Rampant: I LOVE YOU! Your review was so nice and long, and I do appreciate the suggestions you gave to me. I had wanted to put another girl into the story, which was why I first mentioned Clarice's maid, Chlöe, but then I put it off because I didn't want to develop a new character at the time. Chlöe won't have a huge part in here, but she will be featured as a main character of sorts. Thanks again for the great review, and I hope you find the new developments here to your liking!
CapturedHeart: Ah, yes, why were they in Milan indeed. Well, to put it simply – the Count had the first portrait at his castle, which led them to England, where they found another portrait. That portrait (the one of Cupid and Psyche, mentioned early on in Chapter 10) had clues in it that pointed to Milan. I hope that cleared up why they went to Milan…I thought I had explained that in the chapter, but perhaps not… @_@
NoInferio: Thank you for commenting on the conversations – it's great to have things like that pointed out, especially since I get so caught up in my writing at times that I tend to not notice whether or not I'm making sense…
And to everyone else: You all are so great, and I only hope that my writing will give you as much pleasure as all of your reviews have given to me. Enjoy! @{--------------
Disclaimer: I don't think I need one, and I'm sick of writing them for this. If you really like them, go back and read one of the twelve or so others that I've done for this story so far. If you don't like them or just don't really even care, simply read on. ^_~
Chapter Twelve - Beauty in PainAfter that day at the inn, there was a cloud over Clarice's bright, cheerful person, and no one could make her smile in the days that followed it. But, truth to be told, she really had no reason to be happy, for events in her life seemed to have taken yet another bleak turn. Her uncle – her sole guardian – was now dead, leaving her and her widowed aunt alone in a world where women were seen as only so much chattel.
Soon, she would have nowhere to go, and no one to turn to.
Her friends all tried their best to cheer her up, telling her that she wasn't alone, that there was still hope, all was not yet lost. But what could such words mean to her, when the awful certainty of reality and the coming future still remained?
Her uncle had betrayed her into the clutches of men who would have surely done her – and those she knew, her dearest friends – some very dire harm. He had betrayed her, and then he had been killed.
She now found herself suddenly plunged into a sea of courtly deception, plotting, and cruelty. There was a scheme afoot at court, which seemed to emanate from one of its most illustrious members – and she was now mired in it.
How and why this was, she had no idea. She was simply one of the nameless faces in a crowd: an orphan, and a young girl orphan at that. Why would her involvement with the Count d'Auberie's mystery concern her in any way…unless someone else was racing against that very nobleman, in order to unravel the puzzle before he did? There was a fabulous jewel at stake…which made her realize just what her uncle had turned against her for.
Money.
For the sake of further enriching himself, Felix Boisvert had abandoned his wife and turned against his niece. Perhaps he had been threatened; she didn't know. Perhaps she would never find out.
* * *
"I have it on almost certain terms that your letter will reach your aunt in a week…won't you be happy to hear from her again? And after all this time that you've been away! We'll have so much fun once she comes to court! I'm sure that she will find it most to her liking – we'll do all we can to make sure that she's comfortable now…"
It was a warm July night at Sforzesco Castle, and yet another summer festival was being held: a masque ball of truly epic proportions.
Nobility from all over Europe flocked to Milan and people of all ages, stations, and appearances were to be seen milling about in a colourful cloud in the gardens surrounding the castle. Bright, ornate decorations had been put up all about and slender, elongated gondola boats had been set into the canals in the city, with costumed keepers to pole them along the silky, dark waters after nightfall.
There was sounds of music and revelry all about, singing and laughing and dancing, mingling with the natural melodies of the night: the crickets and the soft sighing of the wind through the grass and trees.
Inside the castle, all was decorated as well, but there weren't very many people there; they had all gone outside to enjoy the lovely summer weather. However, in one of the rooms of the Count d'Auberie's suite, two young women hovered at the windows, not having joined in on the festivities yet.
One was a pleasant-looking girl of about eighteen years of age, with warm honey-coloured hair and merry gray-blue eyes, and an attractive, oval face. She was not dressed for masquerade – this was the handmaid Chlöe.
Her companion, Clarice, was accordingly costumed for the ball, arrayed as a tremendously lovely and graceful white swan. When Clarice made no reply to her words, Chlöe became concerned for her friend and sat down next to her on the window seat, the merriment leaving her face and letting it become serious.
"Clarice…" she said, softly. "What saddens you now?"
