See part one for disclaimers, notes, explanations, etc.
Part Two: Recovery Period
Passepartout knocked hesitantly on his master's door.
"What?" barked the voice from within.
"I am bringing you tea, Master Jules," the valet said hopefully.
There was a long pause, long enough for Passepartout to worry that the writer had fallen asleep or worse, before there was an answer. "Come in."
Passepartout gratefully opened the door, balancing the tray easily with one hand. He bustled across the room, setting the tray down next to Jules's bed on the edge of a dresser, before actually noticing the writer.
The young man seemed to be imprisoned by the heavy blankets covering him, weighing him down, and that horrible bruise had yet to disappear, though it wasn't quite as obvious as it had been only yesterday. His eyes were sunken, though Passepartout knew for a fact the writer spent much of his days sleeping--and dreaming. Passepartout could always hear the young man's cries in his nightmares from the lab or the kitchens or anywhere else on the ship. It hurt him to know Verne still couldn't trust his master.
"Sitting up, Master Jules?" Passepartout asked expectantly.
Verne looked up at him sourly for a moment before lifting himself with his arms. They shook with the effort, but he managed it. Passepartout hurriedly fluffed up the pillows behind the writer so he could prop himself up with them. The student sagged back into them, a look of such severe depression on his face that Passepartout's worry increased.
But he managed a bright smile for the other man as he settled the tray in Verne's lap and poured him a cup of strong, sweet tea. Jules sipped from it--and then gave Passepartout a hesitant, tiny smile.
Passepartout grinned back delightedly. It was the first smile he'd received from the other Frenchman in days. "Feeling better?" he asked hopefully.
"A little, I think," Verne replied, setting the cup down. "I--I can't go on like this, I realized."
Passepartout cocked his head to one side in confusion. He didn't want to lose this rare moment of trust and apparent openness from the young man; he would have to tread carefully. "Liking what?" he asked.
Verne had a set, determined look on his face. For some reason it sent a shiver down Passepartout's spine. "I can't--let--this--get to me."
Passepartout held Jules's gaze seriously for a long moment, searching the young man's eyes. "Fighting is good," he said in a voice almost entirely different from his usual one. "Fighting for being healthy-ness. But no need fighting Master Fogg."
Verne flinched at the name, then slammed his fist on the bed. The tray shook in his lap and Passepartout automatically steadied it with a hand without looking, his attention still focused on Verne's paled face.
"Dammit," the young Frenchman swore. "Damn you. Damn all of you!"
"You are being better," Passepartout told him calmly. "You are being stronger. Now is time you were thinking and realizing Master Fogg is your friend, not your enemy."
"Tell him that!" Jules exclaimed furiously, staring at Passepartout with glassy hazel eyes. He wore a nightshirt belonging to Fogg, too large on his smaller frame, too fine for what the poor student was used to. "He is the one who held a sword to my neck and pointed a gun at my head. And so did you," Jules viciously hissed at the valet.
"He is the one who is saving your life," Passepartout corrected, refilling Verne's cup and suppressing his immediate guilty reaction and wish to apologize. Apologizing wouldn't solve anything, even if Master Jules more than deserved it. Apologies could wait; Jules needed help, reassurance, now. "He is the one who offering you his home--his own room!--while you be getting better."
Jules leant his head back and closed his eyes in frustration. "None of you make sense!" he growled and opened his eyes to meet the valet's gaze again. "How can I trust you? How can you expect me to trust any of you after what happened, Passepartout?"
The valet held out the steaming cup of tea to the young man. "You will see, Master Jules," he said with a certainty and confidence that would have seemed ludicrous in anyone else. "You will see."
Verne stared at the other Frenchman for a long moment, as if looking for the answers in Passepartout's face. The valet held his gaze easily, trustingly. At last Verne relaxed and took the cup, sipping from it.
"Thank you," he said.
Passepartout couldn't stop the grin that split his face in half. The words were even better than the smile had been. They weren't the forced polite words of a well brought up young man; they were sincerely offered. He took the cup and tray out of the room without saying another word.
