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“And then, the princess decided that it was time she took the matter into her own hands,” Lucie typed on her typewriter. “She needed to save the prince from his fate, otherwise he would die by the hands of his evil mother. But what could she do, as he lied, motionless, on the cold marble floor of the castle? She could only-”
“Interesting.”
Lucie jumped and looked up, accidentally clicking some buttons and messing up the sheet of paper inside of her writing machine.
“You scared me,” she said, putting her hand on her chest to stop her racing heart. Lately, her heart always beat faster whenever a certain guy was around her, and this time, it was pounding both because of the anxiety and the excitement. She really liked to see that boy around her, and she wondered if it was the same for him. She sighed.
Jesse appeared at the side of her mahogany desk. “I didn’t think a girl who can see ghosts could be easily scared, to be honest.”
“If you appear out of nowhere, she could be,” Lucie protested, then she tried to fix the typewriter. The paper was stuck in the middle of the machine, which meant she had to use another one and rewrite everything she had written over there.
As she adjusted the typewriter, Jesse gazed at her with amusement. Lucie didn’t know, but he took pleasure in seeing her write and in being so lively.
“I sense you’re angry with me,” Jesse said, but his voice was playful, not bitter.
Lucie pouted, trying to keep her stance, but it wasn’t possible. “I am not the resentful type, Jesse. Even if you creep up on me while I write.”
Jesse raised his once dark eyebrows, and he shrugged. “Now I’m creeping up on you,” he told her as he paced around her room, noticing she had quite a lot of books hidden in there, “but you aren’t angry with me.”
He tilted his head and glanced at her. She was still trying to get the sheet of paper out of the damned machine, but it wouldn’t budge. “Ugh,” Lucie complained. “The paper is stuck.”
As if on cue, Jesse moved swiftly until he was by her side. The paper was torn but it was indeed blocked inside the typewriter, and Lucie wasn’t able to get it out so she could go back to her writing.
She glanced about her room, expecting to see him near her bed, but he wasn’t there. She realized he was near her, a hand placed on her desk and his head bent on the typewriter, inspecting the mess she had just created with the crumbled sheet. Jesse turned towards her, and Lucie couldn’t help but be attracted to his green eyes, which were one of the only features of him who still gave him a semblance of a living person and not a ghost.
Lucie’s mouth fell slightly open as if she was startled by the nearness, but at the same time, in awe at the guy’s appearance. He was handsome, and she thought it was just a pity that he was a ghost. She felt sorry for him. He could have been married by now, had kids, living the shadowhunter life he was meant to live or becoming whatever he wanted to be. But he was dead.
“I wish I could help you,” said Jesse, taking her back to reality, and ironically linking his words with the thoughts she was having on him. “But we never had this thing at Chiswick, and I have no idea how it works.”
She nodded and broke the connection, checking the typewriter again. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered,” Lucie assured him, and tried to get back at it, and in the end the sheet was freed from the typewriter. She looked at it grimly. “Finally. But now I have to type it all again.”
“What were you typing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was writing The Beautiful Cordelia,” Lucie beamed, rearranging some papers on the furthest side of the desk. “I was about to say how the princess saved the prince from his evil mother. She was about to…” she said, then left her sentence hanging in the air.
“Interesting. What was she about to do?”
“Are you really interested, Mr. Blackthorn?” Lucie wondered, smiling at him, but not actually answering his question. The only people who seemed interested in her writing were her family and Cordelia, and despite they told her she had talent, she had never showed her work to somebody else. “I mean, I could be writing the next best seller, if you ask me.”
Jesse shrugged and sat on the desk. Even if he was almost a shadow, he didn’t lose his spark. He was not tangible, at least for others, but he still carried a strong presence along his translucent body. “You just called me Mr. Blackthorn,” he laughed. “And I’m sure your story is nice. But, haven’t you just said that your character was about to do something? What was it?”
“I called you Mr. Blackthorn because… never mind,” Lucie shook her head and rose from her chair.
“No, now I want to know, Miss Herondale,” he urged with curiosity.
Lucie, who, in the meantime had walked to the center of the room, stopped her anxious pacing and gazed back at Jesse. He still leaned on the desk, but he turned towards her, his hands folded on his long legs.
“Well, aren’t you older than me? You were born one year before my parents got married. There is an 8-year gap between us. If you weren’t dead, you’d be 24 now, Jesse Blackthorn.”
