Giver44
We said very little as we dressed and climbed into narrow, uncomfortable beds at the Inn of Lavre. I knew my uncle was disappointed in my answer, but I didn't regret my words.
The room was small, the fabric wallpaper dark, but it was warm and dry. Sleeping indoors with a real bed and blanket seemed a foreign luxury.
I twisted on my side, watching as my uncle stretch his long, thin arms over his head. He yawned before he climbed into the bed across from mine and turned away from me. He mumbled a goodnight under his breath, turned down the lamp, and literally fell asleep moments after he pulled the blanket up to his chin.
My arm hurt where Girl had bitten me, my head aching once again from the blow to the back of my skull. While my uncle snored in his sleep, tears pricked the backs of my eyes and slid hot and fat down my cheeks.
I buried my face in my pillow and held by breath, overwhelmed by my fluctuating emotions.
I wanted a man dead—and that man was my father. Earlier in the day, when Girl had been brutally killed, I wanted many men—many strangers—dead for their callous actions.
And then, in the midst of my hatred, I had found peace and comfort. I desperately wanted the feeling of acceptance I'd encountered with Amelie. The swell of loneliness and hatred ate away at me, left me trembling with apathy. My time with her had ended. I mourned the loss of a relationship that would never exist outside of this night.
I wanted to live in this peaceful place forever, roam the fields of wheat and barley, stroll through the vineyards heavy with the scent of wine. I wanted each night to be a celebration with music, dancing, and food.
To hell with reality; I wanted to live under false pretenses in my own conjured perfection.
As much as I desired to stay awake and savor the music still playing in my head, the warmth lingering from Amelie's hand in mine, sleep eventually took me.
Nightmares of my father stayed far away, and when I woke to sunlight cutting through the room, I wondered if I had somehow succeeded in wishing him dead.
Several times I woke to laughter or voices in the distance, but exhaustion kept me in bed a while longer. My uncle continued to snore and talk in his sleep. Why, that is far too much to pay for a pig! Joshua, listen to your mother. Storm coming in fast.
Through the open windows I heard children playing and men working. The smell of bread wafted into the room and forced me from bed. Stomach growling, I dressed and put on my shoes.
"What time is it?" my uncle groaned as he turned onto his back, squinting as he faced the window.
"Ten, I think," I answered. I hadn't paid much attention to the church bells in the distance.
"Ten?" He sat up at once. "Ah, my son, you should not have allowed an old man to sleep this late."
"I wasn't up either," I reminded him.
"Well, we will be fortunate if breakfast is waiting for us," he said.
While he dressed, I stood at a distance and watched unfamiliar people go about their lives. No one seemed to notice me, for which I was grateful.
Lavre was insignificant in size with its group of stone houses gathered together and its town square where the festivities had been held. I could see the open space still decorated with streamers and littered with refuse from the previous night. Several children, under the direction of their mothers, gathered the trash and tossed it into sacks they then hauled away. They groaned and carried on, dragging their feet and balking at their duties.
My heart stuttered as I searched for Amelie, but there were no familiar faces on the street.
"I'll shave and we will be on our way to a meal like no other," my uncle assured me.
Shaving took him an eternity. I sat hunched over on the edge of the bed and listened to him whistle while he shaved down the hall. Arms crossed, I tapped my foot and sulked until he returned and told me to make haste.
"Me?" I asked incredulously.
He smiled back. "You aren't even on your feet," he said with a chuckle as he walked smoothly from the room and left me dashing after him.
Once I caught up with him, I dashed out the door and waited outside the Inn, my stomach growling. I sat impatiently on a stone bench while he settled the payment for the room, each minute an eternity of endless hunger.
Children paused when they noticed me seated beneath a young tree with the last of its light pink petals dropping to the ground. They looked at me with familiarity in their gazes, then immediately stared at the mask.
What had once been part of a costume was now out of place. They lingered a moment, stared at the oddity before them.
"What are you doing?" one of the boys much younger than me asked. "The festival is over."
Rather than speak, I turned away and studied the flowers blooming in the planters against the building, hoping silence would drive them away.
"Why is he still in his mask?" I heard someone say.
"He won't answer," the boy said.
"Why not?" a girl asked.
"He's passing through. No telling with a stranger," another answered.
I hide my face because I was burned in a terrible fire and my father is dead. Over and over I repeated the words I refused to speak. My heart thudded, nerves infused with dread.
"Did you sleep well?"
Amelie's voice immediately caught my attention and I turned as she trotted toward me. Her smile wavered, her pace slowing once I faced her. Though she tried to hide her trepidation, I noticed she hesitated once she stood no more than five paces away.
"I thought you had left," she said breathlessly. "You had me worried."
The sincerity in her voice took me by surprise. I had expected her to retreat when she saw the mask.
She had more courage than I had thought.
"My uncle…my father," I corrected myself. "He is not feeling well."
"My mother will remedy that," she promised. "How are you feeling?"
"Hungry," I answered.
She held my gaze a moment, searching for the truth. "Not for long," she said at last.
A moment later my uncle appeared and Amelie escorted us toward her home nestled amongst many other small, stone houses that looked no different. Her steps were filled with excitement and forced us to trot after her.
