Chapter Text
“I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”
William Ernest Henley
le 27 mai, 2002
Summer comes quickly this season, the warm winds from the south inspiring the trees and flowers to burst from the ground in rapid colour, and it’s today that Tom Dupain and Sabine Dupain-Cheng bring their daughter to the Oracle of Versailles for her prophecy.
Whether perched on mountains or carved in sunken valleys, the temples of the Oracle had long spread across the world since the times of antiquity. The marble pillars and gleaming arches of the original Delphic temple in Greece still stood as strong and majestic as the day it was erected so many centuries ago and as the people discovered new lands and conquered new seas, the prophetic magic only continued to grow and spread; currently, forty nine temples dotted the earth’s most powerful ley lines, a sacrament to just how important the prophecies were to the people who followed the Oracle. After all, it was widely known that the head priestess, the sybilline seer known as the Pythia, was rarely wrong in her predictions, her divinity unmatched beyond measure. Each and every temple employed a Pythia to give advice and prophecies to those who sought them, and the centuries upon centuries of devotion and proof spoke to the true magnitude of her power.
The drive out of Paris isn’t a long one, and Alain from across the road had happily loaned them his car for their first trip to the Oracle since the birth of their daughter. They’d left their cozy apartment just as the first rays of the sun had peeked over the horizon, hoping to beat the rush hour traffic and the equally busy lines at the temple itself, knowing it would be packed on a beautiful day like today. Sabine checks their sleeping daughter regularly in the rear view mirror and smiles to herself, her feet tapping to the rhythm of the song on the radio.
Tom parks the car in the busy lot and lifts the parking brake into gear, his shoulders sagging in relief now that they had finally arrived. He’d been holding onto the wheel with a white knuckled focus for the duration of the trip, his widened eyes glued to the road with his daughter’s safety at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t drive very often but Sabine had encouraged him to be brave for his daughter, especially on a such a special day; the Temple of the Oracle was open and taking visitors and everything else could wait.
Sabine exits the car and carefully unfastens their newborn from her carseat, the baby’s bright blue eyes blinking rapidly in the bright morning sun. Sabine lifts her and hugs her close to her chest as Tom hoists the stroller out from the boot of the car and unfolds it, setting it down onto the gravel covered ground. It’s a mundane task but it’s one they’re quickly acclimatising to now that their baby has finally arrived, her chubby cheeks already ruddy in the sun. Sabine helps strap her into the stroller, pulls the awning over her daughter’s head and readies for the pilgrimage ahead.
The walk is long but pleasant, the Oracle of Versaille renowned across the world for being one of the most beautiful and ornate of the European temples, its majesty and detail rivalled only by those in Vienna and Rome. That being said, the French have long proclaimed themselves as having the one with the largest of gardens, the extensive grounds richly decorated with statues, fountains and water parterres that could only contend with the beauty of the temple itself, the labyrinths of hedges and flowers breathtaking and vast.
Tom and Sabine pass the time talking, their chatter both lively and nervous as they weave through the groomed pathways towards the temple. There’s already a queue near the main doorway and Sabine is suddenly thankful that newborns are always granted priority access to see the Pythia, the rules of preference doled out by the lesser priestesses who arrange the order of visitation later down the line. Eagerly, they aim for the newborn queue and pass many others who lie in wait for their chance to speak with the Oracle or one of the Sibyl priestesses, their faces soothed by the spring wind in the hot sun.
Reaching up onto her toes, Sabine brushes some flour from Tom's shoulder as they pass into the shaded area, the air cool and humid in the shadows of the marble arches. As is custom, she slips her shoes off and leaves them by the threshold beyond the stairs and reminds her husband to do the same, holding him steady as he toes off his loafers and leaves them beside hers. Sabine had left the baby’s shoes behind in the car and tweaks her little toes between her thumb and forefinger as she bends down to check on her, endlessly enthralled with how small she is; Tom had already spent countless hours holding her simply in awe, her tiny body dwarfed by his enormous frame, his heart hammering in his chest at the wonder of it all.
It was custom for all new parents to bring their infants to see the Pythia as a means to guide them in their choices and expectations during their child’s formative years. The Oracle usually offered a glimpse into their health and happiness as well as their strengths and future personality, something that was always undoubtedly helpful when choosing schooling and activities for their young ones as they grew. If parents were especially favourable in the eyes of the Pythia, the priestess would divulge even more wonderful details about the infant and perhaps, even more rarely, would ask to hold the child.
