with desire so quickly, but when Hélöise breaks the kiss to press her lips to Marianne’s jaw, down her neck, careful not to leave any marks but unable to stop herself from tasting Marianne’s skin, Marianne’s mouth falls open as she closes her eyes and tightens her grip on Hélöise, wishing she could dissolve into the warmth and the feeling and the softness of this dream come to life, being in Hélöise’s arms.
Hélöise finds Marianne’s mouth again and kisses her softly, holding back from how much she truly wants to pour into the kiss because this simply isn’t the time or place, much as they both wish it was. The kiss is slow and loving, and Marianne gets lost in it, intoxicated with the feeling of Hélöise’s lips on her own and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that this is what she was always meant to do—to love Hélöise.
When they break apart, they can’t quite stop completely, sharing a few more quick kisses between heavy-lidded smiles. Marianne tilts her head to lean against Hélöise’s, takes a breath, and steals one more kiss before she forces herself to step backward. It’s almost physically painful, but she doesn’t let go of Hélöise’s hand, their fingers loosely linked together. Hélöise gives her a smile, but this one is traced with sadness, the reality of the fleeting moment closing in. Marianne knows the same look must be reflected in her own eyes. Around them, the city keeps moving, time keeps passing, unable to shelter them for too long.
“When will I see you again?” Hélöise swings their linked hands together gently, not quite looking at Marianne, and Marianne feels the crush of pain she always does when they reach this point, where she knows Hélöise has to start compartmentalizing their time together, her feelings, her desire, because they have no place in the life she must return to. Marianne knows it’s for self-preservation, and she wouldn’t wish Hélöise to come undone, but it still stings a bit when she has to watch it happen.
“You’re still coming to the gallery, yes?” Marianne’s father has a few paintings in the latest show at a gallery in downtown Paris, and she’ll be there as always to make the rounds and hopefully sell the pieces. All the noble families in town will be there, including Hélöise’s, as they’re in Paris for a few weeks before heading back to Milan. Marianne tries not to dwell on the fact that Hélöise’s husband will be there as well.
Hélöise nods. “Yes.”
“Then three days.” Marianne can’t help herself; she steps closer and presses a hand to Hélöise’s cheek, cupping her face gently. Hélöise’s eyes flutter closed. “They’ll fly by.”
“Three days,” Hélöise murmurs. She puts her hand over Marianne’s and presses her lips to Marianne’s palm. Her eyes remain closed for a moment, and when she opens them, a mask has settled over her features, no longer vulnerable and content, but wearing the hardness of her pride like a shield. Marianne knows it’s time to go.
When they reach the bottom of the tower and separate, heading opposite ways down the rain-slicked, gas lamp-lit street as if they’ve never met, the sky darkening into evening overhead, Marianne can’t help but turn around, watching Hélöise’s figure disappear into the crowds.