STILL 1498…

The weeks passed, and the moments that he shared with the soldier (his soldier, his beautiful golden-haired soldier) increased. When he was with the soldier, he could forget about Katarina and Giovanni, and the way they looked at each other. She was all Giovanni would talk about; his incessant adoration of her only reminded Pierre of his own feelings. He had always known that Giovanni could never – would never – love him. Seeing him with Katarina, seeing him hold her hand and smile at her, only made Pierre more keenly aware of this fact. He could no longer daydream or pretend that one day Giovanni would kiss him. It would never, ever happen.

He never mentioned Giovanni to the soldier. He never talked about anything with the soldier. He met him in back-alleys, and he let himself touch and be touched. The horrible feeling of guilt only increased. The wrongness of each touch, each kiss, plagued him. His mother still smiled at him when he came home each day, his little sister still kissed him on the cheek before she went to bed; they had no idea, and this bothered him even more. If they knew, if they ever found out – if anyone ever found out – they'd disown him immediately. He'd be exposed and handed over to the Council of Elders. He'd be tied to a stake and left at the mercy of the crowd, and he had the horrible feeling that Giovanni would be the one to hurl the first stone.

"Here." The soldier handed him a large brass key.

Pierre stared down at it, turning it over in his hands. It felt smooth and heavy. "What's it for?"

"The room with the red kerchief tied to the knob," said the soldier. He nodded towards the mouth of the alley. The street was not visible from where they stood, and Pierre shifted, peering out into the street of unknowing passersby. "There's an inn across the street called The Black Cat." Pierre could not read, but he knew the place by the huge sign with the large black cat painted on it. He watched as the soldier left the alley, brushing past him. "I'll be there for a few hours, little thief. I hope to see you."

Pierre did not watch him leave. He stared down at the key in his hand, then sighed. No, he would not go up to the room. He would not subject himself to the shame and guilt that always followed the soldier's touch. He would never do it again. He would go home, and he would find Clopin, and he would tell him that he'd been molested by a soldier. He would lie about it, of course; he would not tell Clopin that he had enjoyed it. He would weep like a victim, the soldier would be killed, and it would all end.

He stepped out of the alley, still gripping the brass key, and looked around. He could see Katarina and Giovanni on the other side of the marketplace. He froze, watching them. They obviously hadn't seen him; they were laughing, holding hands and staring into each other's eyes. Giovanni's eyes were full of love and tenderness, and he touched Katarina's cheek, brushing a lock of her blonde hair out of her face. He kissed her, his lips touching hers briefly and chastely. Pierre felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar stinging sensation in his eyes that preceded tears, and he squeezed the key even tighter.

Katarina and Giovanni did not see him as he crossed the street and entered the inn.

~xXx~

His memories of the Black Cat Inn were fuzzy and scrambled. He was not entirely sure of how his clothing had come off or how he'd gotten into the bed. He lay on his side, struggling to remember exactly what had happened. He felt the soldier move, felt his lips brushing against the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he whispered.

"I'm fine," said Pierre. His own voice sounded foreign, like a stranger's. His mother would know this time. Surely she'd be able to see it when he returned. She'd look at him, and she'd know, and she'd be furious.

The soldier kissed his neck and shoulders. His lips were smooth and gentle. "I care about you, little thief," he whispered. The soldier's kisses grew more frequent, more passionate, and he nudged Pierre onto his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, Pierre could see the table and chairs by the bed; he could see the empty wine bottles on the table, the orange peels and peach pits, the crumpled bits of paper that had once been wrapped neatly around small squares of chocolate.

Pierre closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. The pain felt familiar, and he gripped the sheets beneath his palms. The soldier kissed his neck and shoulders, touched him, and though the pleasure grew slowly inside of him, the pain did not fade away completely.

~xXx~

It hurt to sit down, but he sat anyway, shifting and squirming and enduring the pain as best he could. His memories of the Black Cat Inn were still jumbled and unfocused, but he had stopped trying to clarify them. Not knowing what had happened was easier. The confusion seemed to lessen the guilt. Besides, the event clearly hadn't changed him, at least, not physically.

His mother seemed more distracted than ever. She picked at her food, pushing it around on her plate. Marie was staring at her, her small dark eyes full of concern and fear. His mother would not look at Marie. It was as though acknowledging Marie would mean having to answer the questions that she undoubtedly held. He watched as his mother got up from the table and left the small house, mumbling something about fetching laundry. Marie turned to him, putting down her fork.

Something is wrong, she said, Mama is different.

"She's fine," said Pierre. He had not told Marie about the nightmares that seemed to plague their mother on a nightly basis. He had not mentioned the sudden abundance empty wine bottles either. Marie was young. She did not need to know about this, and besides, there was nothing she could do anyway.

