XXI

Jean was overcome by the horror of what she saw. It was unimaginable, that such vicious wounds should have been inflicted upon him. She had seen him in only his vest and trousers before, had seen the immense bulging muscles of his arms and shoulders. But she had not seen his back before. She had no idea what awaited there. Thick ropes of white scar tissue all over him. What must have caused such injuries…beatings, whippings, canings? What had they done to punish his desperate attempt to feed his fellow prisoners?

As she stared, he simply stood there, waiting for her to react. He was patient. He did not move or twitch at all. And she just stared. She was not sure for how long. At some point, she had started crying, though she did not notice until the tears spilled down her cheeks some onto her lips. Everything in her ached for him. For somehow, deep within her, though she had never been hurt like he had, though she had not seen Christopher die with her own two eyes, she nevertheless knew what Lucien's pain was. This pain that caused him to drink himself into oblivion to keep the nightmares away. Jean had felt that pain. She had felt the empty maw within her as everything she had ever wanted and everything she had ever known was piece by piece ripped from her without so much warning or preparation. She had not been imprisoned by the Japanese, but rather locked away within herself by her circumstances. Oh she had done her best to rise above her humble beginnings, her shameful marriage, her heartbreaking miscarriage, her pitiful widowhood and renewed poverty and never-ending loneliness. But bit by bit, parts of her had died along the way, leaving her as raw and hard and scarred inside as Lucien was outside.

She did not realize she was doing it, nor did she stop herself once she began. But she stood from the sofa and crossed toward where Lucien stood. Her fingertips ghosted over his back, tracing his scars. Lucien hissed in surprise at her touch, his posture stiffening as though he were being burned. But he did not pull away. He did not speak. He allowed her this quiet exploration in the dim light of the parlor.

And as her hands moved over him, she leaned in closer. She could feel him shiver as her breath touched his skin. Then, without a single thought as to why or whether she should, Jean pressed her lips to his scarred back. She was drawn to him, somehow, compelled by a power she could not possibly begin to understand and had no impulse to question. There was only that twisting, all-consuming ache within her that, as soon as she touched him, she felt lessen. His skin was warm. Hot, even. His body was solid and strong and his scars were evidence of wounds that had healed, proof of his strength in spite of everything that had torn him down. And when Jean touched him, she felt as though a little of that strength was in her, too. That emptiness was filling back up, somehow. Just a little.


He tried to stay calm, he really did. Tried to stay still and hold his breath and not break the magic spell that was Jean's hands and lips caressing his back. But it was more than he could bear. The tenderness of her touch. The realization that she had not looked upon him with horror or with pity but with care. How did she do that? Why oh why did she do that? How was it that every awful thing about him that would have sent any sane person running for the hills seemed to beckon her closer? How could it be that his every weakness was met by her with such immense, beautiful care?

Lucien could stay still and quiet no longer. For it did not escape him that this was the first time since Mei Lin that any person had ever held him or touched him this way. With gentleness and tenderness and care. He tried to suppress the sobs that wracked through him, but he couldn't. He gasped for air and felt tears prick his eyes.

Jean's hands snaked around him and held him tight. "Shh, it's alright, Lucien. You're safe now," she murmured into his skin.

But that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He wasn't safe. Not here. Not like this. "Jean," he rasped out in warning. "Jean, you mustn't."

"Shh," she whispered, covering his back in her kisses.

He allowed the indulgence for a moment longer before his shaking hands found hers and pried them off him. Lucien turned to face her. "You know we can't," he said softly. The both of them stared at each other, trembling. They were so close. The air was thick between them. Lucien felt it quite difficult to breathe, though he endeavored to keep from having his chest heaving with the effort. He wished beyond reason that he could pull her into his arms and hold her and feel her body pressed against him, feel the warmth of her touch all over him and not just the lingering ghosts of it on his back.

She broke the stillness by taking one of her hands away from him and reached up to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. "I know," she replied with a sad smile. Her lips were pressed in a thin line as her eyes, big and expressive and gray in this pale light, searched his face for some excuse they could cling to as to why they were both wrong.

"I think it would be best if you go," Lucien suggested, though his heart screamed out against the very idea of being left alone without her.

But Jean shook her head. "Not just yet." Still shaking slightly, she stepped away from him and bent down to pick up his discarded shirt, handing it to him to put on and cover himself. She turned and sat back down on the sofa. "You've not told me the rest of the story."

Lucien did up a few buttons but left the shirt untucked as he sat back down in his chair. "Rest of the story?"

"You survived, Lucien," she reminded him. "You told me you drink because of the war, because of the horrors of it all. But how on earth did that lead you here?"

His lips twitched in a small smile. "You mean how did I end up a priest?"

"Yes."

"My punishment was to be kept in a hole and whipped every single day. And I was otherwise left completely alone and in the dark. I wanted more in that time than ever before to die. I begged for it. I prayed to God to let me die, to end my suffering. I cursed God for abandoning me in the world. I screamed out that there was no God at all. And in the midst of my cursing, she appeared."

"She?"

Lucien shook his head in disbelief, for how could it be that he was really telling her this, of all things? This one foolish moment of delirium brought on by starvation and fever and pain and infection and disease after three years in that camp and three months in that hole. "I had a vision of the Virgin Mary. The very picture of her as Michelangelo sculpted her in the PietĂ , ethereal and beautiful and glowing. And when she spoke, it was the voice of my mother."

Jean's eyes went wide in shock.

"She told me that I would not die. That there was more to do. She reminded me of my strength and she promised that she was with me."

"Oh Lucien," Jean breathed.

"And the next day, the camp was liberated. I was sent to an army hospital for recovery and immediately upon my discharge, I traveled to Melbourne to attend seminary. And here I am. Almost fifteen years later," he concluded.

Jean searched his face for a moment, looking as though there were a dozen questions on the tip of her tongue. He welcomed them, in that moment. He wanted to know what she was curious about and he wanted to tell her anything she wanted to know. But instead, she stood up and all she said was, "I think it's time I got dinner started."

Lucien stood as well. "No, I think perhaps you should go, Mrs. Beazley." He'd been thinking of her as Jean, and he couldn't do that. He had done too much, been too reckless with the boundary between them. Had enjoyed it far too much.

A small smile crossed her lips. "I don't really want to go," she admitted quietly.

"I don't want you to go, either," he confessed in return.

She sighed, "And I suppose that's precisely why I need to go."

"Yes," he agreed.

Mrs. Beazley nodded resolutely. "Goodnight, Father Blake." She turned to collect her purse and jacket from where they waited by the door.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Beazley," he bid her in response.

She let herself out and closed the door behind her. Lucien sat back down in his chair.