Charity in the Age of Modern Marvels (3/15) ****

Chapter 3 - In which Jules hauls water more than once

His first thought was that he was cold.

His second was that he had definitely had too much to drink last night, if he'd passed out on the floor.

Jules yawned and began to stretch, the rag of a blanket thrown around him being pushed to its limits as he moved. Still half asleep, he realized that it was caught on something and turned his head to see what it was, rather than tear the blanket.

A child was sleeping on the floor beside him. She'd been curled up against the small of his back and the blanket was clutched tightly between her fists. There was no movement from her and he watched carefully, horror-stricken at the thought she might be dead. The barely perceptible rise and fall of the old linen shirt he'd given her to wear the night before brought him some relief, but not much.

Aimee.

The hangover hit him right between the eyes just as the sun rose high enough to slip over the windowsill. Closing his eyelids instantly and stifling a groan of annoyance and pain, Jules missed the folded jacket he'd used as a pillow and instead struck his head on the hard wood of the floor.

He knew instantly that this was going to be a difficult morning. Every muscle in his body ached from the night on the floor; he hadn't felt this sore since the working over he'd received when he'd been imprisoned inside the mechanical mole. Blindly he reached out toward the steps, where he remembered having left the bottle of wine. A half turn and his fingers touched the smooth side of the glass.

Fumbling with it, Jules opened his eyes just enough to assure himself that he wasn't going to smack his head with the bottle - the side was cool against his forehead. He raised himself up by tucking his left elbow underneath and tilted the bottle to find what little liquid remained.

More than a few mouthfuls. It dribbled down his chin and he lowered the bottle quickly before he began to choke. Then he let his head fall back to the floor, held the cool side of the bottle against his forehead, and hoped the wine would be enough to alleviate the ache behind his eyes.

He drowsed only for a moment or two. When Jules opened his eyes again, there wasn't any real pain, just an inconsistent throbbing and then only when he moved too quickly. That, he could deal with. Despite the wine, his mouth was still dry and he licked his lips as he forced himself into a sitting position.

It couldn't have been much past dawn, an hour at most. It had grown cooler during the night. That fact, and the sounds beginning to rise from the street below as Paris wakened around him, gave him impetus to stumble to his feet, close the window, and then fasten both of the shutters.

Realizing that he'd slept in his clothes, Jules groaned aloud at his own stupidity - he was a mess. He paused a moment to sit at the table and remove his shoes, then laid them to one side. Glancing down at Aimee, he wondered exactly what he was going to do.

She seemed even smaller when she slept. The leg she'd curled around the blanket was thin, not to the bone, but close enough so that it looked like it might snap if she fell. He could not quite tell the color of her hair; the dirt and tangle might be a light brown or summer blonde if washed. She made no sound in her sleep, but shuddered suddenly - she was cold.

Jules knelt down and lifted her, blanket and all. The smell of the old man seemed to have clung more to her abandoned clothing than to her; he had no problem holding her in his arms this morning. If fact, he didn't remember her being quite this light in his arms when he'd carried her up the steps.

Then again, he'd been drunk last night. The exact details of just about everything were going to prove to be elusive for a while.

Tucking the blue blanket around her as he slipped her into the bed, he paused, thinking she might wake. Aimee slept on, oblivious to everything. He reached down to push back a lock of hair from her face and she winced in her sleep. Gently, he lifted the hair and found the area around her left ear darkened and bruised, as if from a blow. The left side of her mouth, too, was darkened. There was dried blood at the corner.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he whispered.

There was no answer, but he really didn't expect one.

Stretching again, and trying to remain as quiet as he could, Jules picked up his jacket and the bottle from the floor. The jacket was thrown onto the back of a chair, while the bottle was set on the table. He took care of his immediate needs, then took off his shirt and socks and used the remaining water in the pitcher on the wash stand to do the best he could.

All the while, Jules thought about the coins that remained in his cash sock - they were supposed to last him until his next pittance of an allowance arrived from his father. He'd originally planned on augmenting the money by writing a few more plays, but after his last three local theatrical disasters, the playhouse managers would only pay him to stay away from their doors. Theon had mentioned that he had some money. So if he spent what little he had, perhaps he could borrow a few sous from his friend. And he could sell some of his law books . . . .

