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Erik

Chapter 47

The Scars

"Care for a stay at the Fox Den Inn?"

My expression must have relayed my incredulity, for Giovanni laughed.

"You are not, of course, required to stay," he said, eyes glimmering. "You are welcome to leave any time. Try. Go. Walk away. Spend your hard-earned money. Watch as no one follows you."

I didn't move. When I spoke, my voice felt paper-dry in my throat. The fear inside me threatened to burn it away, but I forced the words out regardless. "Why would you offer me food when I tried to steal?"

"Wary of my intentions?"

"I haven't had much luck with hospitality, sir." I noticed the edge in my own voice. If he noticed too, he didn't seem to show it.

"Yes," he responded slowly, looking me up and down, "I can see that. Well-" He shrugged, removing one hand from his cane and stuffing it into his pocket; "if you are this untrusting of me and mine then, like I said, the door is up the stairs. And the streets of Venice are quite warm this time of year. I'd merely be careful of the rain. Arrivederci, Erik."

He watched me, as if waiting for me to leave. But I didn't. My heart raced. This had to be some trick. It had to be. But he was letting me leave. Why would he let me leave if-

"How much is a night's stay?" I whispered.

"I do believe I offered it free of charge."

"No, you didn't."

"Didn't I? Hm. I can't remember. Ah, well. Don't worry about it. Does the third floor suit you well?"

"No, I want to pay." If I was a paying customer, then at least he couldn't hold that over my head.

He sucked his teeth, but it was more amused than annoyed. "All right. Toss me one of those coins."

I picked up one of the silver pieces in my hand and threw it lightly at him. He caught it without looking, staring at me the entire time.

"Satisfied?" he asked, pocketing the coin.

I nodded. "I'd like to pay for the meal. And the bath as well."

"You realize that you're just giving me back my own money, yes?"

I didn't respond.

"Mio Dio, fine. Toss me two more coins."

I did. He pocketed those too, and then turned to the girl standing by the table. "Luciana."

"Si, Padre."

"Porta Erik nella stanza dodici al terzo piano."

She stiffened, and seemed to be avoiding looking at me. I felt embarrassed immediately. I made the assumption that he asked her to escort me, and said, "I can likely find it-"

"No." He held up his free hand, stopping my words. He continued looking at Luciana, hard. "Sono tutti sordi qui? Portalo nella stanza dodici."

She gave a very small nod. "Si, Padre."

Swiftly, she went past Giovanni, past me, and up to the ground floor. I took that as my queue to follow. She went to a desk by the door, one I hadn't noticed the first time, and reached into one of her pants pocket to retrieve a small key. She unlocked one of the drawers and brought out another, larger key. She locked up the desk and headed up the stairs.

She walked quickly, almost as if she wanted to lose me - not that it was likely. It was a large building, but not big enough to get lost in. The red papered walls were clean, dusted, and so were the oil lamps on the walls. The wood floors looked freshly polished, and the ceilings were perfectly white. Giovanni had called this a lair, but I wouldn't call it that - it was clearly well-kept and prosperous. What, exactly, were those boys doing with that money? They couldn't have been returning from the bank. It was far too late for that. Did he, perhaps, have multiple different establishments? Were they returning with the excess income of one of his other inns?

Luciana finally stopped at the last door on the third floor, a window with flowers on the sill on the far wall. She turned to me, blanched a bit at the sight of my face, and handed me the key. I couldn't help but notice, even as I kicked myself for it, how pretty she was. As soon as the key was in my hand, she bolted for the staircase. I turned the lock of the door and stepped inside.

The breath left my lungs.

A clean, neatly made bed. A small table in the corner. A dresser. A bookshelf with books, likely for guests to enjoy while in the room. Lamps on the walls. No dirt anywhere, tracked in from outside. No uncomfortable cot.

No cage.

According to Giovanni, I could leave anytime. But I'd paid, and right now, I wasn't sure that I wanted to go.

I went immediately to the books, forgetting my hunger and exhaustion. I picked one up, opened it, and - of course, I couldn't understand it. But I didn't very much care. I sprinted to the table and flipped through it for twenty minutes, savoring the feeling of pages in my hands again.