It was very rare that the Pythia would divulge nothing at all, but it wasn’t necessarily unheard of. Children with no prophecy usually passed away before reaching childhood and some prophecies were simply too unpleasant for the Pythia to give, especially to parents who were in good favour with the balance of fate. On the other hand, there were many people who were not necessarily in good standing with the balance, having perhaps ignored or denied the power and presence of it. In these cases, it was up to the Pythia to decide whether or not she wanted to share anything in particular, sometimes neglecting to allow a glimpse into their child’s prophecy at all.
Having made the trip to see the Pythia several times already in their lives, Sabine knew to prepare for what could very well be a wait that could last for hours. Beneath the stroller, she’d packed an insulated bag of food, beverages and seat cushions to sit on if their stay was particularly long; kneeling, she reaches down and takes two bottles of water from the sack and hands the other to her husband, both content and anxious at the nearness of their journey’s end.
Sabine unscrews the lid of her bottle and brings the edge to her lips, watching her daughter closely. She’d been quiet for most of the trip, her heavy lidded eyes indicating that perhaps she had just woken and wished to fall back asleep. She begins rocking the stoller back and forth until Tom takes over, tucking his bottle into the side compartment of the stoller and following the same repetitive action until the baby closes her eyes yet again.
“Do you think she’ll suggest a name?” Tom asks, grabbing the bottle again and swallowing half of the contents in one go.
“She usually does,” Sabine replies, rising from where she’d been hunting for their sandwiches in the bottom compartment of the stroller, “She offered my mother three choices when she visited with me.”
Tom tips his head, “What were the other two?”
“I don’t remember,” Sabine replies, setting her husband’s sandwich on top of the stroller’s awning, “But they were Chinese in origin. My mother wanted something French.”
The couple eats their sandwiches in silence, content to watch the constant stream of people flooding in through the various entrances of the temple. Their line moves steadily forward, as does the line separated for the smaller children whose parents try and keep their little bundles of energy occupied with snacks and sticker books throughout the long wait ahead.
“I have a few ideas if she doesn’t suggest any,” Tom mentions offhand, wiping the mustard from his fingers with the back of a paper napkin, “Eugénie or Marguerite.”
“After your grandmothers?”
“I like Marie as well,” he shrugs after chewing the final bite of his sandwich, “It’s classic.”
“It is,” Sabine responds, wrapping the second half of her sandwich back up in the butcher paper she’d packed it in and tucking it back into the insulated bag, “Knowing the Pythia, she’s probably already keeping your ideas in mind.”
The queue continues forwards at a steady pace as Tom and Sabine finally enter the receiving chamber. There are a number of priestesses roaming the cavernous chamber, consulting the people and sorting them into smaller chambers based on the nature of their questions. Despite their matching dedication of the Oracle, the priestesses couldn't be more different in their design; dressed beautifully, the ladies of every ethnicity and culture speak in dulcet tones, their bodies draped in brightly coloured robes and swathed in ornate jewellery. Each and every woman working as a priestess was handpicked by the Pythia herself, her mark appearing on their skin at birth.
“A baby!” a priestess cries out, her vermillion robe flowing like a foxglove as she spins in glee and approaches, kneeling beside the stroller, “Such a beautiful girl, the Pythia will be pleased!”
“I hope so,” Sabine smiles as the eyes of people nearby turn in their direction. The sudden attention brings a blush to her cheeks and Tom places a hand on her shoulder, its weight warm and comforting against her skin.
“I know so!” the priestess replies, bobbing on the balls of her feet, “The Pythia foretold that we would have an exciting day. Do you sense it?”
The priestess’s eyes are piercing, their brightness a direct contrast to the depth of her skin in the diffused light streaming in from the skylights. Sabine swallows as the woman’s gaze goes right through her and the sensation would have been alarming if not for the gentleness of her smile, “It's an exciting day for us.”
The priestess relents, straightening her body and sweeping her hand across the top of the stroller, “Indeed. Now come, the inner sanctum awaits!”