The rose bush I had seen the previous night was well past bloom, the flowers losing their petals or not yet budding. One bud toward the top, heavy and leaning toward the ground, was just starting to open, its velvet petals dangerously close to the thorns. I stared at the flower a moment before Amelie brushed the bush away and ushered us inside.
My uncle inhaled and drew my attention away from the roses. "Do you smell that, my boy?"
I nodded and followed behind Amelie and my uncle, drawn to the promise of food.
We were greeted by a man not many years older than me with blond hair and a large nose. He stood with his arms crossed and a hardened look on his face in a sparsely finished room. I offered little more than a nervous smile before turning away.
"Who is this?" he asked coldly.
"Jean-Marcus, do not be rude," Amelie admonished.
"He is rude for covering his face in our home. Is he a thief? A murderer on the run?" he questioned, his gaze drawn to me.
"Neither, sir," I answered meekly.
"Where is Marie?" he asked. "Has anyone seen her since his arrival?"
Madame Batiste entered the room and untied her apron. "What is all this?" she asked as she eyed her son.
"I would ask you the same, Mother," Jean-Marcus shot back.
She shooed him from the room with a wave of her hand, but he lingered still. "After what happened to Father, you allow strangers in this home," he spit out.
"I allow a good man and his son to take their breakfast with us," Madame Batiste corrected.
"Three women alone?" he asked bitterly. "With a boy hiding behind a mask? What is wrong with him? What plagues him? Disease?"
"Stop this," Madame Batiste warned.
"Where is Marie? Has anyone seen her?" He grunted and smoothed his hair back, his attention returning to me. "What is it you hide? What wickedness?"
"A fire," I said suddenly. All eyes turned toward me and I paused. "My father is dead. My uncle is my caretaker now."
Now that I said the words again, my tone had changed. Anger had left my voice, replaced by remorse.
No one spoke. My uncle put his arm around me and nodded. "Madame, we thank you for your offer, however, we must be on our way. I am afraid the hour is later than I expected."
Jean-Marcus looked satisfied at our departure, but Amelie came toward me and shook her head. "Mother made food for you," she said.
"Food we cannot spare," her brother argued.
"We have paid for our meal," Uncle Alak said. He nodded toward a small table beside a chair. Beside a bible and a clay mug were several gold coins.
I hadn't seen him move to place payment on the table and apparently neither had anyone else. They collectively gasped before Jean-Marcus stormed toward the table and swiped one of the coins up in his large hand. He looked skeptically at my uncle as he bit the metal as though he expected we left gold-painted wood.
"You would eat for a month with this," he said to himself. At once he placed the coins down and shot a look toward my uncle. "And what else would you purchase with this sum?"
His gaze turned toward Amelie, who blushed and returned toward her mother's side.
"Feed for the animal we must leave behind," my uncle replied smoothly, mustering greater calm than I would have offered. "I trust your sister has already asked?"
My breath hitched. Moon's fate hung in the balance—though I didn't much like the thought of her staying with Jean-Marcus. I feared what he would do with such a temper.
"She has," he said vaguely, irritation still evident in his voice. "Several times."
I risked a glance in her direction and she smiled back at me, her expression devious as though she wished to conspire on Moon's behalf.
"Will you accept and care for her until Erik may return to claim her?" my uncle asked.
Jean-Marcus looked down at the shining gold coins and sighed. "How long?" he questioned.
"Two months," my uncle answered. "No more than that."
As much as I wished to feel relief, I turned to look at him and wondered if he would survive another two months.
"I will accept," Jean-Marcus said, though his voice lacked emotion. He looked at the money in his palm with greed in his eyes.
"Will you take care of her properly?" I asked.
He furrowed his brow, clearly surprised I had addressed him. "My sister will be her caretaker, as was our agreement."
A shuddering breath left my lungs and I smiled back at Amelie, grateful for her persistence and her kindness. Moon would be in good hands.
"I fed her breakfast," she informed me. "Now to feed you as well."
Her brother said nothing as Madame Batiste escorted us into the dining room. Jean-Marcus watched us trudge through the house, his gaze fixed on me until we passed from sight. I had seen the look in his eyes many times in my father's hardened stares. His expression made me tense, wary of his presence.
Madame Batiste would not allow me a moment to return to my misery. She immediately placed her hands on my shoulders and forced me into my seat before she began her culinary assault.
Once food was piled onto my plate and I had a chance to look around, I realized this was the second time I had ever stepped foot into another person's home. My own parents had not allowed me to sit with them or enjoy a meal in their company, though my uncle had invited me into his home.
I took a deep breath, preparing myself for an unparalleled delight. Amelie took her seat across from me and clasped her hands as she unabashedly stared as though waiting for my approval.
Bread, jam, fresh berries, eggs scrambled with vegetables and a modest, salty slice of ham filled my plate.
"Would you say grace first?" Madame Batiste asked my uncle.
He obliged, though I didn't hear a word of what he said. My attention was focused solely on the food. Like a starved dog, I reached for my fork the moment I was told eating was permissible. Greedily I took several bites, then realized how savage I must have seemed and sat back.
