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Take A Bow, My Love
Loire Valley – April 15 1937
The sun was setting over the low hills of the Loire Valley, painting the orchard grass in a deep, dying crimson. Out in the lane, the chickens were letting out little rustling squeaks before resting for the night. The draft horses whinnied softly in the dark stables, their heavy hooves settling into the straw before sleep. A cool spring breeze rattled gently against the wooden shutters of the house, bringing the scent of damp river loam and fallen leaves straight through the cracks.
The master bedroom was completely full of the people they had made. Four whole generations were pressed close together in the warm, orange lamplight of the old Victorian house. This was the fortress they had dreamed into being as terrified children in the dark of a circus cage. They had built it, in the end, exactly as they had promised each other in the straw.
Erik lay flat against the heavy down pillows, his towering frame slouched low beneath the wool quilts. He was ninety-seven years old. The thick hair at his temples was entirely snow-white, and his bare, unmasked face was fully exposed to his family's light. His breath came slow and rattling now, a heavy, mechanical draw through his chest, but his yellow eyes were bright and wide. He was not afraid.
Beside his hip lay Belle, her ninety-seven-year-old frame slight and delicate under the blankets. Her breath was quiet, a thin, peaceful slip of air through her lips.
Their fingers were interlaced tightly in the centre of the mattress, their knuckles turning stark white as they held on to each other.
Victoire sat on her mother’s side of the bed, her own silver hair pinned high, her dark eyes flashing with that exact, sharp concentration she had carried since her childhood. Dorian sat flat on a stool on Erik’s side, his broad shoulders filling out his farmer's coat, his face deeply grooved by a lifetime of working the orchard clay. Both children held their parents’ hands carefully, their thumbs moving with a slow, steady friction to rub the heat back into the old knuckles.
The rest of the family crowded into the shadows of the wardrobe, their breathing a synchronized, heavy rhythm in the silence.
Victoire had married well, adopting the name of a respected viscount, Marc-Antoine, who had once worked alongside Raoul’s son. Together, they had left a magnificent legacy across the valley. Their four grown children stood tall by the window—thirty-six-year-old Louis, with Erik’s broad, commanding shoulders; thirty-four-year-old Emile, who was as lithe as Victoire; thirty-year-old Theo, who had his father’s frame and personality; and twenty-eight-year-old Juliette, named in honour of Belle’s oldest Paris friend. Behind them stood their own babies, a quiet cluster of great-grandchildren peeking through the door.
Dorian had kept his boots on the dirt, casually taking the name of his partner, Anne, the miller’s daughter. He lived a simple country life with his two strapping boys, now thirty and twenty-five. Anne stood near the hearth, her linen apron draped around her waist, her body heavy and round with the swell of their final child. Their thirty-year-old son was named Adam, and he looked like his mother. Their twenty-five-year-old son was named Henri. He looked like a mix of Dorian and Erik. He had barely any of his mother’s features. Both boys had partners, but neither could be there.
***
Victoire chuckled under her breath, her dark eyes flashing with a sudden, warm light as she thought of a good memory.
“Papa?”
Erik turned his head slowly against the down pillow to look at Victoire, a soft, genuine smile crinkling the raw parchment lines of his unmasked features. “Oui, mon alouette?” he replied, his deep voice soft and low, worn with age. Belle, in turn, looked up from the centre of the mattress, her dark eyes fixing on her firstborn daughter's face with fierce, unconditional warmth.
“Remember when Dorian and I were kids?” Victoire said softly, her thumb gently rubbing his knuckles as she tried to hold back a tear. “How we would constantly pester you and Maman to wake up and make us apple pie at five in the morning?”
Erik slowly scratched his chin, his yellow eyes catching the lamplight. “Yes. I do remember. You two wanted to help us with the baking, but we ended up completely covered in flour. Because nothing was organized in the kitchen at that hour.” He let out a soft, genuine chuckle against the linen.
Belle chuckled lightly beside him, her silver-pinned curls shifting against the blanket as years of valley mornings rushed back into her mind. “I remember having to splash cold well water on all of you just to break the dust before I cleaned myself.”
Erik brushed his calloused thumb gently against the old, tarnished wire ring he had made for her in the mud of the circus camps so long ago, his touch carrying a total, learned gentleness. “We made a proper pie afterwards. And it was delicious.”