Marie shook her head. No, she said, something is wrong.

"She…she misses the Court of Miracles," said Pierre. "We…we had to leave Father behind, you know. She probably misses him."

Marie did not reply. She stared at him as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him. For as long as Pierre could remember, his mother had laid flowers on his father's grave once a week. He and Marie had always accompanied her, standing solemnly at her side while she cleared away the withered bouquets and replaced them with fresh ones. He knew that Marie could not remember their father, and his own memories seemed to fade as he grew older.

He reached out and took Marie's hand, squeezing it. "She just needs to get used to Lyon." Marie squeezed his hand and nodded. "Here," he pushed his mother's half-eaten dinner towards Marie, "you can finish it." Marie started to shake her head. "She doesn't want it," said Pierre, "come on, you're growing. You need it."

Marie pointed at him. You're growing too, she said.

Pierre picked up his fork and speared a potato. "We'll share." He poked at the food, only eating a few bites. He let Marie eat the rest. She ate quickly, staring at the door the entire time, waiting for their mother to return.

The door opened slowly, and their mother entered. She was holding a woven basket, balancing it on her hip. "I'd forgotten about the laundry," she said, smiling. Pierre could tell that her smile was forced, but as far as he knew, Marie couldn't. He helped Marie clean the supper plates. They helped their mother fold the clean clothes, moving together in silence.

He turned away politely, granting Marie her privacy as she changed into her nightdress. He wished that the house had more than one room, but he knew that he was lucky just to have shelter. If his mother knew about the soldier, what Pierre had let him do, he'd be out on the street in an instant. Marie hugged him and kissed him goodnight, and he watched as she did the same with their mother.

"Mother, what's wrong?" he'd waited until Marie had turned away. With her back to them, she couldn't read their lips and had no idea that they were even talking.

"Nothing, Pierre. I'm just tired." She climbed into her own bed now, blowing out the candle as she did so.

~xXx~

He could hear his mother crying, and he opened his eyes. He turned towards her bed, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Moonlight seeped through the cracks in the walls, casting narrow beams of thin white light across his mother's bed. She was sitting up, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. What if she did know about the soldier? What if she'd somehow found out? What if she was weeping because of him and what he'd done?

"Mother?" he climbed out of bed slowly and made his way over to her. She looked at him, startled to see him awake, and used the bed sheet to wipe her eyes. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "It was just a dream, Pierre," she said, "go back to sleep."

He sat down next to her, squinting in the darkness to see her properly. She would not look at him. She knew. She knew, and his mere presence sickened her. He had known that this would happen, that his mother would find out and ultimately disown him. He found it strange that she hadn't handed him over to the Council of Elders. Maybe there was some part of her that still loved him, despite his unholy actions. Maybe she wouldn't let them execute him. Maybe he could just leave Lyon, get up and walk away. Maybe she would help him flee.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I'm so sorry – "

She hugged him suddenly. He leaned against her, closing his eyes, taking in the strong smell of wine that she now carried with her. "No," she said, "no, Pierre, this isn't your fault." She stroked his hair. "You're a good boy. You haven't done anything wrong."

"But – "

"I…I just miss your father," she said. She spoke quickly, cutting him off; he could hear the lie in her voice. If she did know about him, then she was trying to deny it. "Clopin says you look just like him, you know." She pulled away, examining Pierre's face in the narrow cracks of moonlight. She ran her hand along his jaw. "You have his chin. His eyes, too."

"Maybe we can go back to Paris," said Pierre, "to visit his grave."

His mother only shook her head. "No, dear. We can't go back to Paris."

"Not even to visit him?"

"No." His mother was stroking his hair now. She had stopped crying and was looking at him, watching his face. She sighed. "I just wish he could see you, Pierre. He'd be so proud of you."

Pierre doubted it. If anything, his father would be angry and ashamed of him. What Pierre had done was far worse than anything imaginable; his father was probably spinning in his grave because of it. Perhaps his mother didn't know. After all, she wouldn't have said that his father would be proud of him if she knew. He felt relieved. She didn't know, and she wasn't weeping for him. Still, the fact that she'd had a nightmare so terrible that it made her cry frightened Pierre. What was she dreaming about?

"I love you, Pierre," she said. She hugged him again, kissing his cheek.

"I love you, too, Mama."

"Go back to bed now," she said, easing out of the hug. She patted his head. "I'm fine. I really am."

He nodded even though he knew she was lying, and he got up and made his way back to his narrow bed. He lay down, turning away from his mother. He heard the blankets rustling as she adjusted them, and he lay awake, listening to her breathing, wondering what was wrong.