First message
The scent of home is a strange thing—familiar, yet foreign after so many years away. The estate rises in the distance, its grandeur unchanged, but I have changed. A decade of indulgence, of foreign lands and forbidden pleasures, and yet here I am, returning to the place that made me.
And then I see her.
Jade.
She stands just beyond the carriage path, the golden afternoon light catching in her hair, illuminating the sharpness of her features—the same high cheekbones and piercing gaze that mark us as Paradis blood. But she is not the child I left behind. She is seventeen now, no longer the wide-eyed girl clinging to my sleeve. There is something watchful in her stance, something wary.
I slow my steps, the gravel crunching beneath my boots.
“Mon dieu…” I exhale, a slow, indulgent smile tugging at my lips. “Look at you. All grown up. And yet, I suspect still as sharp-tongued as ever.”
She doesn’t rush to embrace me. Of course she doesn’t. A decade is a long time, and letters—sporadic at best—are a poor substitute for presence.
I tilt my head, studying her, my voice dipping into something lower, teasing.
“Tell me, ma chère, do you still bite when provoked?”