The priestess in vermillion waves her arms and leads them through a series of pathways, the arching marble walls heavily adorned with exotic greenery. The vines of flowers bloom eagerly in the heat coming in from the light that pours in from the windows as the priestess glides across the floor, pausing only once to admire the vertical gardens and pluck a pink lily flower from its stem. She takes a deep breath and savours its scent before reaching downwards yet again, tucking the flower just behind the baby’s ear. Her eyes are wide and awake now and the priestess spends a moment playing with her tiny hand before turning and continuing their journey deeper into the temple.
“This is where I leave you,” the priestess says at last, pausing at the threshold of another enormous marble arch, “One of the priestesses will be out shortly to let you in. May the fates smile upon you.”
Watching as the priestess disappears down the hallway, Tom takes Sabine’s hand nervously and squeezes it for a moment before she shakes him off in favour of fussing over their daughter, re-adjusting her pink dress and brushing her hair from her eyes. She leaves the lily untouched and wishes she had remembered the camera that she'd left on the kitchen earlier this morning, forgotten in the rush to get downstairs before the sun had fully risen. They were used to their days starting off in the early hours, what with the modest bakery they’d opened together beneath their flat, but today had been so different that Sabine hadn’t even been able to keep her focus, too excited for what sort of prophecy the day would bring.
Sabine is just about to adjust her daughter’s outfit again for the umpteenth time when another priestess emerges from the doorway, her caramel skin swathed in folds of cerulean and gold. Her smile is wide and inviting as she leads them through the marble arch without a word, the pads of their feet the only sound as they walk down a brightly lit tunnel. Quickening their pace, they round a corner and Sabine can’t help but gasp as they enter the final chamber of the sanctum, the yawning cavern even more beautiful than the last time she remembers it, covered almost entirely in trees, flowers and moss.
“Welcome Tom and Sabine!” a voice greets them from behind a forest of orchid trees and laurel leaves, the scent of bergamot and mandarin perfuming the air. They follow the pebbled path around to the front of the altar when they finally spot her, already on her feet with her palms outstretched in greeting, “And a child! What a marvelous occasion!”
“Thank you,” Tom responds, beaming proudly as Sabine unstraps the baby from her carriage and lifts her into her arms, “We brought you a gift for honouring us with your guidance.”
The Pythia claps her hands together and laughs, her voice cheerful as it echoes against the high ceilings of the chamber. She sits back down upon her tripod and waits patiently as Tom fishes a box from beneath the stroller, the bangles on her wrist glittering in the morning sun; while a sacrifice or monetary donation was no longer required to receive counsel from the Oracle, it was still commonplace to offer her and her temple a gift of something or other, so long as the offering was meaningful and not given as a bribe.
“After our last visit, your suggestion to expand our horizons has lead to a huge success at our bakery,” Tom explains, taking a small pink box into his hands. He opens it and places it at the foot of the altar, “We’ve been able to make a name for ourselves as a renowned bakery with our macarons and we owe it all to you.”
The Pythia grins widely and dips her head, “The pleasure of knowing your bakery has seen success is the greatest gift you could offer me. The fates are smiling upon you.”
“Thank you,” Sabine breathes, her eyes glued to the Pythia as she rises from her tripod and brushes a lock of white hair from her eyes.
“You’re welcome! Now come, let me see her.”
Adjusting her summer dress one last time, Sabine lowers her daughter onto the plush fabric pillow that lies on the receiving mat at the foot of the altar and steps back, watching anxiously as the Pythia waves her hands in a staccato rhythm, her eyes half closed and entranced. Tom pulls Sabine against his side as the priestess continues her ritual when she frowns suddenly, her eyes jolting open with both confusion and surprise.
“This is interesting,” the Pythia mutters, lost in thought as she makes her way down the stairs to the base of the altar. Sabine jerks instinctively and gasps as the priestess reaches down without warning and scoops the infant into her arms, gently brushing her bangs from her eyes, “How peculiar.”
“P-peculiar?”
The priestess returns to her tripod and perches upon it, the infant cradled carefully between her arms and thighs, “Her prophecy is...shrouded from me. I can see it, and my kin are all at once familiar with the source of its power, but…” the Pythia’s expression softens as the baby in her arms extends her tiny hand, “It is forbidden for me to share.”
The weight of the Pythia’s words are crushing, “You can't...you can't share her prophecy?”
“Please,” Tom's voice cracks as he steps forwards, releasing his grasp on his wife to press his palms together imploringly, “Tell us something, anything.”