***
Hopeful after Passepartout's apparent success, and after Verne appeared to be getting stronger at last, taking a painfully slow stroll around the top floor of the Aurora once a day with Passepartout--Rebecca paid the writer another visit. She'd been staying away for the most part, only visiting his room in the middle of the night when she was certain he'd be asleep, and gently persuading her cousin to do the same. She was getting more and more worried about Phileas. He'd taken to drinking copious amounts of alcohol yet again. Verne was still having nightmares, impeding him from progressing as far as he could, she was sure. She had to figure out a way to help them all--no one was useful this way, and there were always things that needed to be done.
She slipped into the room and clicked the door softly shut behind her before turning around, leaning against the door and facing Verne. "Hello Jules," she said quietly.
He'd been reading; Passepartout had given him some books from Phileas's library, as well as somehow obtaining Verne's own law books to catch up on his studying. Now his eyes moved up to stare at Rebecca, the rest of his body frozen, his head still turned down toward the book in his lap.
She suddenly felt nervous, doubting herself and the wisdom of this idea. Very few people could unnerve her so, and certainly no one so early in her acquaintance. But there was something from this young man that demanded complete honesty, that he be given explanations, answers. He demanded goodness out of you. She didn't understand how Phileas could ever have thought this young man anything but an innocent.
He shut the book with a loud, definitive clap. "Miss Fogg," he said.
The tension was broken. She quickly regained her control and glided across the room, giving him a small smile. "Rebecca," she reminded him gently.
He followed her movements with wary eyes, shifting away slightly when she sat down on the edge of the bed. She sat there calmly, making no other move toward him. "You're looking much better now," she told him warmly, honestly. The bruise was gone at last from beneath his eye, his skin was regaining its usual color, he was more alert and energetic.
He hesitated, then nodded silently, setting the book aside and firmly folding his hands in his lap. "May I do something for you?" he asked without looking up from the study of his hands.
She searched his face, her eyes roving over his own, his nose and thinly drawn lips and forehead and dark hair. "I was hoping simply to talk to you, Jules," she said.
"About
what?"
"Anything," she
replied simply, hopefully.
His eyes shot up to meet hers for an instant before refocusing downward. "I don't really feel like talking, Miss Fogg," he told her quite politely.
"Don't you?" she replied lightly. "You've hardly had anyone to converse with the past few weeks; surely you would like to talk with someone."
"I'm fine," he said shortly.
She blinked once. "No," she replied, "you're not. I thought you should know I was not in fact spying on you; you just happened to become involved in that mission--which I grant, did in a way lead to the Mole problem, but no matter what, you would undoubtedly have gotten involved there." She paused, biting her lip unconsciously as she thought how to go about her next words. Simplicity seemed best. "What Phileas did to you was wrong. What Passepartout did was wrong, but he was following his master's orders. They have since made up for it, I feel, in a variety of ways." She didn't know what she could say to get through to him--she didn't seem to be having any effect now--but she knew she must. "Phileas isn't the evil one, Jules! He saved you!"
"After beating me, tying me up, and holding various weapons to my head," Jules replied with a quiet intensity that made his voice vibrate. "After which, I was forced into the Mole and was there tortured."
"Yes," Rebecca replied just as tensely. "And he feels wretched for it. Haven't you learned to give people second chances, Jules? Can't you learn?"
Jules looked up at her, holding her gaze with hazel eyes that she suddenly noticed were the most beautiful, idealistic, trusting eyes she'd ever seen. "How do I know it won't happen again? The instant it appears I've done something wrong or suspicious or-or-or whatever! How do I know it won't happen again?"
"Because he knows you now," Rebecca replied quietly. "He trusts you. Have you any idea how hard it is to earn his trust? He trusted you with the queen's life--have you any idea what that means? With your own emperor's! He and Passepartout took time away from making more of those devices that would warn the Mole was coming to make the other device that you invented so that they could save you. Does that mean nothing?"
His gaze had shifted inward, becoming unfocused as she spoke. She waited in silence, her heart beating in hope. At least he was considering her words--it was an improvement. Perhaps he could learn to forgive them.
"I-I need to think," he said at last. "About what you said, Rebecca. I...need to think. Do you mind?"
She bit her lip, keeping ruthless control over her emotions. "Of course," she said gently, rising from the bed. "Take your time, Jules. I will see you later?" She lifted her voice at the end of the sentence, making it a question rather than a statement. She didn't want to push her luck.
He offered her a tiny smile. He had a beautiful smile. "I think I'd like that," he said.
