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In my last chapter Julia manipulated me into agreeing to her party on Friday. Did I miss something? When did women take charge of something outside the kitchen?

Ch 10

Damn it.

Julia was the most cunning creature in the world. She had made courtship into a bloody art form. I imagined her at home in her kitchen sharpening her carving knives and deciding how she would like to serve up my heart and manhood.

Once I left the front door with only a kiss to the cheek I was in no mood to speak to anyone. After all she had put me through I received a mere kiss on the cheek. I was allowed to kiss her hand and, as a gentleman does, kissed my own thumb.

There was absolutely nothing to be gained by this arrangement. It was nothing short of frustrating on every level. Eight days ago I had stood before her house thinking life with Julia would be the most magnificent way to spend the rest of my days. Now I may as well have been a trembling mass huddled in a corner.

I promptly went to the library and shoved the door open.

"Do you ever regret it?" I asked.

Charles looked up at me. He didn't even seem surprised by my entrance. He raised his hand, finished whatever he was reading, and looked up at me from his wheelchair.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur."

"Honestly, it isn't. Charles—"

"I apologize, Monsieur, you had asked a question."

"Yes. Do you regret marrying Meg?"

He tore off his glasses and leaned forward. "I beg your pardon?"

"Does she irritate you?"

Charles chuckled. "Sometimes I believe it's her duty in this household. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." I crossed my arms. For all the trouble this hardly seemed worth it. We were not even courting and yet Julia was already killing me one second at a time.

"Is this about Madame Seuratti?"

"Generally speaking, would you say all women are out for blood?"

"Well…" he paused and we both listened to make certain the fairer sex wasn't snooping about."I wouldn't say all women. There are certainly a great deal of pleasant young women out there in the world, though I daresay we won't be meeting them anytime soon, Monsieur." He tapped his fingers on the wheelchair.

His comment made me smirk. He had a strange sense of humor concerning his own misfortune. "So then we settle?"

Charles shrugged. "If you can tolerate the bad days, you celebrate the good. I dare say that there are more good than bad."

That, at least, seemed hopeful.

"What do you do on the bad days?"

Charles smiled. By the wrinkles around his eyes it was evident he grinned frequently. "Agree with everything she says, Monsieur. It keeps everything intact, if you know what I mean."

Meg clopped down the hall like a horse and silenced the two of us. Charles and I exchanged wary glances and went about picking lint from our overcoats to look less conspicuous when she walked into the library.

"Why are you both so silent?" Meg asked. Her blue eyes were wide with curiosity.

"No reason, my dear. We were just having a discussion," Charles answered.

He was clearly cowed by his wife. This was what I had to look forward to for the remainder of my life. It was nauseating. It was like a bull being sold for breeding and ending up in the slaughterhouse. That was what I perceived out of the whole concept of courting and marriage. One thing was promised, another far less appealing conclusion was achieved.

"Well don't stop on my account."

Charles looked at me nervously. I shrugged. I wasn't about to risk us either strung up by the necks or poisoned at dinner.

"I believe Monsieur Kire was just leaving."

Don't mind if I do, Charles. He had a lot of gall. I stared at him and sighed.

"I suppose I was," I grumbled.

"How was your lunch?" Meg asked as she wiped down the desk with a rag.

"I haven't eaten yet."

"What? But now it will be cold."

"Well, so be it. If it's cold, it's cold."

She hesitated. It wasn't in her nature to take up an argument. "It will spoil," she said under her breath.

"In an hour? Highly unlikely."

"Well, you shouldn't eat it."

"The dog will eat it."

"And neither should the dog. She'll be ill."

I snorted at her. She never spoke back once I had said something. Her nerve fascinated me more than irritated the hell out of me. "You worry about such trivial things."

Meg turned away from me and began wiping down the table with such force that I expected she would burrow straight through the wood.

I watched her for a moment as she dusted the bookshelf. Charles reluctantly went back to his book though I suspect he prayed that I would leave more than he actually read. He began tapping his fingers along the arm of his wheelchair and fidgeting with the corner of the page.

"Did he leave—" Meg turned and saw me still standing in the doorway. "Oh."