The other girl did not look at her; instead, she turned her head even further away and continued to stare motionlessly out the window. She had an air of mourning about her, and the paleness of her costume did nothing to alleviate this. Black was, perhaps, the colour of mourning in some places, but grief was shown by the display of white in others.
"Cherie…"
Then Chlöe was silent for a moment. Finally, she said, gently, "I know that nothing can ease your grief now, Clarice, but…but you must know that we would share your sadness in this time…it's true for me, for the Count, the Duke Fabrizio…all of us – seeing you so sad makes us all want to relieve you of it, even though we know we can't. So now all we can ask is…let us share your sadness with you: us, your friends."
Upon hearing this, Clarice finally turned to look at Chlöe: the first girl whom she had ever come to know closely, as what might be called a best friend. The moonlight glanced upon the depths of her wide, emerald green eyes and revealed the brightness of tears in them.
Chlöe looked upon her with immense compassion in her wide, understanding eyes. She had led a fairly normal life – she had a mother, a father, a large family of brothers and sisters, all younger than her – and the only unusual thing about her existence thus far was that she was employed in the Count d'Auberie's household. She had never known a life like that of Clarice Boisvert, but so deep was her devotion and affection for her friend and mistress that she felt hurt by the other girl's pain, and wanted to help her regain her happiness at whatever the cost.
"Oh, Chlöe…" Clarice whispered, her voice breaking over that single word. "I am alone – I have nowhere to turn now. I cannot expect for anyone to take the burden of caring for me and my aunt upon themselves…the fact that the Count d'Auberie had the kindness to bury my uncle, here in Italy, and help me to get a letter to my aunt, is more than anyone should have to do for me. After I am done with my time at his house, I will leave – and I know not where I should go then!"
And she covered her face with her hands and bowing her head, her shoulders flagging. No one but a personage with the hardest of hearts could resist reaching out towards the object of such abject, woeful pathos, and sweet-tempered Chlöe had anything but a cold and emotionless soul. With a soothing, compulsory noise, she leaned forward and put her arms around her friend.
"Shh," she soothed, stroking Clarice's silky, ebony-black hair with the confident ease of one who has quieted and comforted many a young sibling over many a year. Clarice sat up straight, the initial torrent of tears ceasing, and then Chlöe spoke, looking into her eyes deeply and knowingly, smiling softly.
"Where has the little optimist that I knew gone? What has happened to the indomitable, irrepressible free spirit that was Clarice Boisvert? Listen to me now, my girl – this too will pass. In time, it will go…and you will find your way again."
Then she got to her feet and brushed her skirts back into order, extending her hand to her friend, and said, "Come – I hear that they will be setting off the fireworks at midnight. A certain young Italian nobleman was asking me earlier this evening if you would find it to your liking to go to the pavilion with him and watch them be set ablaze."
This too will pass…
In time, it will go…
You will find your way again.
Chlöe's words, set echoing into her mind, worked a curious effect on her outlook towards life at that moment. Clarice suddenly glimpsed a faint, but insistent and reassuring light at the distant end of the dark tunnel that had been her life. Her friend was right. This too will pass.
So she smiled, through her tears, and took the older girl's hand, letting Chlöe pull her to her feet and then shoo her across the room to the door, out into the hallway, and down to the ball. And before Fabrizio came to her side and claimed her for the rest of the evening, Clarice gave her handmaid – the best friend whom she had thought she could never have in her solitary, introverted life – a quick squeeze.
"Thank you," she whispered.
* * *
In the shadows underneath the fireworks pavilion, no one was about but for the two young courtiers, the Duke Fabrizio and Lady Clarice.
Or so it seemed.
A shadow moved; something breathed, watching them.
The two took no notice of it, being too involved in their current conversation as they made their way through the crates of elaborate rockets and other explosive wonders, laughing and talking. The shadow paused, waiting for them to pass by.
Then it moved again.
Still, the two did not see it.
* * *
Inside of Sforzesco Castle, the Count d'Auberie excused himself from the group of conversing people that he had been a part of and stepped over to a nearby window. He looked out over the grounds of the place, his yellow eyes searching and concerned behind the mask that he wore.
Just then, Clarice's handmaid and friend, Chlöe, materialized out of the crowd, seeming to have just returned from a sojourn outdoors in the gardens and looking rather pleased with herself. The Count beckoned to her shortly and she came to join him at the window, curtseying respectfully to her long-time employer.
"Bonsoir, milord," she greeted, and he distractedly gave her a brief smile and return greeting, still concentrating on the scenery outside.