The possibility of being able to borrow and sell to make money gave him courage. Jules took a battered tin cup down from the shelf, removed the sock, and then weighed it in his hand. He took out first five coins, then eight, then - after a glance at Aimee, asleep under the blue blanket - dumped the contents of the sock into his hand.

If he was going to do this thing, he was going to do it well.

Grabbing her discarded smock from the floor, he headed for the door, then paused again. He wasn't certain if he should leave. What if she awakened and there was no one here? What if she couldn't remember what had happened last night or, more importantly to him, what hadn't happened last night? Mme Ludek would already be out at the markets and he was high enough from the street so that his neighbors would hear little or nothing, even through the paper-thin walls. It worried him, though, to think that Aimee might be frightened. Then he remembered what she had said last night, about promising not to cry.

He would have to return before she awakened, it was that simple. Jules locked the door behind him - although a stiff breeze could have blown open the door to his room if it had that intent - and hurried through the outer door and into the street.

His trip to the ragshop proved successful, if expensive - there were two clean children's smocks of the proper size and a pair of brown leather slippers that he hoped would fit her. The owner gave him barely a sou for the old smock he handed over, then agreed to trade for a pair of red girl's leggings that appeared to be the proper size. The morning chill reminded him to purchase a small, knit shawl, which was frayed at the edges, but perfectly serviceable.

Breakfast also proved costly, the addition of two hard-boiled eggs more than he would have spent on three meals for himself. He splurged on a scoop of butter, fresh bread, more cheese, a bottle of milk, and a pastry as an afterthought. The door to the perfumery was open when he passed and he stepped inside with some caution - it wasn't a place he'd ever had the interest or will to visit on his own. The girl sweeping the sill of the shop nearly sent him out with the trash, but when he held up a coin and asked for good soap, he found his treatment at her hands improved considerably.

Jules was whistling as he passed through the outer door and up the stairs to his room. The packages he carried in his arms made fitting the key into the lock an exercise in futility. Eventually, he simply gave up and pushed on the door with his shoulder, only slightly chagrined when it opened with the slightest pressure and no benefit of key.

Aimee was sitting upright in bed - he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't just awakened her, she was watching him with such an owlish stare.

"Good morning, Aimee." Placing his packages on the counter by the door, he walked toward her. "Do you remember who I am?"

"Jules," she answered softly. Then she smiled.

The smile was not so wide, nor so certain, but it brought sunshine into the room even without opening the shutters. He sat down on the bed beside her. "Did you sleep well?"

She hesitated, then nodded that she had.

"But," said Jules carefully, "you didn't sleep in the bed, did you?"

Again, she hesitated, glancing down at the floor, then realizing where she was - in the bed. She nodded again, her eyes watching his every move.

"Next time, you should sleep in the bed. The floor's too hard and too cold for little girls."

"Yes, Jules," she said softly.

It suddenly occurred to him that she was waiting for him to strike her. Jules froze, realizing that any sudden movement might send her scampering for cover or, which he considered worse, might bring back the blank-featured, obedient doll he'd met the night before.

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leaned close and whispered softly in her ear, "I brought back an egg for breakfast. One for each of us."

As he drew away, he saw her smile return; Aimee clasped her hands together in joy. "Really?"

"Come and see."

Taking her hand, Jules led her to the counter, where she helped him to open the food packages. The boiled egg was quickly eclipsed by the presence of the pastry, which he suspected might have disappeared entirely into her mouth if she still wasn't so frightened.

Handing her two plates, he said, "Clear off a space on the table and we'll eat."

Nodding - she was far quieter than he ever remembered his sisters being - Aimee hopped down the step and over to the table. Jules put his attention toward the task of finding two fairly clean cuts and utensils. Balancing a mismatched teacup and a glass on top, he turned and headed down to the table.

Aimee was sitting on the chair by the table, but hadn't moved to clear him a space. He opened his mouth to admonish her - gently - but then stopped when he realized what she was doing.

She was looking at his drawings. One by one, she passed through the pages, stopping to run a finger along the lines of one of the terrible machines he'd envisioned, or to touch the spire of an incredible building. Something inside him warmed watching her, seeing the wonder in her eyes.

He moved enough so that his shadow fell across her and she started. Aimee glanced up at him fearfully, then quickly patted the papers into something of a pile and shifted them to aside.