Belle nodded as she turned her head to face Erik, her dark eyes softening, all the old fear long gone out of them. “Delicious nonetheless.” She smiled, her whole face easing, her fingers tightening around his palm until there was nothing of the world left between them.
Dorian chimed in from his wooden stool, his broad shoulders slouching back in a posture that mirrored his father’s stance as he shared a little story of his own. “I remember one time when we asked you where babies came from. Papa, you stammered so much over the words that Maman had to speak for you entirely.”
Erik closed his eyes for a quiet moment and smiled, his broad shoulders relaxing into the down pillows as the memory hung thick and comforting in the air. “Well, that is because no one ever taught me how babies were made when I was a child in the cells. I wracked my brain trying to figure out how to explain it to you.”
Belle let out a soft, breathy laugh against his shoulder, her fingers smoothing the wool quilt. “You were way too mathematical in your explanation, my love. Someone had to make it easy for the kids to understand without a ledger.” Her eyes were still fixed on him with the same fierce devotion that had outlasted the century.
Erik and Belle’s eyes never left one another, the two of them locking their gaze in the warm orange light of the old house, completely safe, warm, and whole, surrounded by the beautiful line they had drawn into the world.
Dorian looked into his parents' loving gaze and smiled, leaning forward on his wooden stool. “Remember my wedding? And Victoire’s wedding?”
Erik and Belle looked back at their child, their wrinkled faces softening as they chuckled in unison against the down pillows.
“Heaven above, it was something,” Belle said softly, her dark eyes resting on her firstborn daughter, quiet and unafraid. “Victoire marrying the Viscount Marc-Antoine.” Belle shifted her slight frame beneath the quilts, her silver-pinned curls catching the warm orange light of the lamp. “I’m still rather upset with you that you decided to get married at seventeen, my girl.” She tried to fake a stern frown, her brow furrowing slightly, but she couldn’t maintain the mask before her lips broke into a radiant smile.
Marc-Antoine let out a light chuckle from his spot near the heavy mahogany wardrobe, his handsome face looking distinguished, silver threads threading through his hair. “What can I say, Madame? I was really in love with your daughter. And I still am!” He walked over to Victoire’s side of the mattress, his leather boots making a steady, confident crunch over the floorboards as he placed his hand on her shoulder and leaned in to give her a tender kiss on the cheek.
Erik let out a low, genuine laugh that vibrated through the linen, his yellow eyes warm under the lamps. “Belle, I wanted to marry you since we were kids, lying in the straw of the wagons. So, it is not that different.” He squeezed her small hand in the centre of the mattress, his calloused thumb brushing gently against the old, tarnished wire ring on her knuckle. He then turned his silver-stubbled chin toward his second son, his voice dropping to a low, warm, entirely human register. “You shocked us by saying your wedding would happen a month after you proposed, Dorian. You know I am all about rigid rules in this house?” He smiled, his shoulders sinking deeper into the pillows. “Luckily, you did not want a lavish wedding. Granted, we could’ve paid for it with the exorbitant amount of money I still have left.”
Anne smiled warmly as she crossed the pine floorboards to Dorian’s side, her linen apron drifting softly over her skirt. She rested her hand gently on the round of her belly, her face reflecting the deep, peaceful hospitality of the valley. “Lavish weddings are nice, Father, but a simple wedding here on your farm was nice for us. The orchard was beautiful that morning.”
Dorian nodded once, completely satisfied with the logic of the memory. He looked up at Anne, resting his large, calloused hand flat over hers on her belly to share her warmth. “It was the best wedding ever.” He then looked over the mattress to where Victoire and Marc-Antoine stood, a mischievous glint flashing in his dark eyes. “Sorry, our wedding was better than yours.”
Victoire stuck out her tongue playfully at her brother across the linen sheets, her serious expression melting into pure, childish defiance.
Dorian did the same in return.
Erik and Belle watched the sibling rivalry unfold with a profound, unyielding happiness, a soft, low purr of absolute contentment escaping Erik's throat—a deep, physical velvet vibration that echoed through the quiet room.
