SAINT-VÉRAN

THE SILVER MEDAL

I discovered that Lucien Valmont was capable of falling asleep.

It shouldn’t have surprised me.

Everyone slept.

I slept.

The teachers slept, probably.

Even the stone gargoyles outside our dormitory looked as though they could use a century-long nap.

But Lucien didn’t seem like someone who needed sleep.

He was always awake before me.

Always gone when I woke.

Always back before I went to bed.

He trained in the mornings, attended classes all day, practiced with the rugby team in the afternoons, and somehow still found enough energy to spend the evenings irritating me.

I had begun to suspect he wasn’t human.

That suspicion became stronger on Tuesday night.

It was nearly midnight when I looked up from my history textbook and realized the room had become completely silent.

Our dorm room was small by Saint-Véran standards.

Two narrow beds.

Two desks.

Two wardrobes.

One enormous window overlooking the eastern courtyard.

The walls were dark green, with old wooden molding and a Saint-Véran crest carved above the door.

Lucien’s side of the room always looked as though someone had inspected it.

Mine looked as though a small academic disaster had occurred.

Books were stacked everywhere.

Papers covered my desk.

My tie hung from the back of my chair.

There was a half-empty cup of tea beside my elbow.

I had been trying to finish an essay about nineteenth-century European politics for the past two hours.

I was losing.

Badly.

I rubbed my eyes.

Then I heard something.

A faint sound.

I looked across the room.

Lucien was sitting at his desk.

His back was toward me.

He had been there for at least an hour.

I hadn’t paid much attention because that was normal.

He often studied late.

Except now his head was resting against one hand.

His other arm lay across an open book.

He wasn’t studying.

He was asleep.

I stared.

Actually asleep.

I almost laughed.

It was the first time I’d ever seen him look defenseless.

Usually, Lucien seemed carved out of something harder than stone.

Even when he was sitting still, there was something controlled about him.

His shoulders were straight.

His expression unreadable.

His movements deliberate.

But asleep, all of that disappeared.

His blond hair had fallen messily over his forehead.

His shoulders had relaxed.

His mouth was slightly parted.

He looked younger.

Almost like someone I might have known before Saint-Véran.

I immediately looked away.

That thought made no sense.

I returned to my essay.

Three minutes later, I looked at him again.

He hadn’t moved.

I sighed.

“You’ll ruin your neck.”

He didn’t answer.

Obviously.

Because he was asleep.

I pushed my chair back.

Maybe I should wake him.

He couldn’t possibly be comfortable sitting like that.

I stood and walked toward him.

The room was lit only by the small desk lamp between us.

Its warm light fell over his books and scattered papers.

I reached for the lamp switch.

That’s when something caught the light.

A tiny flash of silver.

I frowned.

Something had slipped out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

A chain.

I leaned closer.

The silver pendant rested against the fabric of his white shirt.

It was small.

Old.

A Saint Christopher medal.

I knew it immediately.

My hand stopped halfway toward the lamp.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

Something inside my mind shifted.

Not a thought.

Not exactly.

More like a door opening.

A lake.

Blue water glittering beneath a summer sun.

The smell of wet grass.

Warm wooden planks beneath my bare feet.

A boy sitting beside me.

Someone laughing.

My hand holding a piece of chocolate.

I blinked.

The room returned.

Dark walls.

Desk lamp.

Textbooks.

Lucien.

I looked at the medal again.

My heart began beating faster.

I knew that medal.

I didn’t know how.

But I knew it.

I had seen it before.

Or something exactly like it.

A silver chain.

A little figure of Saint Christopher.

A tiny scratch across the bottom of the pendant.

I remembered that scratch.

My fingers tingled.

Another memory came.

A child’s hand.

Small fingers.

A silver chain wrapped around them.

A boy saying something.

I couldn’t hear the words.

Then laughter.

Then the lake again.

I closed my eyes.

The memory disappeared.

I opened them.

Lucien was still asleep.

I didn’t understand.

I had never owned expensive jewelry.

My family certainly couldn’t afford anything like that.

Yet somehow, looking at the medal felt like looking at a piece of myself that had been misplaced.

I reached toward it.

Just to see.

Just to touch it.

My fingers closed around the pendant.