"It's all right," said Jules, taking the plates from her and setting them down on the table. "You may look if you want. Let's open the shutters - we need light."

Breakfast began silently enough - he placed an egg on her plate, followed by a slice of bread with butter, and a few bits of cheese. Aimee dove immediately into the bread, leaving no crumbs as she chewed and swallowed quickly, whether from real hunger or from habit he couldn't tell. The cheese disappeared before Jules had managed to spread any butter on his own bread.

The egg, however, proved to be something of a problem. Aimee picked it up and hefted it in her hand, as if surprised at the weight of it. Jules abandoned his bread and picked up his own egg. He tapped it against the plate and the shell cracked. Showing Aimee the open part of the shell, he picked away at the edges.

She followed his lead, at one point ending up with her thumb through the egg, but it all turned out well. He was pleased to find the milk was something of a success, for she finished the first glass before he had a chance to even touch his own.

And while Aimee ate, he noticed that she kept glancing back at his drawings.

"You may look at them," he told her again, and this time she reached over and picked up one of the pictures. It was a sketch of one of his flying machines. "Now that," he informed her solemnly, "is a heliopter. It flies horizontally and vertically."

When Aimee stared at him, he moved his hand to demonstrate. "This way and that way."

"But . . . it flies?"

"Um." Picking up a piece of bread, Jules gestured toward the rotors at the front and top of the machine. "That's what makes it fly."

"Like a bird?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to fly like a bird," said Aimee gravely. She abandoned the drawing and picked up another, absently christening it with another piece of cheese that Jules had cut and slipped onto her plate. "What is this?"

"That's a building - a residence, where people live. As tall as . . . as Notre Dame. Taller!" When she stared at him in disbelief, Jules laughed and added, "The walls will be glass and shine when the suns hit them. Inside it will always be light."

"But only in the day?" asked Aimee. "Because at night it'll be dark outside."

"There'll be lights inside at night," countered Jules.

Taking another bite of cheese, Aimee placed the paper back in the table and pointed to the tiny figures sketched at the bottom. "And people will live there?"

"Yes. Well, I hope so," answered Jules.

"Will they be happy people?"

"I think so." He picked up the drawing - which had acquired a ring at the bottom from her milk glass - and set it to one side.

"Can I live there?"

"If you like," he answered quickly. He gestured upward, at the beams of his room. "You would live at the very top. And when the stars came out at night they would feel so close that you would want to reach out and touch them."

Aimee followed the movement of his hand, her eyes directed upward as if she could see the night sky of which he spoke. "Oh! That would be nice." Then she returned her gaze to her empty plate. "But I could live at the bottom." She looked up at him again. "Will you draw me a place at the bottom, where I could live and be happy?"

When he didn't answer immediately, she added, "You could live there, too, Jules."

He fought to keep his smile in place. Leaning toward her, he asked quietly, "Aimee, do you have a mama?"

Aimee shook her head, her eyes still locked on his.

"What about a papa?"

Again, she shook her head. "Only Dondre," she answered, her voice low. "And before him--" Closing her eyes tightly, she pursed her lips . . . but then relaxed after a moment and looked up at him sadly. "I don't remember him. I was very small. He wore a black coat and it smelled. He sold me to Dondre." Then, she smiled and reached across to touch his hand. "And now Dondre has sold me to you."

Jules knew enough not to try to explain that again. He pushed back his chair from the table and Aimee did the same, mirroring his movements. "Why don't put the dishes over there," he gestured toward the counter. "I'll get the water for your bath."

Aimee's eyes widened and she backed up a step. "A bath?"

Instantly, Jules knew he was in trouble. He ran to the packages on the counter and pulled out the small wrapped bundle from the perfumery, which he returned to Aimee. "I bought this for you. It's real soap. Smell it."

She was reluctant, but she sniffed at it with a delicacy that was almost comic. A smile lit her face and Aimee looked at him in wonder. "That's pretty! Like flowers."

"Wouldn't you like to smell like that?" he asked hopefully.

Her eyes still watching him warily, Aimee nodded.

"That's how you'll smell after your bath." She seemed to be mulling over the idea. With a sigh, Jules gestured toward the dishes. "Just clear up the table - I'll be back in a minute with the water."

