The last choristers trailed out of the cathedral, carrying their vestments over their arms. Hannibal went inside. Notre Dame was dark but for the votive candles. He went to St. Joan of Arc, in marble near a southside exit. Before her, tiers of candles flared in the draft from the door. Hannibal leaned against a pillar in the darkness and looked through the flames at her face. Fire on his mother’s clothes. The candle flames reflected redly in his eyes.
The candlelight played on St. Joan and gave random expressions to her face like chance tunes in a wind chime. Memory, memory. Hannibal wondered if St. Joan, with her memories, might prefer a votive other than fire. He knew his mother would.