Once my parents saw what I looked like they refused to have more children. I often wondered what it would have been like to have a brother or a sister. Though I doubt that even a sibling would have looked kindly upon me, I couldn't help but think Little Meg would have made for a most interesting sister. I had never thought so more than I did in that moment.

She would have found toads and mice in her shoes each morning.

"Oh," I said. I folded my arms and leaned against the doorway. I wasn't about to leave. There would be no more pleasant banter. She had annoyed me by hoping I would turn and leave.

Meg turned back around and furiously began dusting everything in sight. At least I had control over something still, even if it was only Meg.

"Suddenly at a loss for words, Madame Lowry?"

"No," she replied.

"Well, let's have it."

Charles refused to lift his eyes. He was breathing heavier. "How is it outside today, darling?"

"It's fine, dear," Meg replied. She glanced at me and turned back to her work.

Normally I had no patience but I was feeling quite ornery and decided to wait until Meg turned again. She had every intention of saying something snide once I was gone. If it was the only thing I accomplished, I would pry it out of her.

She moved behind the desk and began humming to herself. Charles sat and stared at the book in his hands. He had stopped turning pages. He looked like a man expecting the world to implode. If I had anything to say about it, the end of the world would indeed begin in my library.

"It's not real," Meg muttered to herself as she refolded the rag. She kept her head down and skittered toward the door. "Not real, not real, not real," she continued.

I spread my arms and held onto either side of the doorway to keep her from leaving until I was finished with her. "You will not speak behind my back. Is that clear, Madame Lowry?"

She wouldn't look me in the eye. She squeezed the dusting rag in her hands and continued to mutter to herself. Somewhere between her little chants she apologized.

"Please, Monsieur, she meant no harm," Charles said.

I looked from Meg to Charles and saw the absolute horror on his face. Meg's shoulder brushed my arm as she passed. All color had left her face as she broke from a hurried walk to a full jog down the hallway.

In the blink of an eye I recalled something that deeply disturbed me. There was a little blond child in her stiff ballet tutu with her bare feet squeaking on the dusty wooden floor. Her shoes, as always, were nowhere to be found.

Back and forth she searched the storage room, holding onto her braid with one hand as she mumbled to herself. From the catwalks I would watch her as she chewed her fingernails and held back a sob. She hated to venture into the prop rooms and beyond without anyone else around. The other girls would tell her the most dreadful stories. Had I not been the one doing the haunting I would not have gone anywhere alone in the theater either.

"It's not real," she would say. "Not real, not real, not real, the opera ghost is not real."

Her mother's voice snapped me away from my daydream. Madeline met Meg in the dining room.

"Why are you crying?" I heard Madeline ask.

"I'll be fine."

"Meg—"

"No, I'll be fine. Do you mind if I go for a short walk? I'll only be gone a moment."

"It's getting dark out."

"I won't walk far. Just down the street a bit."

"You should take Bessie with you. For protection."

Meg hesitated. I heard her grab the leash from the hook in the hallway. The sound elicited a howl from Bessie, who charged down from my bedroom at full gallop with the prospect of leaving the house.

"Meg, are you sure you are alright?"

"I'll be fine. I'll be just fine."

She glanced at me as she headed toward the foyer. Her eyes were red and her face swollen. I turned away once our eyes met and knew exactly what was wrong.

I still terrified Little Meg. After all of these years she was still attempting to convince herself that I was nothing more than a fable. Rather than satisfaction I felt a deep sense of despair. In the morning I had tolerated her presence fairly well. I almost enjoyed speaking with her. Now I had her twisted with fear again.

As much as I hated to admit it, I preferred the conversation to her tiptoeing about the house and avoiding me like the Plague.

She walked out the door with her walking cloak in one hand and Bessie's leash wrapped around the other. Madeline stepped into view, her arms crossed and face drawn tight. She looked at me and shook her head.

"Sometimes I think she is hysterical," Madeline said under her breath.

I looked at her but said nothing. Sometimes Meg was hysterical.

Madeline muttered to herself as she walked back into the kitchen and called Alexandre to help her peel potatoes. As silent as a mouse I took my own cloak off the hook and disappeared into the night.

It wasn't until I caught up with Meg that I had any idea where I was going or what I was doing.