She smiled back. "I'm glad," she told him frankly before slipping the door closed behind her. She leant against it a moment, feeling an insane urge to sob. She never cried. But she'd gotten through to him. She'd gotten through to him.
Rebecca almost skipped down the hall to her own room.
***
Rebecca had told Phileas of her conversation with Jules, and he noticed over the next few days that she spent more and more time with the writer, breaking his barriers down, earning his trust. It wasn't hard for her to do--she was trained in that sort of thing, and Verne was most definitely inexperienced. But even so, Fogg knew her charms and conversations were freely offered to the young man, with no more ulterior motive than to make him her friend. And he knew Verne was fast becoming yet another one of her ardent admirers. He only hoped the student was wise enough to realize she wouldn't need his protection, were he to try to give it to her.
The writer was making a rapid recovery now, exploring more of the Aurora until he came to know it almost as well as Passepartout, Phileas was half-alarmed to consider. Of course, it only made things more awkward--once, Phileas had walked into the lab, expecting to find Passepartout and instead interrupting Verne in the middle of some experiment.
"Oh-oh," the young man stuttered out, almost knocking the table with its contraption of levers and glass bottles over in his haste to back away from the Englishman. "Uh, hello...Fogg."
"Hello, Verne." Fogg remained frozen in the doorway, watching the Frenchman. Verne was tightly clenching a hand around a glass tube, his eyes staring down at it. Fogg got the distinct impression the student wasn't actually seeing it. He hesitated a scant second, searching desperately for something to say, before going on as lightly and unconcernedly as if he weren't feeling as awkward as Jules. "I was looking for Passepartout. Have you seen him?"
"Uh...he just went downstairs. To the kitchen, I think. Yes, the kitchen." Now Verne's eyes were flitting around the room, not daring to meet Fogg's.
"Ah," Fogg said. "Very good. Thank you, Verne."
"You're welcome."
Fogg was too smooth to allow a long, oppressive pause. He swung around immediately and left without looking back at the writer. After that, he was always extremely careful to find out where Verne was on the ship before he went anywhere.
It made things very difficult sometimes. And he couldn't always manage to avoid running into Verne, though after that incident he made it a point never to allow Verne to see him, so as not to startle and embarrass the boy again. One time he almost walked into the middle of some intense conversation between Verne and Rebecca, huddled together on the settee in the main room of the airship. He hung back in the shadows, watching them--Jules's face was thin, animated, as he explained some invention or described some fancy to Fogg's cousin, using extravagant gestures and thoroughly lost in his narrative. Rebecca's eyes were alight, a smile playing about her lips as she listened and watched the young Frenchman. It made Fogg jealous--jealous of the already close relationship between his cousin and the writer...and jealous that his cousin could have that connection to the writer when he couldn't even be in the same room as the young man without terrifying him.
He'd quickly turned around and left that time.
Occasionally he would stealthily enter the lab in the middle of the night while Verne slept--he'd insisted on vacating Fogg's room, stating that it was unfair to use it when he was feeling so much better, even though Fogg still wasn't in any particular mood to sleep himself--and watch over the student for a few moments, make sure he was comfortably settled and sleeping peacefully. They hardly ever heard cries from him in his dreams anymore. Fogg knew that when it did happen Rebecca was always there to lull the boy to peacefulness with the soft warmth of her voice. He didn't think she knew about his watching over Verne sometimes at night. It wasn't something he would admit to to anyone.
Things were improving. And yet still Fogg hesitated about speaking to Verne. He wasn't sure if it was for his own sake or Jules's.
***
Rebecca started visiting Jules daily, talking with him, soothing him through the occasional nightmare that still overtook his sleep, strolling with him around the Aurora when Passepartout was busy doing other things. Though Passepartout was almost always near at hand, ready with some antic or language mangling to make the other Frenchman smile. But the student always took the valet seriously. It helped that Passepartout was in such admiration of Verne's agile mind.
Even Phileas was a little hopeful. He still avoided the young writer, Rebecca noted, but he was drinking less. She gave up on holding her smugly superior satisfaction at bay, even if it made Phil more insufferable than usual in self-defense.