The washtub was standing on its side beside the counter and was - Jules noted with some dismay - cobwebbed into place. When he visited the Aurora, Passepartout often disappeared with his dirty clothing and returned them clean, pressed, and patched. It had been at least a month since he had done his own laundry.

He headed for the door, but paused to check Aimee. She had gathered the plates into a pile on the table, but was now standing at the window with the soap package slightly unwrapped, sniffing at it. Chuckling to himself, Jules headed down the steps from his room to the wash pump.

The water was cold, but clean. Jules splashed some of it on his face and shivered, wondering how he was going to get Aimee scrubbed up - he'd be hard-pressed to get into such a cold tub himself! He'd grown used to bathing on the Aurora, where heaters kept the bathing water warm for whenever it was needed. His rented room had no facility to heat water. What he wouldn't give for a gas burner, like one of the ones in Passepartout's workshop, for a hot cup of tea or coffee on cold nights . . . .

As he pumped water to fill the tub, Jules realized that he'd never considered what the Aurora might mean to Aimee. The Foggs could afford to keep a child, or at least find a place for her with a good family. But would they do that? Aimee was a child from the streets, after all, not their blood relation, nor any relation to him. Even if she were, could he dare to impose upon their kindness to him that much?

The water in the tub was even higher than he'd intended. Jules could barely gets his hands into the cutouts on either side of the wooden frame and as he lifted it and stepped away, the water splashed on his shirtfront, down his trousers, and over his shoes. He eyed the steps with dismay, sighed, and then began the struggle up to his room, making a mental note to sit down with Passepartout to concoct a system that would pipe water upstairs. If Mme Ludek complained, he'd convince her it was an improvement.

Finally reaching the top - even damper than when he'd begun - Jules pushed open the door with his back and swung the tub into the room. "I have the water, Aimee--"

The child was kneeling on the floor beside his tin cleaning bucket, vomiting into it.

The wave that flew up from the wash bucket as Jules all but dropped it onto the floor may have drenched him, but it didn't slow him in the least. He dropped to his knees beside the child and placed an arm around her shoulders, holding her as the remains of her breakfast came back up.

This was his fault - he hadn't been thinking. She probably been surviving on little more than stale bread, water, and scraps of cheese and meat or porridge, if she'd been lucky enough to get that. He'd given her milk, fresh butter, and egg . . . and now her body was paying the price for his mistake.

Aimee coughed a few more times, then fell back against him. He touched her face carefully, remembering the bruise near her left ear, and she looked up at him, lids half-closed over her eyes. "I'm sorry, Jules," she whimpered. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's my fault. It's all my fault." He held the child as tightly as he dared and fought the tears that gathered in his eyes. Her body was shaking - he could feel the fragility of it. After a moment or two, she stilled, her ragged breaths settling to something akin to normal.

"Do you feel better now?" Jules asked, touching his lips to her forehead gently.

"My stomach hurt. And then I felt sick." She was watching him again, with those too-wide eyes. "I'm sorry, Jules. I'll be good. Don't sell me back to Dondre, please?"

He turned her in his arms and hugged her. "You're never going back to Dondre. Never. I won't let that happen."

Some of the tension seemed to leave her as he spoke. He felt her lips touch his cheek. And then Aimee pulled back from him and announced, "You're wet! Is it raining?"

Releasing her so that she could scamper away from him, Jules brushed the back of his hand across his eyes to wipe away the tears before she could see them. "No. That--" he pointed blindly to where he knew the tub would be sitting, "attacked me."

Aimee smiled - he thought for a moment that she might laugh, but she sobered quickly again. Climbing to his feet, he walked over to her and knelt down in front of her. "Are you still sick? Do you feel better now?"

"My stomach doesn't hurt anymore."

"Good." Jules took her hand in his, then caught hold of the other and rubbed her palms between his fingers. "God, you're cold." He glanced at the tub guiltily. "And I'm afraid that water's not going to help. But now we definitely have to get you bathed."

Placing one hand under her knees and the other at her back, he lifted her . . . and immediately felt her stiffen in his arms. "Don't worry," he whispered. "I'm going to tuck you into that nice warm bed over there until I have your bath ready." Pausing at the side of the bed, he looked down at her, meeting her eyes, "Is that all right?"

When she nodded, he lowered her into the bed and then tucked the blue blanket around her. "Wait here."