A tiny frown crossing her features, the Countess came to stand beside him and looked out as well, then asked, "What's toward, Monseigneur le Comte?"
The Count finally managed to wrest his eyes from the gardens below, replying pensively, with a note of worry in his tone, "I haven't seen Mlle. Boisvert all this evening, Chlöe. You wouldn't know where she was, by any chance?"
Chlöe nodded quickly, confidently.
"Yes, I do actually, milord," she replied. "She and the Duke Fabrizio went off a little while ago to watch the firework show from underneath the pavilion where they are to be set off, and they were last seen in the gardens together, walking in that direction. Why do you look so concerned?"
The Count shook his head then and put on an air to lightly dismiss the matter – although beneath that seemingly nonchalant mien, he still felt himself twisting with worry and even the beginnings of a sickening dread.
"Concerned? No, I'm all right. I was just curious about where she might be at this hour – it's rather late and…well, it's probably best that she is with Fabrizio, if she's out at all right now. Thank you, Chlöe."
He inclined his head in thanks to the girl, his thoughts and emotions completely hidden behind his masquerade disguise. With another curtsey, Chlöe then excused herself and left him – and the Count turned immediately back to the window once more. This time, his gaze was even more concentrated, even more worried and intense.
Where is she?
On the whim of a moment, he suddenly put one hand out and unlatched the window, pushing it swiftly open. The warm summer night breeze flowed in to greet him, making his skin flush with its humidity. Across the wide lawns of the castle, down by the silky dark waters of the man-made lake, a smooth white tent had been set up: underneath it was stored the fireworks, which were to be set off that night. This drew his attention oddly – he could almost picture himself, out there, among everyone else, watching the sparkling explosions fill the black velvet sky with their light, shimmering…
Watching it out there, with Clarice and their friends, and not standing here: inside, haunting the palace like some sort of wraith and avoiding all human company near the hour of midnight when the unmasking would take place.
He began to turn away from the window.
Then the voices started coming.
Distant, they were, at first – and then louder, ever closer, closer…
"Fire! Fire!"
What?
Hearing this, the Count whirled around, back to the window. What he saw next was completely unnerving: people were running away from the general area of the fireworks pavilion, the men shouting and gesticulating wildly, arms flying in the air and voices raised, as the women shrieked and total pandemonium began to break out.
The Count felt a horrible, prickling feeling run up the back of his neck then, making his hair feel as if it was standing on end. His entire frame felt stiff and frozen, yet feverish and trembling all at the same time, increasingly engulfed by the memory of a sensation from long ago…
Flames licking across his skin, devouring all that was in their path…
"Fire! Fire in the pavilion!"
He felt himself come alive again in one awful instant, forgetting the past, and his eyes shot directly to the huge white tent – underneath which there could be seen a strange, horrifying, flickering orange glow…
Clarice!
She was there, with Fabrizio, and there was a fire.
And so, as the swarms of frightened guests made a mad rush away from the enflamed pavilion, in which was kept the explosive potential to level an entire building, the night sky saw one costumed figure – a red and gold Firebird – dashing towards the source of the flames. Along the garden paths he raced, tearing down any given number of stairs, dodging around fleeing courtiers, intent on one purpose—
He had to get to Clarice.
Each second that passed him by seemed as if it was a lifetime. In the next instant, the fire could hit the rockets, and nothing could be done then – he would be too late. He kept running, desperate to reach the girl and her companion before disaster struck. He had to save them! He must!
The white canvas had already caught fire by the time that he had reached the place. Horrible, greedy flames roared high up into the sky, seeming as if they desired to devour the entire world and everything within it. He stared up at it, feeling that same paralyzing sense of dread – of memory – overcome him, freezing him in his footsteps. Fire…fire…FIRE!
I can't do it! his mind dragged out. The memories were too awful; the nightmares too powerful, the pain too real. He couldn't move. Someone else…
NO! There was no one else! No one else knew or cared that a young girl and her companion were trapped underneath the burning wreckage. If he couldn't save them, no one could! Memories didn't matter. Nightmares didn't matter. Pain didn't matter.
Clarice mattered.
And so, with a burst of frenzied, superhuman energy, he threw himself forward and into the tent, shielding his face and head from the flames with one arm. When he was inside, he took that arm away and looked around himself, his eyes beginning to tear up at the onslaught of the stinging heat and smoke. It was as if he had just stepped into Hades itself. A living hell where an innocent young child and a harmless young man who had never wronged anyone or anything were trapped.