However, Chatsworth had a job for her. The Duke Rimini had aroused the Service's suspicions long ago, but he was particularly suspect at the moment, especially after the violent death of Lord Pontefract and the loss of his rocket formula. Rebecca was somehow to gain the duke's acquaintance, earn his trust, find out his plans and, of course, stop him.
At the mention of the count's love of the theatre, Rebecca instantly thought of Jules Verne, still with them in the Aurora though he was almost fully recovered and probably should have been back at the Sorbonne (on the one hand; on the other, Rebecca was unwilling to leave the student alone and defenseless in the middle of such a large city). It was perfect--gain the writer a little recognition by getting one of his plays staged, and make him realize even more they really were on his side, all while accomplishing her mission. Chatsworth already vaguely knew of Verne and his role in the Mole business; he didn't quite understand why the Foggs were taking such an interest in this youthful bohemian Frenchman, but so long as it didn't hinder--perhaps even help--Rebecca's work, he didn't really care.
She brought the idea to Jules immediately after her meeting with the Service's leader. He was surprisingly reluctant.
"I don't really have anything ready for the stage at the moment," he said. "At least...nothing that would suit you." He was sitting at a little table on the lower level of the airship, the notebook he always seemed to have near him closed on the table. He seemed to be blushing.
Rebecca blinked. "Suit me? Jules, I'll play Mother Mary or something from one of your fanciful futures, I don't really care. I just need an excuse to become acquainted with Duke Rimini."
He remained staring down at the cover of his notebook, not speaking. Rebecca repressed a sigh and waited, knowing through the experience of the past few days that her own silence worked best to overcome his. At last he started hesitantly, "I-I might have something..."
"Yes?" she asked encouragingly.
"It's something I actually wrote a while back," he said, at last meeting her eyes. She smiled, as always enjoying his gaze--though she would never tell him that. He was already entirely too shy around her. "A play about--Joan of Arc. I never tried to get it staged..."
"Why not?" she couldn't resist asking in curiosity.
His eyes gazed off in the distance over her shoulder. "I never thought I could be happy with...whoever played Joan." He looked at her again, and smiled shyly. "But perhaps it will suit you."
Rebecca found herself unaccountably flattered and pleased. If she wasn't careful, this boy could make her thoroughly feminine. "That sounds wonderful," she told him softly. "Could you have it for me by tomorrow? We need to get started on this mission as soon as possible."
He nodded quickly. "Of course, Rebecca; I have it right here, I'll just need to--rewrite it a little." He stood up, the notebook in his hands. "If you'll excuse me, I think I should get started on that right away."
She looked up at him and returned his nod. "Yes, please. Someone will come for you when it's time for dinner."
He offered her a quicksilver smile. "Thank you," he said and walked away, his boots ringing on the stairs as he climbed them slowly.
"You're involving him in another mission?" a quiet voice asked over Rebecca's shoulder.
She swung around to look up at her cousin. "It's absolutely perfect, don't you think?" she asked him calmly. She hated it when he managed to sneak up on her. "I get to the duke, and Jules gets to open a play in the West End of London."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Phileas was leaning against the wall, hands shoved into his trouser pockets, looking utterly relaxed. Even his voice was light, unconcerned. Rebecca knew better. "He's barely recovered from the last 'mission' he was involved in."
Rebecca stared up at him coldly. "This will be nothing like that, and you know it. There is absolutely no possibility of his becoming harmed this time. He hardly has to be involved at all."
"Isn't he already? We know there are people after him; we know he is in some way...special. And he's grown quite attached to you and Passepartout, you know." His voice was increasing in intensity. "I don't think we can stop him being involved, Rebecca."
She held her cousin's gaze. "Then isn't it better he stay where we can watch over him, make sure no one else can try to spirit him away? Isn't this the wisest course of action?" she asked quietly and reasonably.
Something seemed to drain out of Phileas; he stood up straight but actually had a more relaxed air. He adjusted his cuffs and the line of his frockcoat. Rebecca watched the nervous mannerisms with a slight smile. "I shall have to speak with him," he stated. Only someone who knew him as well as she did could detect the hint of hesitation and uncertainty in his voice.
The smile still on her face became sympathetic, if firm. "Yes," she replied in gentle agreement, feeling rather sorry for him, "you shall."
He nodded once, then turned on his heel and strode away. Rebecca sighed deeply. Things were certainly going to get interesting. Again.
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