"Can I have . . . the soap?"

Jules stopped in his tracks and turned back to face her. The thought that she wanted something he'd bought for her delighted him. "It does smell, pretty, doesn't it?" he asked, retrieving the soap from the windowsill, where she'd left it.

"It's very pretty," agreed Aimee, when he returned it to her. She lifted it to her nose, sniffed at it with closed eyes, then held it against her cheek. "It smells like a mama."

Jules suddenly realized that he hadn't thought to buy her a doll or another toy. If it came to it, he could make a doll - he'd done as much for his sisters. But first - he sniffed the air - there was the matter of cleaning up the room, as well as himself.

His last clean shirt was a mess, drenched with water and spotted with Aimee's vomit. Jules ran his fingers down the buttons, unfastening them, then slipped down his suspenders and removed his shirt. His shoes were next, as well as his socks, both being placed on the windowsill to dry in the sun. Dropping the remains of the water from the washbasin into the cleaning bucket, he refilled the basin pitcher and the basin from the tub. He rinsed the shirt as best he could and hung that over the shutter - even with the morning chill, the sun would be high enough to dry it in a few hours. The shirt from the night before was retrieved from his laundry pile and tossed over a chair to air.

Aimee watched the proceedings from the bed with interest, sitting up when he headed toward the door with the waste-filled cleaning bucket, but resting again when he promised to return immediately.

Without his shoes and his shirt, Jules found working the pump a lot more uncomfortable. Gooseflesh raised along his arms. He should have thrown on his jacket at the very least. Rinsing the bucket didn't take more than a second and then that was filled with clean water as well - he'd need something to use to rinse off the little girl after she'd been soaped and scrubbed.

The water felt like twice its weight; Jules used two hands to haul the bucket up the stairs. Once there, he paused at the doorframe and leaned his head against it. He was exhausted and the sun was still low in the sky.

Only now could he understand the weariness he would see in his mother's face in the evenings, as she tucked them into bed, heard their prayers, and kissed them goodnight. How could she have managed all of this effort on a daily basis when he and his brother were small and his father's law practice was still in his infancy, with no money to spare for hired help?

When he entered the room, he found Aimee standing in the middle of the washtub, just inside the door. She had his shirt hiked up to keep it from getting wet and was kicking, splashing water out of the tub.

"Oh, now, don't do that. You're getting water all of the floor," groaned Jules. He placed the full bucket just inside the door, then lifted a dishtowel from the counter. It didn't soak up much of the puddle Aimee had created and, to be honest, a good deal of that had resulted from the splash when he'd dropped the tub to the floor earlier.

Aimee had stopped at his first words and now stood still in the water, those watchful eyes studying him again.

"It's all right," he relented, touching her hair. "No harm done. I was worried you wouldn't get used to the water. I'm sorry it's so cold."

Aimee looked down at the tub water. "It is cold. And it tickles my toes."

"You should have a proper bath, a hot bath," he told her scanning the room for the soap. It had moved from the bed to the table now. He picked it up and grabbed a clean towel from the bureau drawer. "With any luck, I'll find you a home where you can get one."

"I want to live at the bottom of the glass house," she informed him. "The one you drew, where the happy people live. And you can live there with me."

Towel draped over his arm, soap in one hand and a wash cloth in the other, Jules hesitated. Could the Foggs find a place for Aimee to live, where she could be happy? Anything they would find would probably be in England . . . .

"Do you have any English?" he asked, approaching the tub.

She nodded quickly, smiling, as if pleased to be able to answer. "I know many words - Dondre made me learn them. Sometimes the gentlemen are English and they want me to say things. And sometimes they say things and I learn them. Do you want me to say my English words?"

"I think we'd better forget those words," answered Jules, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He doubted even the Foggs would be willing to find someplace safe for Aimee in England after they learned of her dubious vocabulary.

"Are you going to have a bath with me?" asked Aimee.

Jules smiled at her, pleased to hear her speaking. He laughed and pointed to the shirt and shoes on the windowsill. "I think I've had my bath already today."

She smiled - still, she didn't laugh - and took the soap from his hand, smelling it as he knelt by the tub. "This is pretty."

"It's very pretty," Jules agreed. "Now take off the shirt - you might have to wear that to sleep tonight and it would be nice to keep something dry."

