February 5th, 1767
It was unusually warm, so Catherine had dragged Matthieu outside for some fresh air. She said he needed it, so he agreed. But really, why would he miss this chance to spend time with her? They stepped out into the garden. She shed her cloak and spread it across the ground.
"We could sit on the bench," he said.
She sat across her cloak. "I feel much more relaxed down here."
"If you insist," he relented, taking his place beside her. He glanced down at her, noticing her hands positioned behind her as she leaned back. Both hands were noticeably barren, her ring absent. "Where's your ring?"
"Euh..." she dug her right hand into some snow. "I left it in my room, in a little jewelry box I found. In case you're wondering, I won't wear it."
"Catherine!"
She glared at him. "I won't hurt you again if I try to touch you! You've been burned too many times by me."
He sighed. "Ma amie, don't worry yourself over me. Besides, that ring means a lot to you."
She paused. "...It was my mother's."
They fell into awkward silence, making Matthieu shift uncomfortably. She shook her head determinedly. "But, I still stand by my decision!"
"No way I can change your mind?" he asked jokingly.
She shoved him playfully, making him laugh. He packed some snow together and threw it into her shoulder. She gasped, arming herself with her own ball of snow. He stood up, preparing his arsenal. She bombarded him halfway into his preparation, forcing him to drop his weapons. She laughed triumphantly, but it was short-lived. Matthieu held a snowball as large as a cannonball above his head.
"Zut," she cursed.
He hurled it at her, knocking her to the ground. He laughed deep in his chest, the force of it nearly bringing him to his knees. She dug herself out and spat out the snow that had fallen into her mouth. Her hair had come undone, some snow sticking to it and looking like pearls. He rose out of his stupor and knelt beside her, brushing the snow out of her eyes.
"Are you alright, Angel?" he asked gently.
She nodded. "I'd be more alright if you hadn't pummeled me!"
He chuckled. "You think that was pummeling? I could do better standing on my head."
He helped her to her feet, making sure she was steady. "You wouldn't do that."
"Wouldn't I?" he teased. "I think you're just sore, because you lost."
"Who says we're finished?" she challenged, packing up another snowball. He laughed and sent his own at her shoulder. She launched hers squarely in his chest. He staggered a bit, but continued.
George cleared his throat, pretending to blow a bugle to signal them. The two stopped their little snow war. George held a pail in either hand, proudly raising them above his head.
"This be the herald of a new snack dawn!"
He dumped the contents onto Catherine's cloak. Piles upon piles of food...Matthieu's mouth watered.
"I arranged for us to eat outside today," Catherine explained, sitting down on her cloak. "I hope that's alright."
George dug into a ham and egg sandwich. "I love you, Katie-Belle!" He shoved the rest into his mouth.
Matthieu chuckled sheepishly, not exactly knowing if he should add to that statement. He resolved to taking a chicken leg and tearing off a bit. He stopped, turned back to the chicken, and shoved the entire leg into mouth, cleaning the bone dry. He proceeded to shove every bit of food nearest to him into his mouth, barely having the first one in before he grabbed the next one. He shoveled morsel after morsel into his mouth before he finally fell backwards, gasping for air.
Catherine leaned over him. "Matthieu?"
He panted. "Saint sucré et salé..." He took hold of her arm. "May we do this all the time?"
She giggled. "Later, Matthieu. Then, all the time."
A large red and white mark ran down her forearm from under her sleeve. He sat up, gently taking her arm. He rolled up her sleeve, showing the hideous scars fully. He returned his gaze to her eyes.
She shook her head. "What happened in the past is not for us to worry about."
He replaced the sleeve on her arm, nodding in agreement. George cleared his throat. "Can you two play kissy-face in another room? I want to save my romance for this lovely lady I met through writing."
"So you've taught the cat to write?" Matthieu asked disgustedly, obviously joking.
"Why do you have to take it there?"
Matthieu laughed, reveling in letting George have a taste of his own medicine.
"George," Catherine cut in. "Could you leave us a minute to talk?"
He shrugged and walked out of the garden, tripping over the threshold.
"You wanted to talk?"
She shook her head. "I could see he was getting under your skin."
He smiled. "Thank you."
"Matthieu..." she lied down across her cloak, her hair in the snow. He laid down beside her. "How have you been feeling?"
He sighed. "Tired, mostly."
"And the transformations?"
He held up his clawed hand. "They come suddenly, but thankfully, they are small."
"When is the next full moon?" she asked, her voice wavering a bit.
"Next week," he answered meekly. "Catherine, if I could stop this, I would."
She grasped his hand. "I know. And it scares me that, after all this time..."
He tightened his hand around hers. "There's still time. I'll arrange for you to go somewhere safe...after I've gone."
She turned her head away. What was she thinking? He reached over and set his free hand on her arm. He wanted her to say something, anything other than this deafened silence.
"How did it happen?" she finally said. "The curse, I mean."
The color drained from his face, his stomach twisting into knots. He sat up, his hands digging into his hair. She shot up.
"I'm sorry!" she cried. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked such a thing out of you!"
"No," he pressed. "You deserve the truth."
She held her hands to his face. He leaned into them, soaking in the slowly seeping warmth. His heart pounded against his ribs like a hammer. How could he relive that night? That horrible night! He grimaced, willing his claws and teeth to remain where they were. It hurt like Hell, but he mustered the strength to speak.
"I...I was a young...younger man. At that time, I was renowned in Paris for my symphonies. I enjoyed parties and presenting my music like...like how George loves that stupid cat." He attempted to laugh to find some humor in the situation. She held her stern, worried face. He continued. "I was living alone...my mother died before I could speak. My father was too heartbroken over her death that he was hardly around. My sisters were my caregivers, along with the occasional governess. But they were married off into wealthy families. All I had in the world was my music. And..." his ears turned red. "my admirers..."
