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Christine
Chapter 84
The Explanation
After dinner, I went up to the room Nadir had given my father. At my troubled expression upon leaving my chair, the Daroga assured me that the Shah did not know of his arrival here - and if he did find out, Nadir would lie and say that Gustave was merely an old musician friend, come to stay in Tehran for a while. No connection to Christine would be mentioned.
That hadn't been what was troubling me, but it was excellent to know. I felt grateful to Nadir for what he was doing for my father - a very confusing thing. My feelings about Nadir were perpetually confusing.
We ascended the stairs, me behind my father. I noticed that he was walking a bit slower, that it seemed to take him a bit more effort than usual to climb. His breath came in and out roughly, his lungs like bellows.
Nadir had explained to him that I couldn't leave right away - that there was business that had to be taken care of before it was safe for me to go. He said that he would explain more in the morning - and though my father had frowned and protested lightly, he didn't fight for long. He merely asked how much time it would take. The Daroga was unsure, but said that, hopefully, it wouldn't be much longer. My father nodded and relented that as long as I was safe - and he did ask after the certainty of my safety - it might do him good to rest for a while. He'd looked at me in concern, ensuring that this plan was all right by me. I'd nodded. I told him that I was willing to wait - had been willing to wait for a long time. That his presence was genuinely good enough for the time being.
I was surprised by how quickly my father was to trust these strangers. But after the journey he'd had, and due to the fact that they were currently his only chance at bringing me back to France, it only made sense that he'd push aside any reservations. My lack of fear around them likely helped his willingness to put our fates in their hands.
At the top of the steps, he paused, putting a hand to his chest. He breathed in once deeply, and exhaled as well. There was deliberateness to it, as though he were trying to lower his heart rate.
I came to stand beside him, putting a hand on his arm. He was in his early forties now, but he'd never been winded this quickly. "Are you all right?" I asked him.
He opened his eyes and smiled at me with love. He patted my hand. "Yes. I'm fine. Just tired. Extremely tired."
I nodded and walked with him to the room Nadir had given him. When we arrived, I helped him get settled in.
"It's a wonder," he said, as he placed his cased violin in the wide bottom drawer of the dresser, "that this lifesaver was not stolen from me." He sighed, a quirk in his lips. "It's those sorts of things that make me believe in miracles. Divine intervention."
I looked down at the bag of clothing on the floor. Dirty. All dirty. They'd been cleaned tonight and returned to him tomorrow. My father was given nightclothes to sleep in by Nadir.
"I can't believe you came all this way, Papa," I said softly, and looked at him where he stood by the dresser. "What if this had been a trap? What if I wasn't really here?"
"That was a risk I was willing to take," he answered. "Christine, you mean more to me than anything. There was no chance in Hell that, upon seeing that you were alive somewhere in the world, I would not have come to find you."
A lump formed in my throat. He saw the change in my countenance and went to me. He held me tightly. I hugged him back.
At last he pulled away. When he did, something at my collar caught his eye. He raised a brow and pulled at a thin chain around my neck, bringing the necklace's pendant out from beneath my clothes into full view.
He sucked in a breath. "That is-" He looked at me. "Who gave this to you?"
There was little point in lying. "Erik."
"The man you were given to."
"Yes."
He paused. "You said he was kind?"
I nodded.
He glanced back down at the necklace shortly. "What...Christine, what exactly is your relationship to him?"
I blushed. "I... Let's sit down."
He agreed. We went to his bed and sat side by side.
"Don't..." I started softly, looking at the floor as I felt his eyes on me. "Don't be upset."
"Why would I be upset?"
"Because... I..."
"Does this man have feelings for you? Is that why he gave you that piece of jewelry?"
I hesitated, but nodded.
"And...do you..."
"Yes."
A long silence.
"You love him."
I brought my head up and down slowly.
"Hm." He shifted slightly.
"He never wanted to...use me in the way he was supposed to," I explained. "He wanted to send me home. He's the one, actually, that wrote the letter to you."
"Not Monsieur Khan?"
"No. He only sent it. It was Erik's idea to send me back to France."
"I see."
"And I wasn't planning on falling in love with him - but he has been so kind, Papa. And he is intelligent - and music! He plays music as well-"
"Erik," he said softly. "I thought it was a European name. That is a Persian name as well?"
"No." I looked at him at last. There was curious concern on his face. "No, he is French. Only a year or two older than me."
He narrowed his eyes. "And what is his role here, exactly, if the Shah granted you as a gift to him?
I wanted, then, to sink into the bed. I thought about lying, but the truth was bound to come out at some point. "He is an executioner." My voice was small.
His eyes darkened. "A killer."
"He doesn't want to be."
"You are in love with a killer, Christine?"
"No, Papa." I stood and faced him. "No, he doesn't want to be. Just like I don't want to be a concubine. It wasn't his choice."
"No, there is a choice. He could say no to killing."
"And be punished himself, while those he killed would be executed anyway - likely in a crueler way. At least when he kills, he makes it quick." My heartrate heightened. "I was given an impossible choice as well - give my body away or die."
He grimaced, disgust tightening his every muscle. "It's different."
"It's not." I exhaled sharply. "And for a fact, Erik did say no, recently, to the last execution. He was tasked with killing another Flower - one of the girls like me - and he said no. He wouldn't do it. He doesn't want to do it anymore - he never did. And now he's...he-"
Tears sprang to my eyes. I wiped them away.
His gaze softened. "He's what?"
"He's being held in a prison for it. In a cage. And what's worse is that he was imprisoned as a child, so I can't even imagine..." Realization slammed into me. I widened my eyes at him. "Papa, I think you may have met him. I drew a picture of you - he saw it and he says that he might know who you are."
"When would I have met him?"
"When he was a boy. He performed in a travelling show. His face is...it looks like death. And you tried to save him. Is that something you remember?"
He blinked and looked away, and I saw in his dumbfounded face the answer to my question before he said, "Yes. I remember that." He swallowed. "You say he does not want to kill."
"He doesn't."
"He was forced into it?"
"Yes."
There was still an ocean of doubt lapping at the shores of his eyes. "I'd like to meet this man."