With every bite, I convinced myself this was a meal fit for kings. Each flavor rolled onto my tongue, each bite met with a nod of approval. Madame Batiste looked on, appearing proud of her cooking.
"You must miss your mother's cooking," she said as she watched me.
Deep inside I ached, but I forced a nod. "I do," I said quietly. I missed more of her than anyone would ever know. I longed for the acceptance only a mother could give to a child, the compassion I had seen Madame Batiste give so freely not only to her daughter, but to me as well.
All too swiftly I emptied my plate, and despite Madame Batiste offering to refill each inch with more food, I declined. My stomach hurt from eating so fast, a terrible yet pleasurable feeling.
"Did you like the food?" Amelie asked, as though there was any need to question.
"Every bite," I replied.
"I made the berries," she teased.
Her words made me chuckle. "Every last one?" I asked.
She smiled back and nodded. "You don't believe me?"
"I would believe anything you said," I answered.
Our eyes met briefly before I looked away. Somehow, despite how full I felt, butterflies still managed to flutter through my insides. She made me feel like no one else.
"Amelie, quit your teasing," her mother warned with a playful wag of her finger. "You've embarrassed him."
She pursed her lips and looked at me from the corner of her eye. "Yes, mother," she said reluctantly.
"Your kindness has touched the lives and hearts of two very weary travelers," my uncle said as he finished his tea.
"Where are you headed?" Madame Batiste questioned while she stood with a towel in one hand and prepared to clear the table. Amelie scurried around her and gathered up my uncle's empty plate while I reached for my own.
While her mother spoke to my uncle, I followed Amelie out of the dining area and out the back door where an iron tub filled with soapy water awaited.
"You'll leave tonight?" she asked as she cleaned and gave me the duty of drying dishes. We sat on our knees, her arm brushing against mine.
"Yes," I answered, attempting to hide the dread in my voice.
"Where?" she asked without meeting my eye.
"To my cousin's home," I answered. I had never voiced the destination aloud, and now that I had said the words, I felt strange. My own family had rejected me, though my uncle seemed certain his son would treat me differently.
"How far from here?" she asked.
"Paris," I answered.
"Do you think it's beautiful there?"
"There is music, theater, plenty of shops and places to eat…Paris is more than beauty," I replied.
"You've been there already?" she asked, sounding quite interested.
I shook my head. "My uncle told me," I answered. He had compiled a list of places he wanted his son to show me.
"Sounds better than here," she said glumly.
"I would give anything to stay here," I said quickly.
She giggled to herself. "There is nothing here but sheep and orchards," she complained.
"There's you," I added.
She gasped and covered her mouth as she giggled. Her response alarmed me and I rolled to my feet.
"I meant it as a compliment," I said, expecting to defend myself.
"I know," she said as she gathered the clean dishes onto a tray and prepared to return them inside.
She sighed, frustrating me in more ways than I could describe.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"You are very difficult to speak to," I replied as I shifted my weight. "I find it…highly irritating."
"Do you?" she asked, obviously realizing the effect she had on me. She handed me the tray filled with dishes and I prayed my trembling hands would hold steady a moment longer.
"Boys never speak to me," she said, though I couldn't quite tell if she found this disappointing. "My brother says it's because I chatter too much, like a bird."
"I think you speak the correct amount," I replied as though I had spoken the most magnificent complement I could offer.
She smiled and searched my face, which made me suddenly uncomfortable.
Before she could say another word, her brother appeared at the door and stared through me, his light eyes filled with an expression I knew well—loathing.
I had done nothing to earn his disapproval. I hadn't touched his sister nor spoken out of turn or inappropriately. Time and again I was met with unexplained hatred or anger, which had never seemed so magnified as it did in that moment.
Amelie had been kind and accepting, her mother understanding and warm. Marie, considering our limited conversation, had seemed indifferent.
Jean-Marcus, however, looked at me with insatiable hatred. I didn't understand how he could pass judgment so easily when his mother and younger sister stood beside him. I had never understood thoughtless, yet somehow calculated hatred.
There were many nights I had stirred my father's temper, stoked his rage by escaping or sneaking into their home. Still, there were many more when I simply sat alone and peered through the cellar bars at the passing clouds or the moon, when the sound of his footsteps rose the hairs at the back of my neck and balled my hands into fists.
He hated me because I was an imperfect part of him.
Jean-Marcus had no personal reason to loathe me, yet he looked at me with judgment in his pale eyes. His hatred was as evident as my father's disapproval, and I wondered what else they shared in common, if his hand would carry the weight and cruelty of the first man who had shown me discontent.
I followed behind Amelie, my eyes cast down as we trudged past her brother in respectful silence. Before I walked through the door, he grabbed me by the arm and shoved me back.
The momentum made me stumble and I fell onto the dirt. The dishes toppled from the tray, shattering as they hit the ground, a spray of chaos surrounding me.
Instantly my hand shot up to my face, my only concern the mask I wore. He would not forgive my appearance.
"What is it you hide?" he seethed as he marched toward me.
He gave me no moment to respond, no fraction of a second to even breathe. I sat staring up at him as he loomed over me and snatched me up by my shirt.