The door opened. I stood like a Jack-in-the-box, the chair scraping the ground as I did so. It wasn't Giovanni, as I'd expected. Instead, it was the brown-skinned man who'd crossed himself at the sight of me. He was holding a plate of food, veal and vegetables, just like Giovanni had been eating. In the other hand was a cup of tea. My stomach demanded the meal.

The man didn't flinch as he looked at me. He was now staring at my face like I appeared as any other person. He went to the table and placed the plate and cup down. "You eat," he said in broken French. He pointed to the plate, then to the door. "You bathe."

I understood - after I eat, I would bathe. I nodded, and sat back down. I waited for him to leave, but he didn't. Instead, he looked at me curiously and sat as well. Perhaps Giovanni wanted to make sure I didn't swipe his silver and china.

I took a long drink of tea, not caring how it burned my throat. I began to cut into the meat feverishly, when the man pointed to himself and said, "Salvatore."

I crossed my brows. "Excuse me?"

He patted his chest. "Salvatore."

His name.

I put down my fork and knife and patted my own chest. "Erik."

"Erik." He nodded. "Good."

I nodded and tucked in to the meal. He didn't say a word as I ate and drank, and I tried to pretend he wasn't there. I didn't like being looked at for long periods of time, but it was a small price to pay to not go hungry.

When the meal was finished, he stood and picked up the cup and plate. He nodded toward the door, looking at me, gesturing for me to follow. I did. We walked down two flights of stairs and into the dining room. I used my hands to hide my face from view as he took me into the kitchen. I kept my face down, too, around the cooks. He kept going until we reached a small room behind the kitchen. All that existed in this space was a round wooden bathtub.

Salvatore held up a hand. "Wait."

I did. Minutes later, he was returning with two enormous buckets of water, both steaming, and poured them into the tub. He went back and forth several times until the bath was filled with hot water. I turned to it, my back to the man, and felt as though I may drool. The last time I'd had a proper bath - not the sorry excuse of a washbasin inside a caravan - was when I was still in Boscherville.

Wanting badly to get into the water, nearly delirious with the need to be clean, I removed my shirt - and remembered with a start that Salvatore was behind me. I whirled to look at him, heart racing, frightened at the prospect of him seeing me partially naked - but he didn't seem shocked. No, actually, he didn't seem bothered at all. He didn't move to touch me - though a part of my mind feared that, I knew not every grown man wanted to harm me in that way.

What I did notice, though, was the way he looked at my many burns and scars. The ones I'd self-inflicted all over my chest and stomach and arms.

He breathed in slowly, deeply. "Who?" he asked, pointing to one particularly nasty cut I'd made across my chest. I'd done it when thoughts of Cerberus intruded into my mind - at how his death had been my doing; how if I'd simply complied with what Javert wanted, he'd still be alive.

I didn't say it was me. I felt too ashamed.

His full lips thinned. He sighed, and then pointed to himself. "Me."

I didn't understand. I was about to ask him to clarify, when he removed his own shirt. He was muscled in his stomach and chest, and when he turned around, I gasped aloud. Dozens of long, ugly, deep scars littered his back, raised and pink. He put his shirt back on and looked at me.

"Who did that?" I asked him, as he'd asked me.

"Master," he said lowly. "In America." He pointed to me. "Who?"

I was about to say that I did it. Myself. Me. But when the word "Master" slipped off my own tongue, I decided that it wasn't a lie. Had Javert been kinder, had he not subjected me to what he made me do, I would likely not have a single self-inflicted wound on my entire body.

He nodded knowingly, looking at me with a kind of kinship I hadn't seen since Marie. It was nothing like the affection with which she looked at me, but it was kind. Understanding. I felt almost guilty for it. I had only been captive for a few years. I knew of the slavery problem in America; I'd learned about it in my books. People were tortured, killed, worked to death. Children were separated from mothers. For all I knew, he could have been enslaved since birth.

He closed the door behind him, and I removed my pants - not before locking the door. My chest bare around him was bad enough - I would break apart in panic completely if he walked in to see me completely nude.

But as I stepped into the bath, I felt...safe. For the first time in years, I felt like things could be truly all right for a little while.

I closed my eyes, and the soothing feeling of the warm water led my mind to sleep.