That wiped the smirk clean off Jérôme’s face. “Well, as you’ve clearly noticed, that chapter is closed. And, as you no doubt suspected, I’d really rather not revisit it at this point.”
They sat in a quiet pocket of comfortable silence, the kind that only came from long familiarity. Jérôme studied him for a moment longer, then seemed to relent.
“Well,” he said, rising from his chair with a small sigh, “as we both know that you’re here for more than just my charming company and overpriced single malt, I have something for you.”
Sebastian glanced up. “You mentioned that in your text.”
“It’s a box of your mother’s things,” Jérôme said. “I found it while clearing out the spare room. I wasn’t sure whether to keep them, burn them, or donate them to the shrine of tragic women, but—” He disappeared into the hall. “I saved them.”
When he returned, he was carrying a small, battered archive box. He held it out without ceremony.
Sebastian stared at it for a beat before accepting it. His fingers brushed the dust from the lid, his throat tightening.
“You don’t have to open it now,” Jérôme said, his voice gentler. “I just thought… maybe you’d want to have something that was actually hers. Not curated by Charles. Not filtered through Hawthorne’s control.”
“Thank you, I do. I have hardly anything left of maman’s. Charles got rid of most of her things.”
“Salaud,” Jérôme cursed under his breath as he took his seat again.
Sebastian set the box carefully on the coffee table like it might detonate. He didn’t open it until later.
When the flat was quiet, and the city outside had blurred into golden lamplight and rain, he sat cross-legged on the guest room floor and lifted the lid.
Inside the box was a handful of yellowing letters and envelopes. A photograph tucked into the fold of a scarf. Some canisters of undeveloped film. Sebastian picked up one of the letters and unfolded it. The paper smelled faintly of ink and something sweeter: maybe old perfume. The handwriting was looping, a little chaotic, full of life.
Jérôme— You were right about James. I hate to say it because now you will be insufferable. I don’t know where this is going. Maybe nowhere. I know you think this is a terrible idea. But he sees me. Really sees me. And that’s terrifying. Also, I painted over that hideous portrait in the hall. I think you’ll like it a lot better now. Tell Maman I’m sorry. (Not really.) Maddy.
Sebastian looked in the box again and saw that one was addressed to him.
But what caught Sebastian’s eye first was the cassette tape. Scrawled across it in blue ink were the words:For Madeline – Autumn Term Mix.
There was a folded track list tucked beneath it, handwritten in looping, impatient script. Some titles were underlined. One had been scratched out so violently the paper was torn. A few had little stars or hearts next to them, like notes passed in class.
Sebastian stared at it for a long moment, then pulled out his phone. Quietly, deliberately, he began to build a playlist.
“Of course,” he muttered, scrolling. “Oasis. Nirvana. Blur. How predictable.”
From the doorway, Jérôme leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Ah. The mid-nineties mating call.”
Sebastian didn’t look up. “The Smiths. Radiohead. Christ. Was he trying to seduce her or give her seasonal depression?”
“You’re the last person allowed to judge someone else’s playlist.”
“I am correct,” Sebastian said flatly.
“Says the man whose playlist alternates between indie bands no one has heard of and jazz. Being an obscurantist doesn’t make you superior. You let Charles turn you into such a snob.”
“Please, Jérôme. We are Parisian. I come by it honestly.”
“Touché, mon neveu.” Jérôme laughed.
And just like that, his mother wasn’t just a fading photograph or an absence at family gatherings. She was just a girl again.
A girl who’d teased a boy in a lecture hall; a girl given a mixtape by a floppy-haired stranger who, it turned out, was the crown prince.
With trembling fingers, he unfolded her letter, scanning the words that revealed a story he’d never known.
My dearest Sebastian, If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t have the chance to tell you myself. There’s so much I wanted to say to you in person, but you were too young. I don’t know how much you’ve been told. Maybe too much. Maybe not nearly enough. But you deserve to hear it from me, not from rumors or headlines or whatever story Hawthorne sold you over brandy and cynicism. So. Let’s begin at the beginning. There was a boy once. No, not a boy, a prince. Though when I met him, I didn’t know that. He was just James, the idiot in my philosophy seminar with the tragic band T-shirts and the world’s most royal posture. I told him he looked like a roadie for a band that broke up before he was born. He asked me out anyway. Naturally, I said no. Then yes. Then no again. He wore me down with charisma, wit, and the absolute confidence of someone who’d never heard the word “no” and didn’t plan to start. It started as a joke. A dare to skip class. Arguments and study groups that turned into something else entirely. The kind of flirtation that shouldn’t survive a term, let alone a year. But it did. Because for all hisshine, for all the golden-prince, heir-to-something energy, he was human with me. Brilliant, kind, occasionally infuriating, and he made me laugh. But then he had to go; his father was dying and the crown was calling.