Handing him the soap, Aimee followed the same procedure as before - the shirt came over her head without a pause. She held it out to him, looking down to make certain that it didn't drag in the water. There was nothing self-conscious in her manner; Aimee showed no hesitation in removing her clothes, no embarrassment at being naked before him. He would have liked to think that it was because she trusted him.

But Jules knew better. When she held out her hands, he gave her the soap, handed her the washcloth, and draped the shirt over his shoulder, all without thinking.

Thinking was impossible when faced with the little body before him, a map of scars, scrapes and bruises. What he had briefly seen the night before had nearly brought him to tears. What he saw now, in the light of day, sparked a murderous rage in his heart - he would cheerfully have gone into the depths of Parisian depravity, dragged Dondre out into the sunlight, and sent his soul to everlasting hell.

But it wasn't Dondre alone who had done this. There were others responsible for the bruises in the shapes of finger marks on her thighs, the striped marks across her buttocks and back, the misalignment of a shoulder, which might have been broken at some time and healed unaided . . . .

Aimee dropped down into the tub with a splash, calling out in surprise as she sat almost up to her armpits in the cold water. The splash that slapped his face was enough to awaken Jules from his horrified stupor. He moved to the other side of the tub, seeing her rub the soap on her chest, then wipe it away with the washcloth.

"Here," said Jules, clearing his throat to keep his voice from breaking. "Let me."

He wrung the washcloth over the tub, then rubbed the soap against it to get a good lather. The soap he dropped back into the tub with a splash, which caused her to cry out in joy and to smile. While she played with the soap, he started on her back. It was sometimes hard to tell what was a scar and what was dirt, and even harder to know when he might hurt her. Her arms and hands were easy enough, despite the scars that circled her wrists, but there were marks on her chest near her nipples - dear God, could those have been made by human teeth? Her neck he washed carefully, especially as he moved up the left side of her face. He ran the cloth down her legs and between her toes.

But Jules could not bring himself to do anything more with the cloth. He couldn't touch her further for fear of what he might find.

Aimee allowed the dispassionate cleaning without complaint, humming quietly as she played with the soap, floating it in the tub like a boat or squishing her hands together over it so that it shot up and out between her fingers. He realized soon that the humming stopped when he was hurting her, so he let her lead him in that.

"I like baths like this," said Aimee.

Jules had left her with the washcloth momentarily, going to the counter to fetch a cup to wash her hair. "A warm bath would be better," he informed her.

She nodded, after thinking a moment. "But like this," she said, splashing the water. "Alone. When I was little, the gentlemen liked to take baths with me. They touched me and sometimes they wanted me to touch them, but they didn't hurt me. Not like when I got bigger." She turned in the tub and smiled up at him. "Are you sure you don't want to take a bath with me, Jules?"

He wanted to scream. Instead, he pasted what he knew must be a sickly smile on his face and said, "No," in the calmest voice he could manage. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he took the washcloth from her. "I have to wash your hair, now."

Aimee made a face as if she weren't happy, but she didn't protest. Only her eyes and the downturn of her mouth continued to accuse him.

"Here--" Jules rinsed the soap from the washcloth , then wrung it so that it was nearly dry. He folded it and handed it to her. "So the water and the soap doesn't get in your eyes."

She took the cloth and held the ends over her eyes experimentally, then let it fall into her hands again. Aimee nodded and held the cloth over her eyes with the tips of her fingers.

Using the cup, he poured the water over her head, until her hair was plastered to her skull. He was careful to give her moments to breathe between dowsings and after a few tries he saw her shoulders relax, as she grew comfortable with the process. The soap was a little tougher to deal with - he knew it would sting her eyes, so he tried to work up a lather before applying it to her hair.

There were no lice or other vermin present, for which he was extremely grateful. The dirt was ingrained in her scalp and he had to rub hard with his fingers to dislodge it. The matted hair was nearly impossible to separate, but Jules tried his best. He rinsed the soap off thoroughly, using clean water from the bucket by the door. Wet, her hair was the light brown he suspected, surely lighter than his own.