She furrowed her brow, staring at him through the corner of her eye. He cleared his throat.
"I was ... not very kind to those around me, Catherine. I've done horrible things..." He bit on his lip. He couldn't bear the memories. His mind begged for no more. No more pain! No more nightmares! He began to taste blood.
Catherine gasped, pulling his red scarf from underneath her cloak and pressing it to his mouth. "You can have this back...I had it washed." He replaced her hand with his, tears threatening to rise out of his eyes. He held them shut. No more! He wanted no more! Her hand settled on his cheek. "You don't have to go on."
"Yes, I do," he persisted. "I've...I've had men cast into the streets. I ordered one of the cooks in the kitchen to be shaved because I found my food unsatisfactory. I...I've had children punished for their parents' mistakes."
She gasped, and he flinched as if she had struck him. Had he no dignity? What a fool he thought himself. He was a child; a stupid, selfish child who had no right to take anything of them. They must have thought him dead and were glad of it.
"Matthieu." Her voice drew him out of his trance.
"I suppose..." he swallowed. "I suppose the witch was right to curse me." He averted his gaze from her. "She came to me on the night I presented my first philharmonic. I had planned it to bring the entire place down. I had my wish...even if she was wearing fine clothing and offered her attendance with silver, I was too damn stubborn to let her have a seat. Only because I thought she was too hideous to listen to my music.
"She...she turned into a beautiful woman before my eyes! She transformed herself, and then transformed me." He grabbed his hair, pulling so tight he thought he'd tear it out. "No more! Please! Please, no more!"
Everything from that night came flooding back. The song, the moon, the glint of silver. Those eyes...those damn VIOLET EYES! His chest was caving in. He couldn't breathe! Pain pricked at his scalp, his claws extending slowly. His ears stretched between his fingers and his face grew fuzzy. Damn him for all he'd done! Damn him to Hell and let him rot - !
"MATTHIEU!"
He gasped, letting go of his hair. He fell back, suddenly lightheaded. She caught him before he hit the ground. Tears fell down her face, her eyes squinting in an attempt to hold them back.
"Matthieu, you don't have to say anything more."
His entire body trembled. It was over. She knew. What would she think of him now, knowing what he had done? Surely, she couldn't be so forgiving for this! She carefully helped him sit up, examining him for any remaining sign of distress.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."
She rose to her knees and pulled him into an embrace. It wasn't rejection, but it wasn't any form of acceptance either. She deserved to know what he'd done, but it didn't make the matter any less painful. He buried his face into her neck, shaking like a leaf.
Catherine held his trembling figure to her, afraid he may shatter if she held too tightly. She turned her head, looking to see a head of wild black hair. She wanted to say something to calm him down, or to say she was sorry. But what was anyone supposed to say in that situation? Anything she thought of, she reasoned, would only make him worse. He would run away, hide, snap at her.
So she said nothing.
"Catherine?" She glanced up. He hadn't moved. "Catherine, say something."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Wh-What do you want me to say?"
"Anything! Anything other than nothing!"
She pondered over what to say. This was no time for aimless rants. She had to choose her words carefully. "Matthieu...what you did was horrible. And, you know that. I know you do. But, I have no idea what to say to all of this, because I can't imagine you doing anything quite so heinous."
"You still think I'm capable of heinous acts?"
"Matthieu," she sighed. "You tried to slap me for singing when you first met me."
He grumbled. "Point taken."
"But," she amended. "I've seen how you've changed since then. And, I really admire that."
He pulled away from her, but remained close to her. "Catherine, I beg your forgiveness."
She shook her head. "I can't."
His face turned whiter than before. "Please, Catherine! I-I...If there's anything I can - "
She tugged his sleeve. "You misunderstand me." He shut up. "I can't give you forgiveness, because there's nothing I can forgive. You have to forgive yourself."
"But, I can't! I don't know how."
"It's not easy," she admitted. "But you have to learn to let go and move forward. And that won't happen immediately. It will take time."
He huffed. "Why does everything take time?!"
She chuckled. "I don't know. But that's way the world works, unfortunately."
He exhaled, his hair falling over his eyes. "When did you stop hurting?"
"Eh?"
"When your father died. When did the memories stop hurting?"
She leaned on his shoulder. "It didn't."
"Catherine?"
She looked up at him. "Yes?"
"Pourriez-vous...?"
"Could I what?" She cocked her head.
His pale skin then grew deep red, his mouth opening and closing indecisively. His eyes darted back to the food, and he picked up a pear.
"Could you help me finish all this?"
She glanced at the pear, and she chortled. "Me help you? I think it is you who should be helping me." She plucked the pear out of his hand and took a bite.
He dragged his hair back, grinning a bit foolishly. He admonished himself inside for backing down. He could have just asked her!
Right, he thought. Hello, Catherine. Fine day today. By the way, I think I may be falling in love with you and I want to spend my life with you. What do you say?
He shoved half a quiche into his mouth, trying to swallow his thoughts with it. It all sounded so stupid! Love, why did it have to be love?! So overwritten and cliched, and difficult! He hoped this witch was prepared for a show, because she would be sorely disappointed. Climatic ends were only in fairytales.
Catherine coughed suddenly, grabbing a water pouch to wash it down. She laughed as she caught her breath.
"Well, that was exciting."
He set his food aside. "Are you alright...Katie-Belle?"
She cringed, shoving him away a bit. "Never call me that again."