"Clarice!"
* * *
Was this it? Was this how they were going to die?
Fabrizio had fallen to his knees, choking on the thick smoke, and Clarice now tore a wad of fabric from her skirt, handing it to him so that he could put it over his mouth and nose as she did the same.
Then she peered through the flames about them, trying to see a way out.
But she could find no such thing – there were too many obstacles in the way: too many crates and other objects. Trying to weave their way around those things would take too long. Even if they did try to find a way out, the fire would undoubtedly reach the fireworks before they were safe and cause the place to explode, or the tent would collapse, burying them.
Then—
"Clarice!"
She almost thought, for one delirious moment, that the voice whom she had heard calling her name was that of an angel calling her to Heaven – but then, she came back to her senses, to reality, and realized who it really was!
"ERIK!" she screamed, wildly.
Oh, if he could only find them – he could get them out! Surely he could!
"Clarice! Where are you?" came his voice again.
But the smoke had reached her lungs. She felt it stinging in her chest; her eyes were already blurred with tears, her head was swimming with the acrid stench…she dropped to her knees beside Fabrizio, the two of them falling against one another as their strength began to gave out. She summoned her willpower for one last call…
"Erik!"
* * *
The fire had almost reached the explosives. He had seconds to go before his rescue attempt was made null and void. Seconds to go before they were all beyond any sort of help, bar that of an undertaker.
He ran.
Suddenly, there was Clarice, and Fabrizio – both were on the ground, almost unconscious. The Count dashed over to them and shook the boy roughly, having no time for gentleness, shouting into his ear, "Get up! Get up, or you'll die, and so will she! Do you understand me? Get up!" And Fabrizio stirred. The Count hauled him to his feet, flinging one arm around Clarice's nearly unresponsive body at that same moment, lifting her off of the ground in one swift movement while keeping Fabrizio standing as well.
Then they ran.
You've got to get out. Move, move, MOVE! went through his head, repeating itself like some demented mantra.
The doorway of the tent: the night sky beyond it a black square amidst the devouring flames, loomed before him, seeming to drift a mile away for every step he took towards it. The beams holding the tent up began to creak and moan ominously. It would drop at any given second. Already, debris was beginning to drop everywhere. A huge wooden plank fell free of its ropes and crashed down in front of him, and Fabrizio – still only partly conscious – started, falling down. The Count stooped to haul him back to his feet, and just as he had almost moved on again, the plank fell the rest of the way to the ground – pinning his arm to the floor!
You can't take me like this!
Gritting his teeth, he tensed his body and jerked on that arm, pulling himself free. His arm came out from under the plank with the sound of ripping cloth, and he was instantly assailed by a wealth of the roaring pain of torn flesh and wrenched muscles. He glanced at the arm briefly, seeing it through a haze of dulling consciousness. He'd probably broken a few bones as well.
He ran on again, and finally, they reached the exit of the tent. But he didn't stop there – from behind him, he could hear the high-pitched whining sound of fireworks that were about to combust. They weren't safe yet.
Halfway up the hill that led away from the fireworks pavilion and the lake, he stopped and threw himself to the ground, taking Fabrizio and Clarice with him. Shielding them all as best as he could, he closed his eyes and—
With a ground-shaking explosion, the fireworks pavilion went up in a bright orange-yellow inferno, a cloud of thick black smoke issuing up from it far into the night sky. The Count watched it, sweat falling from his forehead and hair into his eyes and stinging them horribly, as he gasped for breath and trembled.
"I did it."
* * *
As soon as the last flames from the fireworks pavilion had been put out, the ball was called to an abrupt end and all the guests returned to their respective dwellings, all severely shaken by what had to have been surely the most harrowing event in the many long years of the Sforzesco rule in Milan. And if not the most harrowing, certainly the most explosive, it was said not long afterwards.
Clarice awoke in her own room, her ruined ball gown and jewelry removed and her hair brushed, and was instantly assailed by panic, remembering what had happened. She threw the covers off of herself and set her feet on the floor, then ran across the room to the door and darted out into the room beyond. There, she found Chlöe and several other people whom she did not know at all, and Fabrizio. Her best friend approached her quickly once she had seen her, hands held out in a placating gesture.
"Please, Claire, you must go back to bed – you may not be well, and—"
"Where is the Count?"