Lucie said that in one go, without stopping for a second to get air in her lungs. She hoped she hadn’t offended him – after all, he was a ghost. Despite the sadness of his situation, she was stating facts. Jesse was born on the same year as Charles Fairchild, her mother once told her, but the children were as different as night and day, despite they both had forest green eyes. Tatiana Blackthorn, Jesse’s mother, didn’t want her brothers Gideon and Gabriel to see her baby. Her aunt Cecily and uncle Gabriel had been disheartened by her choice, especially her uncle, but they couldn’t do anything.
Jesse seemed to mull over what she said, and he waited to give her answer, to the point that Lucie thought she had been rude. Maybe it wasn’t nice to remind a ghost that he stopped aging? Yes, definitely. She was about to say more when she heard him speak.
“I honestly don’t feel that old. I mean, I feel that time passes, but I don’t perceive it the same way the living do,” he explained, staring at the window in front of him. “So, I don’t think you should call me mister. We are the same age. And I thought…” he started, then sauntered to her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.
Lucie did not move as he approached. “What did you think, Jesse?”
“We are friends, aren’t we?” he inquired with a placid tone.
“Of course, we are,” she assured him, looking delighted to hear so. “Of course, we are friends.”
Jesse beamed, and his eyes seemed to lit up with something Lucie had seen ever so slightly in him, ever since they had started meeting in secret. Hope, comfort. Warmth. How could a person who had been dead for seven long years, exude such glow?
“Marvelous,” he commented, then went to sit on her bed. “Since we’re friends, I expect you to tell me about your problem. About your story, I mean.”
“The problem with my story,” Lucie commenced, “is that I don’t know how to write the scene I was about to write.”
“How so?”
Lucie bit her lip and started pacing her room. “The princess is meant to kiss the prince to save him, since he’s dead,” she said. “Because they are fated and by kissing him, she can revive him”.
She thought how ironic that situation was. She, Lucie Herondale, hadn’t intentionally decided to insert what was happening in her real life into her story. She hadn’t realized it until then, with Jesse sitting on her bed. Jesse was dead, and…
“What is the problem, then?”
“The kiss. The kiss is the problem,” Lucie admitted honestly. She wasn’t shy, but she had to confess that speaking of kisses with a guy her age – he said so, made her cheeks heat. And it didn’t help that they were alone. In her room. At night. She dared to look at him, to see his reaction.
“You’ve never kissed somebody before,” Jesse declared, nonchalant. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. Pardon me.”
Lucie wasn’t somebody who hid her emotions, and she wouldn’t hide them in front of him. After a minute of deliberation, she decided that honesty, as always, was the best policy. “No, no. I’m not offended. Truly. And… you’re right.”
If Jesse was surprised, he didn’t let it show over his face. His expression remained neutral, tranquil, peaceful. And he was quiet even when he replied her, in contrast with her current mood. She was anxious. Suddenly, her stomach felt empty, as if something was in there. Butterflies?
“With this I can help,” Jesse murmured, grinning. “Or… By the Angel, I’m being too improper tonight, am I? I should just go.”
“No!” Lucie blurted out without thinking, realizing her voice was too loud. “No. Don’t go. I think it would be a nice experiment for me to practice kissing. This way I’ll be able to write it more realistically, even if I doubt Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë had kissed somebody when they wrote their novels,” she answered him, trying not to appear too enthusiastic about it, even if she was indeed super excited for that moment. Not only because of the kiss, her first kiss, but because of him.
Jesse nodded. “Come here, then,” he patted the spot next to him on her bed. “Or you want to do it standing?”
Lucie tried to keep her mind clear. Focus, she needed to focus. How was better? “It’s better on the bed,” she finally decided, “since my prince is supposed to be on the floor, deceased.”
“Then how about we do it like that? I don’t mind being on the floor,” he proposed.
“Excellent,” she agreed. Jesse, as swift as usual, lied down on the Persian rug she had in front of her bed. She then followed him and sat next to his shadowy body. “Close your eyes, Jesse.”
And he did as he was told. Lucie didn’t know what to do exactly, and she tried to wrack her brain and think about one of her favorite novels. How did the heroine kiss the hero at the end?