***
The room remained quiet for a few moments until Erik sensed something was off within his body. He looked at Belle and squeezed her hand. "Victoire? Dorian? Could you please bring your Maman closer to me? I want her resting on my chest." Before Victoire and Dorian could assist, Marc-Antoine had already taken action. He gently moved Belle closer to Erik, lying her on her left side with her head resting on his chest.
Erik wrapped his arm around her and purred softly, “Merci beaucoup, Marc.”
Marc-Antoine nodded. “De rien.”
Victoire’s kids and Dorian’s kids looked over at Erik and Belle, the quiet rustle of the room freezing into a complete, breathless silence. Their hearts sank as they sensed something was off with the rhythm of the bed.
“Grandpère? Would you and Grandmère like some tea?” Juliette asked, her voice trembling as she clutched the edge of her wool shawl.
Erik slowly raised a hand from beneath the down quilts, his long fingers moving with a gentle, practiced touch. “No, thank you, my little lark,” he said softly. He leaned his chin forward and pressed a lingering kiss on the top of Belle’s head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair one last time. He let out a long, shuddering sigh against her skin, his yellow eyes fixed on her face. “My love, my Belle?”
Belle looked up at him, her dark eyes softening with an absolute, hard-earned peace. “Oui, my love?”
“It's time to take a bow,” he said softly, his deep voice dropping to a low, raspy velvet as he gripped her tightly against his ribs. Erik had never feared death, but for ninety-seven years, his literal mind had feared dying alone in the dark. And now he was not afraid, because he had his Belle right beside his hip. His friend, his lover, his wife.
Belle nodded slowly against his chest, her fingers clenching around his. “Yes. It is time.”
Erik and Belle looked at everyone crowding the parlour doorway, their faces radiant with hot, heavy tears falling from their lids.
“We are so proud of every single one of you,” said Erik, his breath shuddering beneath his low tone, the old house vibrating with the depth of his voice.
“Your Papa is right. We are so proud,” says Belle as she holds on to Erik tightly, her old frame resting easily against his flank. “If there is one thing your Papa and I could wish for, it is that we had more time together in this world.”
Desperate, audible sobs filled the room, their legacy, the grown children and grandchildren, holding on to the bedposts as the tears fell.
“We love you both,” Erik and Belle said in unison, their voices blending into a single, perfect chord that cut straight through the valley’s dark.
And with that, their eyes began to close, the warm orange lamplight fading behind their lids. Their breathing grew ragged, a heavy draw in their chests as the clock on the mantel struck the hour with a thud. The two of them took three breaths in and out together, their pulses matching identical intervals, until their fourth breath, when no air came out.
Victoire turned to hug Marc-Antoine, her heavy tears staining the dark wool of his suit jacket. He held her tightly against his chest, sharing in the raw, devastating tears as the reality of the quiet bed settled over the room. Dorian tried his best to hold back his tears, his broad shoulders tensing as he stared flatly at the mattress, but the moment Anne placed her warm hand gently on his arm, he immediately caved and began to cry, his head bowing low into his palms.
***
Outside the wooden shutters, the earthly valley faded completely into a blinding, infinite open space.
In the dark sky, the stars were incredibly bright. Vast galaxies of all colours were strewn across the indigo sky like a sweeping painting across the cosmos. Erik sat comfortably on the edge of a galaxy's swirling arm, his long, thin legs swinging freely beneath him as he stared out at the beautiful nightly landscape before him. He was nineteen again, his broad shoulders filling out his clean white linen shirt, his silver hair completely dark once more.
“Erik.”
He turned his head slowly, his bright yellow eyes widening into massive circles as he saw Belle walking directly toward him through the stardust. A brilliant smile spread across his face when he noticed that she was not limp at all; her stride was smooth and even, although the long silver lines of the old tiger scars were still sharply visible on her cheek.
He got up from his spot instantly, his long limbs moving with a rapid, weightless efficiency as he ran straight to her. She began to run towards him, her boots leaving no dragging trace.
The two of them embraced each other tightly under the open sky, hot tears of absolute joy falling from their eyes as the droplets floated off into the vacuum like tiny, glowing crystals. They kissed each other passionately, chuckling within the kiss as twenty years of earthly gravity dissolved in the span of a single breath.
As they finally let go, Belle smiled, the open, unguarded smile of the girl on the rope, and pulled him into a dance. He placed one large hand at the small of her back, his other hand clenching her fingers with an unyielding grip that left no space between their palms. Belle placed her small hand flat on his shoulder.
