I did not sleep for days thereafter and neither did John. We split the roll top desk in two, one half for compositions and the other for partially and successfully cracked codes. By day, our work continued in the offices and I was frequently sent on errands to the archives at the local music hall. It was not until two days in that I realized what he was trying to accomplish. John was covering for me. The lead that I had given him was passed off as nothing more than a hunch in his report. My association with Barnabas was swept under the rug. Irrelevant. And I was safe. At least, I appeared to be. In the place of the career-threatening accusations, we pieced together clues that tied the young composer to Thorne. John's report was thoughtful and precise. Should the review go accordingly, the farmhouse would be in our crosshairs and I would be able to sleep soundly knowing that the silent threat on my family's wellbeing was demolished at last.
"Why gloves?" he taunted as we had tea over the newly organized stacks of paper in his flat, "Does Sylvia wear them to bed, too?! Might that interfere with her marital duties to her husband?"
I coughed, aghast. His eyes danced and glittered as he delighted in my pain. There was something else in them, too. It was cautionary and intelligent. He was looking at me as though there was a code inside of my brain that could be teased out, too. "I beg your pardon, Major?" Once recovered, I returned to my earl grey, but stole occasional glances at my companion between sips. "Poor circulation. She becomes cold rather easily."
"She becomes cold rather easily?" John mocked. Although, he appeared to be discouraged when I did not lighten up. I should have known that other men would gain interest in Sylvia, just as Barnabas had. But John's inquiries about my wife were neither lecherous nor threatening. Hidden identities would not hide for long around Major Andre, of this I was certain and his admiration for the Sylph forewarned me that it was just a matter of time before he learned who my wife truly was. "You cannot warm those dainty little hands of those, yourself?"
"You know women," I gave him a reaffirming glance. Perhaps by simplifying her for him, I would fill up those empty spaces before he had a chance to do so with his own speculations. "They are all so tragically enslaved by fashion! Sylvia is no different." Foiled again. He saw right through me.
Letters and compositions arrived from her without fail. She wrote the same way that she spoke, you see, and it was a comfort to receive detailed paragraphs of how our son was faring without me. He still clung so devotedly to his mother by day but could sleep through most of the night in a bedside crib. Celeste had introduced little Viola to him. According to Sylvia, the pair only fussed when their mothers pulled them apart at the end of their first visit. As the weeks progressed, the closeness between both infants increased. I looked forward to conversing with General Ballard over a freshly baked batch of crumpets. I looked forward to holding Sylvia in my arms through the night and awakening just early enough to watch her dream for a while. I looked forward to it all, the spectacular estate and those who resided therein- the family that I had gained, the people who I was growing to know as my loved ones. There was a special and secret anticipation that I kept to myself, however—to watch as my son made his first friend.
John and I remained idle, but the cruel nature of fate would see to it that we would be called into action on the eve of my departure. Instead of preparing for my journey to New Jersey, I directed a small patrol and together, we rode to the farm that Silas and Barnabas called home. The woods were just as I remembered them, ominous and deep. I saw no wolves but heard a few and saw where their large pawprints had destroyed the virgin snow. There was no fire in the hearth, no spiral of smoke from their chimney and I felt uneasy, terribly uneasy as I selected two men to scout the perimeter. The front door was wide open and swinging on its hinges, snow had blown inside. John and I were the first to enter and search the rooms, but all had been vacated and swept clean. The family, I assumed, had taken what they needed to survive. Pickpockets and thieves had done the rest. It was not a bugle call or a whistle that we heard next, but a bloodcurdling scream from one of scouts.
"Continue covering ground upstairs," John said to me as he made for the door. I sent three officers to the staircase that had been spattered with frost and headed towards him, instead. "That is an order, Captain!"
"The house is empty! There is something out there in the woods and you want me to stay in here? Must you always cover for me?"
"Yes," was his honest, simple answer. He placed his hand on my shoulder when he knew that we were alone. "You have a family. Now, watch through the side window for my signal and don't leave a single room unaccounted for."
I remained in that cold, empty house for nearly an hour. Never before had I known silence to be so loud. There should have been chatter and the crunch of footsteps in the snow; something, anything to interrupt the echoing of that terrible scream. The others glared at me from across the room and though they did not speak, I could see just how incompetent they believed me to be. Their eyes told me so. I watched the outside instead and when John gave his signal, I led the way and warned my men to proceed with caution. He gestured for me, the two scouts remained behind several paces, white as ghosts.