She put her hands on the sides of his neck, then dove down onto him, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips on Jesse’s translucent ones. At first, it didn’t happen anything. His lips were soft, not warm but delicate. Then she felt his hand on her back, trying not to impose on her body too much, and his lips started moving slowly on hers. He was doing what she usually did whenever she ate her favorite cake, eating small bites, slowly, savoring each piece with delight to make it last longer. He was gentle, not urgent. It seemed endless, relaxing even, until she heard the door open behind her and she felt as if she was freefalling from a cliff. Which was not far from the truth.
She luckily fell on the Persian rug.
“Did you scream earlier, Lu?” her father asked, getting into her room. “And why are you on the floor? Perhaps you fell?” Will wondered, and she could read worry written on his face as he knelt down and touched her head.
“No, papa. I was just mad because a piece of paper stuck in the typewriter, that is all,” she explained, hoping she didn’t have I’ve just been kissed by a ghost written all over her face.
Will glanced at the desk, then at his daughter. “Do you want any help?”
“No, thanks, papa.”
He seemed satisfied of the answer and stood up, offering his hand to her, which she accepted. She hoped that her hand didn’t give her away. It was sweaty.
“But you didn’t tell me why you were on the rug,” he said.
Lucie loved her father, but sometimes he was too… too curious like a cat. Or a child. While this amused her, she didn’t intend to reveal to him that she was alone in her room with a handsome Blackthorn, so she opted for a white lie, which wasn’t completely a lie.
“I was trying a scene for my book. The character faints, so I wanted to describe it well.”
Will nodded, grinning. “Ah, alright, I see, sweet Lu. Be careful.”
“I will, pap,” she agreed as he walked out of her room. “Oh, dad? Can you knock next time?”
“I knocked, Lucie. Three or four times. The fifth time I decided to barge in.”
Lucie was stunned. “Ok, well, then… goodnight, papa. Say goodnight to mom too.”
“Yes, my dear. See you tomorrow,” he said, then closed the door behind him, leaving her alone once again.
She sat on the bed with her hand on her heart and sighed.
“That wasn’t very subtle,” Jesse said, appearing in her room out of the blue for the second time that night. But he wasn’t sitting on her bed with her.
“It was indeed very close,” Lucie agreed, gazing at Jesse. He had a smug face, and he was laughing. “Are you pleased with yourself, Jesse Blackthorn?”
“A person like me rarely lives situations like this anymore,” he confessed. “Let’s be thankful I was a ghost, or your father would have thrown me out of the window.”
“My father? No, I don’t think he would have,” she replied with determination. “But my brother, maybe… and the other Merry Thieves…”
“Who are the Merry Thieves?”
“My other brothers,” Lucie conceded. “I’m the only one who can see you besides your family.”
Jesse nodded, but didn’t answer. She thought he probably didn’t know why she was the only one who could see him besides for Grace and Tatiana, and she hoped to find that out soon.
“Lucie,” he murmured after they stayed in silence for a couple of minutes. “Was the experiment alright? Did you get what you were looking for?”
“It was perfect,” she said, scanning his face to read his expression. He wore his quiet expression like a glove. She wondered if he also felt the same things she did, but didn’t dare to ask him. After all, hadn’t he said he was helping her for her writing research?
“I’m glad.”
“Thanks for the help, Jesse.”
“Anytime, Lucie.”
Lucie smiled at him and then went back to her chair, behind the desk. Now she had to write. “It’s better if I write the scene while it’s still fresh in my mind.”
“I agree,” he answered, approaching het desk with his silent gait. She was loading another sheet of paper in the typewriter when he spoke again. “Lucie?”
She glanced at him, expectantly. “Yes?”
“Can I stay? I mean, I’d love to see you write, if you don’t mind.”
Lucie couldn’t help but smile. Not only she liked the idea, but she also felt a sweet tinge in his voice, as if he was shy to ask her that. “You don’t even have to ask. You can stay anytime.”
“Alright. I’ll be quiet,” Jesse said, and Lucie wondered if he did know how true that statement was about him, but at the same time very wrong. Because despite Jesse was a ghost, a reserved ghost, he also managed to scream something very clear whenever she looked at him.
Jesse wanted to live.
Lucie didn’t know what she could do to help him. For now, she would just reenact their kiss in her writing, pretending for a moment to be The Beautiful Cordelia of her story, the princess kissed by the prince tortured by his evil mother until she could, hopefully, do it for real and for the whole world to see.