The Pythia is silent for several moments, her thoughts and visions playing heavily on her conscious. She takes a deep breath and focuses her emotions, succeeding only marginally as Sabine brings her hands to her face, tears already streaming from her eyes as the significance of the Pythia’s words dawn upon her.
“She will live through her childhood,” the Pythia explains, reassuring Sabine as her quiet sobs continue to colour the tranquil silence of the temple, “But I could put both you and your daughter in great danger should I share the true nature if her history.”
“Is she...is there anything we can do?” Tom pleads, wrapping his arms around his wife and pulling her into her chest, “We have to protect her.”
The Pythia gently runs her fingers through the baby’s hair, smiling when her tiny hand wraps around her one of her outstretched fingers. Again, she hesitates and closes her eyes, the child’s future playing like a film in fast motion behind her eyelids.
“I will share what I can,” she concedes finally, cradling the child to her chest, “I cannot say much, so I will simply tell you this. Your daughter will be beautiful. She will be kind. She will be loved. But she will also face great adversaries, and will do so with the same kindness and ambition that lies within your hearts. While I cannot share the nature of her prophecy, I beseech you to support her in all that she does. You will be her ley line in this world, her source of energy and love as she faces untold forces that I cannot begin to describe nor comprehend,” the Pythia sighs, her breath ruffling the baby’s hair, “Your role will be to guide her and to teach her to be strong and just. You are her greatest allies in this world, and I trust her fate will be safe in your hands.”
Sabine takes a shaky breath and nods, her eyes shrouded in tears, “We can do that.”
“Good,” the Pythia gently grazes her painted nail along the baby’s cheek and descends the stairs of the altar yet again, pausing in front of her parents, “She will rise higher than even I can anticipate and as her parents, you should be proud of what your daughter will become, though I cannot tell you why,” the Pythia hands the baby over to Sabine, who shudders in both worry and wonder as the priestesses skin brushes her own, “Have you named her?”
Tom shakes his head as Sabine hugs her daughter close, “We wanted your advice.”
“Of course,” the Pythia smiles and returns to her altar, “Eugénie for her sweetness, Rose for kindness, Marinette for greatness.”
“Eugénie was my grandmother,” Tom remarks, his voice soft with awe as he turns to face his wife, her cheeks still tearstained and blotchy with emotion.
“I know,” the Pythia relaxes onto her tripod, her legs crossing before her, “It would make a beautiful choice.”
~
Later that evening, Sabine hefts the heavy laptop from its shelf and drops it onto the counter with a leaden thud, “Tom, are you finished with the phone? I need the internet.”
“One minute!” Tom replies from the bedroom, a loud thud emanating from beyond the doorway. As adept as her husband is at kneading bread and decorating cakes, Tom was never particularly adept at moving around in small spaces, “Okay!”
Plugging the landline into the dock on the side of the laptop, Sabine listens to the familiar dial up tones as she connects to the internet, her fingernails tapping a rhythmless tune against the touchpad. She’d been feeling nothing but anxiety since their pilgrimage to the Oracle, her every fear and doubt reappearing at the forefront of her mind each time she looked in her daughter's direction...what was going to happen to her? Why was she going to face adversaries and danger and untold forces?
“I can hear you worrying from over here,” Tom remarks, walking up beside her with a cup of tea. Sabine thanks him and takes the cup automatically, holding the hot porcelain between her palms, “You heard the Pythia, she said that she’d be okay.”
“But she’s going to be in danger,” Sabine insists, setting the tea aside without sipping it. She drags her finger across the touchpad and opens the browser, waiting patiently as the internet slowly plods towards the homepage, “She’s going to get hurt and there’s nothing we can do about it because we don’t know her prophecy!”
“She said nothing about getting hurt Sabine,” Tom replies, plucking a madeleine from the cake stand on the counter.
Sabine frowns, “But she implied it!”
Tom places his hands on her shoulders and begins kneading the knots there, the position giving him the privacy to drop his brave façade, “The Pythia also said that we would be proud of her. No matter what happens Sabine, we’ll be there for her no matter what.”
Sabine takes a deep, shuddering breath to try and gather her thoughts, “This is worse than I could have ever imagined.”
“I know,” Tom replies, his thumbs rubbing in gentle circles along her shoulder blades, “but even the Oracle can’t predict everything. Maybe things will turn out differently.”