"They knew that we were coming," his voice was low and hushed, "they knew the names of the men that were to be placed in this company."
"How?" I shot back. "How could they possibly have gained that information? Did you speak to them? Silas and Barnabas? Were they in the woods?"
"This goes beyond Silas and Barnabas, my friend. No, they were not in the woods. I need you to come with me. Bring your musket and ammunition. Tell the men to go inside, but not to build a fire. We cannot give away our location, Captain." With a deteriorating psyche, John turned to give his instructions to the two shaken men while I repeated his orders to everyone else. "Aim for their heads and fire quickly." That was John's first and only command as we passed over the sloping earth, laden with icy branches.
My pulse quickened, the coppery taste of panic descended on my tongue and it was impossible for me to swallow, to think. There were eight of them, at least, an even split between women and children, all hanging dead and cold from the trees. A black wolf prowled the ground beneath them while a second stood on its hind legs, biting into the calf muscle of a deceased girl. She was the one who my eyes traveled to first, not because of the brutality of her assailant, but her attire and the beauty of her composure. She was not necessarily wealthy but had been dressed, it seemed, to resemble the doll that remained clutched in her hand. The golden ringlets beneath her bonnet were ruffled as the hungry wolf swayed and spun her tiny body.
"I recognize most of them," John whispered. "Preserve your strength. Killing the wolves will be nothing compared to the task that we have before us. We are about to break the heart of every other man in our patrol."
I took my aim, but not without glancing once more at that beautiful child, suspended on a rope. She was the very image of a smaller, younger Sylvia Ballard. With that thought it mind, I hit my mark with precision. We cut down the bodies, eleven total and proceeded with the first in a long series of sorrowful events brought about by Thorne. I was the one who led them there, too ashamed and cowardly to explain what they were about to see. Before we passed that threshold into the woods, a younger officer handed me an item that he had found in an upstairs corridor. It was a plain book, one that I merely tucked under my arm in the wake of what was unfolding before me. I did not look at it until later that night, when John and I were waiting quietly to speak to our commander. Music and sketches, that was what it held. I recognized the woman in those crude portraits and as John glanced over, I could tell that he recognized her, too.
"My wife is danger," I muttered beneath my breath, "Forgive me. I cannot explain it. But I can feel it."
"Go," his hand found my shoulder yet again.
It was a simple enough plan, really. I would travel by night and arrive at the estate before noon the next day. Every nerve, every cell in my body was ablaze. The panic from earlier had yet to wear off. For all I knew, it would continue to consume me until there was nothing left of me but a stifled gasp, a scream. I could feel my face burning against the cold night air and tears, heaven forbid, tears began to sting the flesh around my eyes. I needed her. I needed to hold my wife and child in my arms and never let them go. The pacing of my stride quickened as I rounded each corner, my key was ready for the lock several blocks before I reached the flat. I only expected to see that black door and its golden letterbox, the wrought iron fence and its winterized hedges below. A light dusting of snow fell from the heavens and swept across the cobbled streets. There she was, a perfect picture standing on the steps. The crimson satin of her gown was barely creased from travel. In one hand, hung the case that her violin lived inside. In the other, our baby boy was sound asleep beneath the lace at her alabaster throat.
"Sweetheart," said she, moving from the sidewalk and into my open arms. I had to feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her hair. I had to cradle her golden head in my palm and commit my lips to the pink velvet of her mouth, if only to fully convince myself that she was real. And she was. The snowflakes clung to her hairline and the lengthy curls of each beautiful eyelash. When the cold air moved across her nose and cheeks, stealing away their natural blush, I kissed them, too. Sebastian yawned and nestled closer, merely content to be held. "What is that in your hand?"
I showed her the key, "You must be freezing. I will get a fire going for you. And some tea."
Sylvia turned the violin case, just far enough for me to see a bit of flattened metal glimmering in the lamplight. "We are three buildings over," she confirmed with the most spectacular of smiles, "it is under furnished, but Papa will be taking care of that this weekend. Come with me, Sweetheart. Let us go and see our new home."
A/N: My apologies for that massive hiatus! The good news for any followers of this story is that I have moved it from the backburner and to the top of my priority list! Wooo! I still have countless ideas for this story and a new outline (my last one was lost when my flashdrive went through the washing machine, haha), so there are plenty of updates in the forecast. Thank you, as always, for reading. And putting up with me! Lol. X