A/N:  The chapter title should tell you just about all that you could want to know about the events within.  Oh, and please r&r lots to tell me what you think.  The first person to give me my 100th review on this story wins a prize…(and let me assure you, it will be *good*!)

Chapter Sixteen –

Bliss

Slowly, late summer waned: the sweltering hot, humid air gradually cooled and a fresh new breeze that brought with it swirls of crisp dried leaves and whispers of the coming season came down out of the mountains, and off of the distant sea.  Autumn approached with the graceful, serene air of a queen moving in the refined steps of a courtly pavane. 

Change was in the air…

This was reflected in life at the Boisvert manor.  Clarice and her aunt were able to, with the assistance of their noble guest and servant friends, bring the Petit Rêvasse back into full subsistence once again, and business flourished there.  Jacqueline relished the knowledge that she and her niece now finally, truly owned the shop, and immersed herself quite happily into running it and managing all affairs related to its existence.  Clarice procured several more lovely pictures – drawings, paintings, and sketches – and proudly placed them up for sale, and they were sold faster than love charms in the spring.

But, in truth, she found that her heart had left the simple joy of living at the outskirts of Rouen and running the shop with her aunt.  No, now she found herself longing – with a deep and irresistible urge – to be elsewhere, out in the great wide world, living the much different life that she had come to so deeply cherish as her own…

*                       *                       *

September 9th dawned on the scenery of Rouen: cool and breezy, with a thick layer of clouds, in varying shades of gray, blanketing the blueness of the sky.  Out in the courtyard of the Boisvert manor, three carriages could be seen awaiting their passengers, and all were loaded down with luggage and other items.  A large party, it was evident, would soon be departing.

Reluctant good-byes were said, as tears were stridently kept in check, and the footmen and drivers took their places, assisting the ladies inside their modes of transport and then climbing up to their respective positions.  The tall, dark figure of the nobleman in the group – the Count d'Auberie – was the last to step into the third carriage in the line, and as soon as he had taken his seat, the door closing behind him, he removed the hood of his cloak and looked across the space to his companion. 

She was sitting on the side of the seat that was nearest to the house, resting her chin on one curled-up hand, the elbow of which was propped up against the ledge of the window: her large, emerald green eyes were distant and soft, and she seemed to be in deep thought, or memory.  He looked at her silently for a moment, his own eyes warm and tender, before he spoke, gently.

"Will you be all right – now that you've said goodbye?"

And Clarice stirred from her reverie, returning from whatever realm of thought that she had been in to the grip of reality, and inhaled suddenly, sitting up straight.  Her eyes flicked from the view out the window to look at him, and her full, red lips curved sweetly into a small smile.

"Goodbye doesn't always have to be forever…" she said. "So…yes.  I will be all right.  Thank you for having the kindness to ask."

He leaned forward: only ever so slightly, gazing deeply into her young face, his eyes unreadable from behind the mask that he wore.

"It isn't a kindness," he told her, tenderly. "It is a natural impulse."

They looked at each other with blank expressions for a moment longer then, and suddenly both of their faces split into bright grins, and they sat back against the walls of the carriage, laughing until they had no breath to continue.  Only then did Erik gaze at her again, shaking his head as his eyes continued to sparkle with mirth.  Putting on a truly deadpan look, he commented in mock graveness to her, "You know, your aunt nearly had me sell her my soul in order to let you come along."

Her face reflected an inner impishness, as did her mischievous reply of, "Mine as well." 

With the same complete solemnity of voice and manner, he revealed, "She had me swear that I would see to it, for certain, that you were in bed by eight thirty every night."

And laughter rang out in the carriage once again, as its driver picked up the reins and lightly tapped them against the backs of the steeds that drew it, making the carriage lurch forward on the gravel courtyard and then slowly rumble out of it, towards the road, and their next destination: Paris.

The trip took them several days, but not nearly as long as the journey from Roses, Spain, back to Rouen.  Of course, if their course had been simply to the Count's castle, it would have been a much shorter time abroad in France, but they had had business to attend to in Rouen, and therefore, there lay their way.  Now they would go to Paris, where yet another grand festival was to be held in celebration of the oncoming autumn season, at the very palace of the King himself.  The Count d'Auberie, as one of the King's most favored compatriots, held an irrevocable invitation to this annual fete – however, this year, the masked nobleman would attend the revelries with a partner: who would surely be hailed as the most beautiful, most exquisite lady ever to grace court ever in its glamorous history…

Clarice and Erik spent the hours in the carriage together with much enjoyment: they spoke of their travels so far together, recounting with humor the many escapades that they had had while abroad from their homes, and he told her of his many journeys throughout the lands of the world that they knew, both near and far.  They spoke of the things that they had seen, and he told her many stories that explained some of the sights they had witnessed with each other.  She asked him of what the ball that they would be attending would be like, and he told her; she told him about her life in Rouen, making him laugh lightheartedly with the adventures of her childhood and younger years, and then he spoke of the land that they were passing through, and many other things. 

And sometimes she would leave him for a short while to ride in the other carriage of the three in their party, sitting with Mme. Colbert and Chloe so that she and her best friend could chatter and giggle and gossip together as young things of their age are wont to do, whilst the long-suffering housekeeper sat on the other side of the carriage with her sewing and shook her head, sometimes in exasperation, sometimes in amusement, at their antics.  It was decided between Chloe and her young mistress that she and the Count would attend the ball wearing coordinating costumes, as it was to be – a great surprise indeed! – a masquerade. 

Erik, of course, was a bit wary of the plot that they had concocted between each other when they presented it to him: reacting as most of his gender are apt to do when faced with such a situation. 