Sabine sighs into his touch, her tense muscles already softening beneath his steady fingers, “Just once, I’d like to hear a straightforward prophecy.”
“You and everyone else on the planet,” Tom mutters, peering over his wife’s shoulder as she types the url of a baby name website she’d copied from a sticky note. The website pops up after several seconds of loading and Sabine drags the cursor up to the search engine, “Are you looking up the names?”
“I am,” Sabine replies, searching for Eugénie first, “It means ‘well born’.”
Tom nods appreciatively, “It’s my favourite so far.”
“Rose means...kind and sweet.”
“No,” Tom shakes his head, “My vote is still for Eugénie.”
“Hmm,” Sabine returns to the search engine, “What was the last one?”
“Marinette,” Tom replies, sweeping his palms over the muscles at the junction of her neck, “For greatness, apparently.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Sabine mutters, tapping the name onto the keys, “It means....one who rises up.”
“That’s not bad,” Tom considers, tipping his head to the side, “But I still like Eugénie the best.”
“Let’s sleep on it,” Sabine suggests, closing the lid of the laptop and checking the time, “We’ll be dead on our feet if we don’t get to bed soon. I set the alarm for 03:00.”
“I’ve already got a few batches proofing as we speak.”
“Perfect,” Sabine smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “Can you start the coffeemaker tomorrow morning while I’m getting my shower?”
“Of course,” Tom scoops her off the stool and sweeps her into his arms, walking across the floor and through the threshold to their bedroom, “Only the best for you.
~
le 13 septembre, 2002
It’s an unusually frigid afternoon in September when the Mercedes pulls into the parking lot of the Oracle of Versailles and slides to a stop on the slick gravel in front of the path’s entranceway. A woman steps out of the passenger side door and adjusts her rain jacket, pulling the hood over her head as the driver lifts a stroller from the boot. He unfolds it and sets it down for her, holding an umbrella over her head as she unbuckles the carseat from the seatbelt and hauls it up and onto the stroller.
“Tell Monsieur we’ve arrived,” the woman says, her tone clipped and serious as she clips the carseat to the stroller and pulls a plastic cover overtop. The man holding the umbrella nods and disappears back into the Mercedes, pulling away as the woman begins to push the stroller at a brisk pace through the gates and down the lane.
Pausing under the shelter of a large chestnut tree, the woman pauses in her hurried stride and peeks underneath the plastic to check on her charge. Bundled in a striped cashmere jumpsuit and a down-filled puffer jacket, the first and likely only male heir to the Agreste fashion empire slept soundly beneath a cotton blanket, likely lulled to sleep by the steady patter of rain on the plastic. He was admittedly quite cute, although not without his faults; personally, she had never known a more colicky baby, and Monsieur was less than impressed with the complications that followed his birth.
Adjusting the plastic once more over the stroller, the woman continues towards the temple as fast as she can manage, eager to get out of the rain. The cold snap had come out of nowhere and had been a hindrance to pretty much everyone at the Agreste empire and she wasn’t looking forward to readjusting the gardener's schedules again, nor changing the location of the spring line shoot from the outdoor bosquet to the indoor orangerie where the light would be tinted with yellow and less than perfect. Monsieur would have to spend extra money on editing the photos and she certainly wasn’t looking forward to being present when her particularly eccentric boss flipped his proverbial lid at the news.
The woman sighs in relief as the temple bobs into sight, now only a few minutes walk away. There’s no queue at the front which is no surprise given the atrocious weather pelting down on her raincoat and she blesses her lucky stars for her good fortune today, even if she has the schedule from hell sitting on her desk back at the office.
“Welcome to the Oracle of Versailles,” a priestess greets her as she passes through the giant marble archways marking the entrance of the temple. The woman nods in acknowledgement and slips her feet from her rain boots, continuing down the enormous archway barefoot towards the newborn queue. The entire place is nearly empty of people, the odd consultant seeking answers and refuge from the rain here and there, and the woman pushes the stroller all the way to the receiving chamber without encountering another soul.
“A baby!” a priestess cries, rousing a few of the others who had been lounging on a chaise. They leap to their feet and immediately rush over to see them, a priestess in chartreuse crêpe lifting the plastic rain shield in order to peek underneath. The woman helps the priestess lift it up and over so they can see the infant, his eyes blinking owlishly at the sudden change in view. The priestesses all coo in adoration and titter with excitement, complimenting him on his stylish bunting and coat.