As soon as they were in position, they began to waltz among the stars, their weightless feet leaving glowing silver prints in the sky, keeping time with a silent music in three-quarter time. As they continued to waltz among the stars, the rhythm of their adulthood suddenly fractured. Belle let go of his grip and then ran, her satin skirt swirling through the dark.
“Come on!” she said happily, her voice a clear, untarnished chime that cut through the deep silence of the heavens.
Erik laughed out loud, his tone dropping into a low, rhapsodic velvet as he began to chase her along the constellation lines.
The two of them ran among the stars happily tagging one another like they were carefree children who had never known a cage. They ran straight through the thick, swirling gas of a glowing nebula, coming out on the other side as small babies learning how to walk for the very first time. Belle and Erik were stumbling clumsily over the stardust but laughing uncontrollably as their tiny hands reached out to catch each other.
They passed through the same nebula again, coming out into the open light as toddlers, chasing each other's small shadows through the comet dust. Once more, they looped back, emerging as older children, their bright, ringing laughter becoming the only thing that made the distant stars seem bright in the dark.
They passed through another thick nebula, emerging into the dawn as teenagers, their long fingers automatically interlacing with absolute familiarity. Their frantic running slowed to a steady, rhythmic pace as they jogged through one final nebula, emerging into the infinite peace of the cosmos as adults in their thirties.
They stop running as they hold each other close, their foreheads pressed together. The two of them had made up for every year they had missed together.
Erik looked into her eyes and smiled as he leaned in to kiss her, his heart beating heavily in his chest as the kiss felt like the first kiss all over again.
When they parted, he did not let go of her hands. For a moment, he only looked at her — the whole of her, the smooth stride and the scarred cheek, the girl on the rope and the woman who had crossed an ocean and a lifetime to reach him — and something in his face seemed very young and very certain.
"I would do it again," he said quietly. "All of it. The cage. The cold. The years I thought you were gone." His thumb moved over her knuckles, over the place where a wire ring had once been. "If the price of finding you is losing you first, and finding you again, then I will pay it in every life there is. I would look for you in a thousand worlds, Belle, and I would find you in everyone."
Belle's eyes shone. "You always did find me," she said. "Even when they told you I was dead. Even in the dark."
"And I always will." He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to it. "Wherever you are, however long it takes, I will come."
She stepped back into his arms, her cheek against his chest, her hand in his. "Then come on," she whispered, smiling. "We have a dance to finish."
They settled into position to dance again.
***
Victoire’s kids, Dorian’s kids, and the heavy cluster of great-grandchildren slowly filed out the back door of the cottage, leaving the master bedroom wrapped in a beautiful, total silence. They stood together on the wooden porch, their faces pale in the cool night air, waiting for the village coroner to come down the lane to collect the two aging bodies from the linen sheets.
The spring wind rustled the orchard's dark leaves, but the thick, suffocating grief in their chests made the whole valley feel stone-still.
Suddenly, the youngest of the great-grandchildren pointed up at the dark sky, his small arm reaching straight toward the constellations. The oldest boy, thirty-six-year-old Louis, followed the gesture, his voice cutting through the quiet to grab everyone’s attention.
“Look! The stars are falling.”
Everyone went down the wooden patio steps together, their heavy boots sinking into the country grass as they moved out into the middle of the lawn to watch the horizon. Their hearts raced beneath their coats as they watched a spectacular, roaring shower of shooting stars paint the indigo sky, the burning white streaks cutting straight through the galaxies like a sweeping brush on canvas.
Victoire wrapped her arm around Dorian’s broad shoulders, pulling her brother close to her side as brilliant silver flashes lit up her tear-stained face. “You think Maman and Papa are dancing right now?”
Dorian nodded slowly, his dark eyes brimming with a fresh, heavy flood of tears as he watched the glowing silver footprints spread across the heavens. “I think they’re leaving their mark right now.”
“I agree,” Marc-Antoine murmured, his hand resting firmly on his wife's shoulder as the celestial waltz reached its spectacular crescendo above the poplar trees. “They’re happy right now.”
Anne walks up to Dorian and leans into him. “I hope we will be as happy as they are.” She speaks.
Dorian wraps his arm around her waist. “We will. All of us.”