It was cold.

And suddenly..

Chocolate.

A boy with scraped knuckles.

A wooden boathouse.

Two children sitting beneath the shade.

One of them breaking a chocolate bar in half.

“You can have this part.”

The voice was distant.

Young.

A child’s voice.

Mine?

I couldn’t tell.

I opened my eyes.

My hand was still wrapped around Lucien’s medal.

I stared at it.

“Why do I remember you?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Lucien moved.

I froze.

His head lifted slowly.

His eyes were unfocused with sleep.

For a second, he simply stared at me.

Then his gaze dropped.

To my hand.

To the silver medal.

His entire expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Lucien never did anything dramatically.

But the softness vanished from his face.

His eyes became cold.

Careful.

Unreadable.

“Where did you get that?”

His voice was low.

I immediately released the chain.

“It was- ”

I stopped.

The pendant swung gently against his shirt.

“I didn’t.”

He stared at me.

“What?”

“I mean...” I swallowed. “It fell out.”

He didn’t respond.

“I wasn’t trying to take it.”

“I know.”

His answer came too quickly.

I looked at him.

He reached for the medal.

Our fingers almost touched.

I pulled my hand away.

He tucked the chain beneath his shirt.

The tiny pendant disappeared.

The moment was gone.

But the memory remained.

A lake.

A boy.

Chocolate.

I sat on the edge of my bed.

“Lucien.”

He turned toward me.

“Where did you get it?”

Silence.

He looked at me for several seconds.

Then he looked away.

“It’s old.”

“I can see that.”

“My family has had it for a long time.”

I frowned.

“Is it important?”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

There was something in the way he said it that made me stop asking.

I looked down at my hands.

The memory was still bothering me.

“Have I seen it before?”

Lucien didn’t answer.

I raised my eyes.

“Have I?”

He stood.

For a moment, I thought he might tell me.

Instead, he walked toward the window.

Moonlight spilled across the floor behind him.

He stood there with his back to me.

“Go to sleep, Elias.”

That wasn’t an answer.

“You could just tell me.”

“I could.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He turned his head slightly.

I couldn’t see his expression.

“Because you don’t remember.”

My stomach dropped.

“What?”

He said nothing.

“Remember what?”

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, whatever had been in his face was gone.

“Nothing.”

I stared at him.

“You just said- ”

“I said go to sleep.”

The words weren’t harsh.

That somehow made them worse.

I wanted to argue.

I wanted to demand an explanation.

Instead, I looked at the medal disappearing beneath his shirt.

Something about it frightened me.

Not because of Lucien.

Because of me.

Because I knew that memory hadn’t been invented.

I’d been there.

I just didn’t know when.

Or with whom.

I climbed into bed.

Lucien returned to his desk.

He didn’t turn the light off.

Neither of us spoke.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin and stared at the ceiling.

Eventually, I heard the soft sound of paper moving.

Then a pen scratching against a page.

Then silence.

I closed my eyes.

The lake returned almost immediately.

This time, I could see more.

Sunlight.

A wooden dock.

A boy sitting beside me.

He was wearing a red sweater.

His knees were scraped.

His hand was bleeding.

I was holding a chocolate bar.

I broke it in half.

“Here.”

The boy laughed.

“That’s the smaller piece.”

“I know.”

“You’re keeping the bigger one.”

“Because I’m hungry.”

He laughed again.

I smiled.

The memory felt warm.

Safe.

Then I looked at his face.

And everything blurred.

I woke suddenly.

My heart was pounding.

The room was dark.

For several seconds, I didn’t know where I was.

Then I remembered.

Saint-Véran.

Room 317.

Lucien.

The medal.

I turned my head.

Lucien was asleep again.

This time in his bed.

His face was turned toward the window.

The moonlight touched his hair.

I watched him for a long time.

Something about him felt familiar.

Not his face.

Not his voice.

Something deeper.

Something I couldn’t name.

I closed my eyes again.

And somewhere beneath the confusion, one thought settled quietly into place.

I had known that medal before.

I had known that lake before.

And somewhere in the forgotten corners of my childhood, there had been a boy whose face I could no longer remember.

I just didn’t know why.

Or why Lucien Valmont seemed to know exactly who he was.