A big thank you to lindaweng, thedawncomes, Teen543, peanutpup, Aphaea21, Phantomgirl21, Badpixie06 and EvaLark for your lovely reviews! :)
The following chapters are dedicated to my dear step-grandfather, Carmelo Billisi, who passed away recently. The character Carmelo in this fic has been named for him. Riposa in pace, Nonno. Ti amo e mi manchi.
Enjoy!
Erik
Chapter 43
The Thief
Bourg St. Maurice.
It was late summer, and I'd been on my own for nearly two weeks, stealing and walking my way east through France. Piedmont was, perhaps, only another one or two days' walk away. This was my goal. Get as far away from France as I could. And, too, once I was out of France, I was out of the reach of the French police. I didn't know if the Piedmont police would turn me in, or arrest me themselves, should they discover that I'd killed Javert. But my chances were better regardless.
And so, through the town of Bourg St. Maurice I went. I hadn't eaten in about a day, and I would need to stop to find food. The town had plenty of shops around, and I'd become quite good at going unnoticed when I slipped an item into my pants pocket. Nothing too large. Nothing too desirable. A small roll of hard bread. A pear with spots on it. Things that, had I not taken them, would likely have gone into the garbage anyway.
The sun was low in the sky, the sky a swirl of pinks and purples as I stood outside the small greengrocer on the corner of the street. I waited for a young couple to walk in and quickly followed close behind them.
And I set to work. The store was currently almost empty, save for the couple I'd walked in with, as well as a woman and her two children. If the grocer was suspicious, then I would turn and go, as there would be little point in trying to steal. And this was unfortunately common - I'd only managed to eat twice this week. The mask made me a target for wariness; and though they were right to suspect me, it was still incredibly frustrating and, in my opinion, unfair. But when I found the grocer in deep conversation with the very pretty young mother, I went straight for the fruits. There. That apple there was dented, slightly browned in one place. I looked around, ensuring that no one to be watching me, and swiped the apple, putting it into my pocket. I was about to swivel on my heels and walk away, when the man I'd followed in turned to his wife.
"Did you hear the outcome of what happened to that Benoit fellow, Amelie?"
I froze. Javert.
Knowing that simply standing there without moving looked more conspicuous than was ideal, I began observing the broccoli.
"No. What happened?" I heard her ask.
"Some religious zealot in Lyon took credit for it," he said. "Claimed he found the door unlocked and shot the dog and the man right there on the spot."
"My God! And the boy? Did they find the boy?"
"No." As I listened to them talk, my heart pounded in my ears. "But the zealot claimed he killed him, too. Buried him somewhere in the woods behind the caravan. He claims he did it because he wanted to rid his city of the demon child, his master, and the dog from Hell."
"You sound as though you don't believe it."
"I don't Amelie. Not one bit. The man claiming he did it is an American immigrant, a puritan. One of a few, apparently, trying to spread their gospel to France; and you know how insane those types can be. I have no doubt that he is taking credit for something he didn't do, just to look like a martyr to his peers. The fact that they can't find the body...No. With no other leads, the police have accepted the man's confession. No, I think that that poor boy had enough and killed his master; I can't imagine he very much liked living like-"
I was gone from the store, head spinning, before I could hear more.
Nearly a month later, I'd arrived in Venice.
The September weather was still warm, and I was once again hungry as I walked through the streets split by what seemed like thousands of canals.
But the grocers here were more alert, more watchful. I'd read in one of my many books - books that I missed dearly - how common thieves were in this city. I would need to eat soon, I decided, and then keep moving into Austria.
I sat in the alley between two buildings, the ground here dry even after the rain, deciding that I would have to wait until morning to try, as the sky was now full of stars. I sighed and turned my head, looking into the street, hoping that I wouldn't be asked, yet again, to move from my current spot-
But then, in the dim yellow lamplight, I saw them. Two boys, perhaps a little older than me, walking. The shorter one was tan, black haired; the taller one was darker. The shorter boy was holding a small sack; he stopped suddenly, and opened the brown bag. He looked up and found that the taller boy had continued walking.
"Vincenzo!" he called. "Aspetta! Ritorna indietro!"
Vincenzo, the darker, taller one, returned. He had hair pulled back in a ponytail, and was, even from here in the dark, extremely handsome. He spoke harshly, lowly. "Carmelo, stai zitto! Vuoi svegliare l'intera citta? Ora vieni. Possiamo discutere quando arriviamo." He looked around him and turned, continuing in the direction that they'd been walking.
Carmelo reached into the bag and pulled out...he pulled out money. Money.
I stood.
I didn't hear the rest of their words, not that I could understand it, anyway. Vincenzo was by now several paces away, and Carmelo was shorter than me. I could take him. And I knew I was fast.
Before I could think twice about it, I bolted from the alley. I flew past Carmelo, gripping the sack, tearing it from his grip, and ran.
Carmelo cried out in shock. "Vincenzo!"
I thought, perhaps, I would be able to make it, when something heavy slammed into me, knocking me to the ground, onto the wet cobblestone. I grunted as my hands were forced behind my back.
Panic took me as I remembered the last time I'd been restrained. I could go to prison for this. I could be in a cage again.
God, what was I thinking? Was I really this stupid? I wasn't near-death. I could have waited a while to eat.
I squirmed, but whoever was on top of me - probably Vincenzo - was holding my wrists together tightly, sitting on my legs, and I was trapped.
I breathed in and out sharply a few times. "Let me go! Let me go!"
"Tu chi sei?" demanded Vincenzo darkly. "Dimmi chi sei!"
"I don't know!" I tried to move my arms or legs, but couldn't. "I don't understand!"
Silence, and then I heard Carmelo speak. "Indossa una maschera."
Another pause. "E vero," said Vincenzo. "Vediamo cosa nasconde. Toglila, Carmelo."
Carmelo went around to where my face was, my masked cheek against the ground - and I watched with horror as he stooped down and pulled it off my face. He jumped back with a gasp.
"Che cazzo..." said Vincenzo.
I closed my eyes, feeling as though I might cry. "No..."
"Cosa facciamo?" asked Carmelo.
"Lo..." Vincenzo cleared his throat. "Lo portiamo da Giovanni. Gli chiediamo."
And I was forced to my feet by Vincenzo, who was surprisingly strong. Carmelo picked up the sack I'd dropped on my way to the ground. My stomach dropped as Carmelo searched my pockets and found the knife, now wrapped in cloth as it had been for months so as not to cut me - the knife I'd been using to intentionally cut myself late at night, in lieu of burning - and smiled. He unwrapped the blade and held it to my throat, both boys forcing me to walk forward, into the unknown.
The mask lay on the cobblestone, left behind.