"Stand up, Aimee," he said, lifting the towel and wrapping it around her body as she rose from the water. Not only was she kept warm, but the cloth also protected him from seeing those marks again. He wondered if even the strength of his visions could drive that memory from his mind. Lifting her from the tub, he carried her to the bed and seated her on the blanket. She submitted to being rubbed dry with the towel, then reached for the shirt that he'd tossed over his shoulder and had forgotten.

Jules caught her wrist within the curl of his fingers to stop her from grabbing the shirt, but his movement had been too quick. Her felt her body tense beneath the towel. "This is for sleeping," he said quietly. "But I've brought you something better."

The smocks, leggings and shoes he'd bought were still wrapped on the counter. Retrieving them, he dropped the packages beside her on the bed. "These are yours."

It took some moments for her to open the small bundles, but she reacted as if he had given her the Emperor's very crown. The first of the two smocks - the blue one - was slipped over her head immediately. The tights followed, just a little long, but enough to cover her legs and serve as an undergarment. The shoes were too small, but it didn't seem to matter. He was able to release the buckle enough to make them fit her feet, and she didn't have any trouble walking in them. If he was able to see the wear at the seams, the frayed edges of the toes, she seemed not to notice.

Dressed, Aimee looked like any other child he might see on the street, one with a family, holding the hand of a parent, or a nurse, or a governess. No one would have known that she had spent her young life as anything other than loved and cared for . . . unless they lifted the smock to see the marks upon her body. He was certain those marks must go deeper, to her very soul.

Jules turned away and placed the shirt from his shoulder on the other shutter to air it. He checked the condition of the items on the windowsill - the socks and shoes were almost dry, but the shirt was still too damp to wear. He took last night's shirt from the other shutter and slipped his arms through it, lifting his suspenders to hold it in place until it could be fastened.

He couldn't look at her. While she played with the shawl and the other smock, he turned his back and began to prepare some bread and cheese for lunch. Having learned from his mistake earlier that morning, he cut the pieces smaller and gave her less food. There was still a half glass of milk left from the bottle and he poured that into the battered china cup. There was none remaining for him, but he didn't much care - the knot in his throat would have prevented him from swallowing.

The touch of her fingers on his hand startled him. She had placed the red shawl over her head and looked up at him with the utmost gravity in her expression.

"Have I been bad, Jules?"

"No, Aimee. You've been a good girl. See, I have lunch for you." When she looked at the food and then quickly up at him, he smiled reassuringly. "I don't think the food will make you sick again. Eat more slowly this time."

Aimee pulled herself up onto the chair at the table. "I don't think I like eggs anymore," she informed him, reaching for a piece of bread.

Moving to stand behind her, Jules pulled the red shawl from her head and folded it, placing it on the windowsill. Her hair was curling as it dried and he found it soft when he touched it. She was a good girl, but she wasn't his. He hadn't seriously considered asking Rebecca and Phileas to find a place for her not because she spoke no real English, but because England was so far away. His family, too, in Nantes - true, his father would never accept her, but it would be such a long way to travel and then to have to deal with his father's questions about his studies, giving up writing . . . .

Whatever love he might offer Aimee would not keep her warm in the winter, would not feed her each day, would not clothe her. How could he comfort her wakeful nights when his own were filled with monstrous visions of things to come? Knowing now that there were people who would use his visions for their own, evil purposes, how could he expose her to such danger, put her in harm's way? And if he couldn't listen to her speak of the things that had been done to her, the torments she had suffered in her life, without being so disturbed by them he could not bring himself to touch her, to look at her--?

Jules knew he could not keep her.

"After you've finished, would you like to go for a walk?"

She turned her head slightly to look up at him. "A walk?"

No doubt Dondre had taken her on many 'walks' to places where gentlemen awaited their arrival . . . .

He tried not to think further of what the word might mean to her and fought to keep his smile in place. "There's a park near the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy. Sometimes people walk dogs there. It's very pretty."

"I like dogs." Her suspicions allayed, Aimee turned her attention back to her food and chewed contentedly. "Can we play with them?"

"If there are some nice ones, yes." He would bring her extra smock, and the shawl - the Sisters wouldn't mind having either of those, he was certain. The soap, too, could be dried; she might want that. His shirt with the torn sleeves . . . the Sisters would find something else in which to let her sleep. That, he would keep.

As well as the memory of this moment.

Her hair was so soft . . . .

He could not keep her.

****

End of Chapter 3

****