“He’s gorgeous!” one of the other priestesses exclaims, gently taking his feet into his grasp and making him dance, “...but he’s not yours.”
The woman nods curtly, “His father and mother are too busy to attend.”
The priestesses frown and know better than to comment, “Well, the Pythia is looking forward to his visit. Please follow me.”
Nodding again, they make their way through the marble arches and walk down several pathways, the vertical gardens lining the walls sagging in the grey light from the windows. The shadows of the rain clouds make things difficult to see as the temple has no electricity, relying instead on the natural light during the day and candles during the evening hours. The entire guild of priestesses are required to light and replace the candles at 19:00 every evening, making for a beautiful sight.
Reaching the end of the hallway, the priestess that had been leading them turns and bows her head, “One of the other priestesses will be out shortly. May the fates smile upon you.”
“Thank you,” the woman replies, walking around the stroller without so much as looking in her direction. She unzips the infant’s coat and checks the temperature of his skin before rising, finding herself completely and utterly alone.
She waits for several minutes before another priestess guides her into the inner sanctum, the walls dark and winding and almost oppressive. There’s a foreboding feeling here, one that raises the hairs at the nape of her neck and sucks her energy away as she turns the corner, entering the enormous garden sanctuary.
“Nathalie Sancoeur,” a voice greets her as she approaches the altar, the Pythia coming into view between the forest of trees and leaves, “I take it Gabriel insisted he was too busy to come himself?”
Nathalie bristles at the Pythia’s haughty tone, “Monsieur is busy with the affairs of his business.”
“And his mother?” the Pythia responds, raising a perfectly sculpted brow, “Has she not recovered enough to accompany her only son?”
“Monsieur forbid it,” Nathalie unbuckles the infant from his carrier and gently places him on the pillow at the foot of the altar, “In his absence, he wishes to offer you a monetary donation.”
“I accept gifts that contain meaning,” the Pythia doesn’t take her eyes off Nathalie as she steps backwards, the latter avoiding the high priestesses piercing gaze, “He can keep his money. I’m far more interested in his son anyhow.”
Rising, the Pythia raises her arms and holds her palms upright, her lips moving soundlessly as she summons the magic of the ley lines through her connection with the soil beneath her feet. Her brows furrow as her worst fears are confirmed, the second half of the puzzle first laid out before her in May now lying at the foot of her altar, beautiful and pure and a complete and utter victim of the worst fate imaginable.
The Pythia releases a weary breath, “Tell Gabriel this. I cannot share his son’s prophecy, not to him and certainly not for any sum of money. He will live into his adolescence and he will be smart and handsome, but otherwise his destiny is shrouded from me.”
“Monsieur will not be pleased,” Nathalie responds quietly, frowning at the infant lying on the pillow, “He will demand answers.”
“Let him come,” the Pythia shrugs, sitting back down on her tripod, “I will not tell him any different. He is not in favour with the balance nor has he made any efforts to overcome his personal vendetta against me. As the highest priestess of this temple, I have every right to my decision.”
Nathalie sighs, “Will you at least give your blessing on a name?”
“That I can do,” the Pythia responds, “I take it he has already chosen a selection?”
“Alexandre and Adrien.”
“Both names of antique origin, both powerful men with powerful accomplishments to their name,” the Pythia taps her chin thoughtfully, “I prefer the second personally. It will be more suitable to his personality.”
Nathalie nods her head in acknowledgement, “I will pass your advice along.”
“Of course,” the Pythia crosses her legs and leans back, stretching her back, “Before you go, I have some council for you as well.”
Lifting her eyes, Nathalie feels a sense of cold water seep into her bones, “Yes?”
“Having ambition is one thing, but having too much can lead to a loss of self. It’s a heavy price to pay for anyone but you seem to be particularly determined to throw it all away, and for what? Love? A sense of duty? Even I’m finding it difficult to see why you rejected both Oscar de la Renta and Hermès to continue working for Gabriel Agreste.”
“Monsieur is a visionary,” Nathalie replies simply, bending down to scoop the infant from the pillow, “His designs are innovative and I plan on continuing my affiliation with his business for the foreseeable future.”
“If you’re sure,” the Pythia extends her brightly painted arm, watching as Nathalie fastens the final buckles around the tiny Agreste, “Please exit to your left, and may the fates be with you.”