Clarice stood where she was, determination causing her pale skin to seem all the more white, and her dark eyes and lips to become all the more pronounced. Chlöe bit her lip and looked uncomfortable, and then Fabrizio came to join them. He looked incredibly ill at ease as well: his normally happy face drawn and pale, his eyes dark.
"Claire, the fire…he—"
She didn't wait to hear any more. Across the room she flew, thrusting her way through the flurrying people before the doors to the next chamber – the Count's own bedroom – and she had her hand on the doorknob before Fabrizio caught up to her.
"Wait! Please, Claire!"
Abruptly she turned on him, the cold, hard, rigidity of stubbornness leaving her features as a pathetic, helpless, and very much frightened look of a young girl who was all alone in the world took its place.
"Fabrizio," she said, her voice shaking, "Please. He's all I have left…I…"
The young man looked deeply into her eyes for a moment then, and saw the truth within them: the truth that answered all of his questions. And, with a soft smile of acceptance and surrender, he nodded.
And let her pass.
* * *
The people who were at the doors were a mix of both the servants of the Count and those of the Sforzesco family; some were also a small number of doctors and their assistants. Clarice had long since learned the Count's opinion of most of the physicians of that day and age: quacks, he called them, men not worthy of the exalted title of doctor, who would rather bleed their patient to death for the sake of 'traditional methods' than give him the proper treatment, which was new in method and therefore hailed as witchcraft or worse. Therefore, she wasn't totally surprised at the scene that met her eyes when she entered the nobleman's chamber.
A number of black-garbed doctors and others stood about the gigantic four-posted bed, all talking and arguing among themselves. Clarice suddenly heard the cold, clear voice of her friend and employer ring loudly above all the others.
"Enough! Get out, all of you!"
She ran across the room, pushed the men there aside and flung herself onto the edge of the bed beside the Count. So sudden and unexpected was her appearance that he was momentarily stunned into silence, and then he asked, incredulously, "Clarice?"
"Oh Erik!" she sobbed.
And now she saw that he had been grievously injured in rescuing her and Fabrizio from the fire: his left arm hung limp and useless at his side, its skin torn and bleeding with the wrist turned to an odd angle. He had hazarded death for her – he had been wounded for her. She couldn't imagine what treatments the doctors had put forth for him: what awful remedies they had proposed. Then someone laid a hold of her arm and made to pull her away from the bedside, as protests at her presence was made. At this, the Count's eyes blazed a truly frightening yellow in his wrath and he snapped, forcefully, "Let her go – she stays!"
His unhurt arm came out and snaked its way around her waist, drawing her close to his side and sheltering her with its embrace. He was shaking: trembling from head to foot, and fighting for breath, clearly wracked with pain. She could see that his hair was slick with sweat, as was his skin: the simple white silk shirt that he wore was plastered to his chest with it. Clarice closed her eyes, trying to calm the dizzying whirl of her mind as she held her head against his firm, hard chest, hearing the continued protest of the doctors, "But Signor! The girl cannot stay – you must be treated! If the arm is not—"
"I said she stays." the Count said again: his voice ragged and deadly, daring any of them to defy his will. The gabble of voices ceased for a moment, and then, "Signor, the mask – it must come off – you cannot breathe…"
The Count twisted with another spasm of pain, his features contorting beneath the black porcelain mask, and out of that oblivion came his growling words, "No! If you must destroy everything else, at least leave me some few shreds of my dignity!"
A long silence followed, in which the only sound was that of the Count d'Auberie's belabored breathing. Finally, "Very well, Signor."
Someone reached across the bed; a shadow fell over Clarice. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, into the yellow eyes of her friend: her first and dearest friend. He had to know now…she would not leave him. And, as the doctors prepared to put the broken bones in his arm back in place – an agonizing procedure that many feared – the Count let Clarice put her arms around him, resting her forehead against his: both of them closing their eyes in resignation to the moment.
"You're all I have left now," she whispered…
A pause.
"Don't ever let me think that I might lose you."
Someone jerked on his arm, he inhaled abruptly: his breath a hiss, and Clarice tightened her hold on him, squeezing her eyes shut, as a single hot, crystalline tear fell out of her eye and splashed onto his neck, coming to rest in the hollow of his throat like a perfect diamond.
There is beauty in pain.
* * *
A/N: I know – this is probably a bit garbled and confusing…I may go back and edit it later, but I'm just going to post it for now and hope that it goes over all right. Now that I've got the whole Fabrizio/Clarice thing kind of squared away, it leaves the story open for some new *developments*. And with that I leave you…for now…