During their hours together, the two girls discussed, debated, and slowly fabricated the plans for a most wondrous gown for Clarice to wear to the ball: she would be the Fae Queen, and the somewhat reluctant Count would be the Fae King. 

"They will make quite the pair!" Chloe announced to Mme. Colbert, who nodded to those words and continued with her sewing, inwardly thinking with pity of what the poor Count would now find himself subjected to at the hands of the highly imaginative young ladies.

Slowly, their retinue neared Paris.

On the day before they arrived at the city, Erik had taken a seat next to Clarice in the carriage and was resting his head familiarly on her shoulder, his eyes taking in her every movement as she wrote, swiftly and neatly, in her storybook with the quill pen that he had bought her on their last stop.  Distantly, his voice soft, he asked, "Read it to me?"

With a fond smile curving her ruby lips, she turned her head to gaze at him briefly, and then she replied, "I will do so, if you wish – but do not expect the words of Virgil or Homer to fall from my lips.  I am only an amateur at this."

"Ah, but an amateur who I care much more for than either M. Virgil or M. Homer!" he fired back, warmly.  Then, moving the fingers of one hand to abstractedly tangle themselves in the mass of curls that hung over her shoulder, pooling at her waist, he murmured, "I would rather hear your voice, reading the words that you have written, than anything else in the world."

She bent a faintly wry glance upon him.

"Anything?" she asked.

He smiled, slightly self-effaced, avoiding direct eye contact with her.

"Almost."

Forbearing to tease him more – verbally, at least – she sat back, putting down her quill pen, and smoothed the pages of the book, reading to him what she had written most recently.  When she had done, he looked at her, inquiringly – almost darkly.

"And so what will happen to the prince Skye and his daring, but seemingly doomed rescue attempt of the infant princess?  Will he somehow save both himself and the child from the goblins, or is all now lost for them?"

Clarice shrugged: her eyes becoming distant once more, and he knew that – as he watched her gaze move out the window of the carriage to look at the depths of the deep, tangled forest that was now passing them by – she had traveled back into the fantastic but esoteric and untouchable world of her wondrous imagination. 

"I do not know…" she murmured.  Then, coming back to reality, "Perhaps I will simply end it, short and sweet – 'And at last, reinforcements arrived through the magical portal, Elven warriors who had followed their prince in his chase after the goblins, and together, they vanquished the twisted creatures, and banished those who survived to the darkness from whence they had come.  And…they all lived happily ever after.' "

Her voice was reluctant, and almost loathing even as she said those very words: seeming as if, for once, she did not truly believe that they belonged in existence. 

Erik sat up straight again, turning slightly in his seat so that he faced her fully, and his yellow eyes bored into hers, scanning over her face with a both knowing and confused darkness within them, as if he did not know what to think of her at that moment.  Finally he said, very nearly cryptically, "I do not think that that is how you wish to end it, ma belle – in your mind and in your heart, you know that that is not the way that you want the story to come to its end."

Her voice was slightly ragged and breathless, as she leaned forward, gazing at him as if he was her only lifeline: as if he was the Prince Skye, and she the captured princess, no longer a child but a maiden who was still young in the eyes of the Elven people, but old enough to hold a wealth of knowledge and memory in the depths of her emerald eyes. 

"Tell me – what should I do?"

His eyes never moved from hers.

"You know how you desire it to end."

Clarice sat back, her gaze dropping, and looked instead at her hands as she twisted them in a tight knot in her lap, thought furrowing her smooth, fine young brow.

"I do…don't I?"

She lifted her head, eyes moving to look out the window again, the deep green depths of the dark forest beyond mirrored within them.

And then, all at once, the bands of goblins had surrounded him, all brandishing their weapons and leering cruelly at their captured prey.  One of them tore the wailing baby princess harshly, unfeeling, out of his arms, and he cried out, reaching towards her in a desperate, feeble attempt to rescue her once again from their clutches.  But the roughshod, unmerciful foot of one of the goblins – their chief leader – came down upon his arm, throwing him prone to the ground.  Through the haze of pain, defeat, and weariness, he looked up at his tormentor: anger and defiance in his eyes. 

The goblin captain sent him a chilling, relentlessly cruel and malicious look: a cold smile that would have frozen the soul of even the bravest of Elven warriors, and said, with a voice that was terribly un-goblin-like, almost human: a spiteful gleam of true hatred for Skye and all of his race in its yellow eyes, 'Take the child.  Leave me to deal with this fool.'

And Skye cried out in rage, once again, as the goblins who held the child now turned away to do that bidding.  The goblin captain raised an arm and struck him across the face, leaving him lying flat on the ground, his senses dulled and reeling from the harsh blow.  Then, the rest of the goblins who remained closed in around him.  Skye had only a moment longer to pray that, whatever they did to him, it would all be over quickly.  He could not bear to think of living any longer with the knowledge that he had failed both the Elven King and Queen in his quest to rescue their daughter…

But, it soon became apparent, this was exactly what they had in mind for him.

When she had pronounced the last syllables of the words in that story, she let her head droop and she murmured, "And even when there is so much light and good in the world, the darkness will still remain, to pain and haunt us."

"Not forever." Erik told her, his voice ardent with restrained emotion, and she melted into his arms, burying herself within their secure, protective depths.

Never forever…

*                       *                       *

It was the night of the autumn masque ball at the King's palace in Paris.

Nobility of all ages, appearances, and rank sprang out of the ether that the background of France as a whole provided, and all who had been privileged enough to attain invitations to this most prestigious of events made their way, at summons, to the city.  On this night of September 23rd, Paris was a-swarm with life, colour, and activity: thousands of people were there, all adding to the living picture of sparkling, free-for-all gaiety.  Although the actual ball itself was not to begin until eight o'clock that evening, the palace and the grounds surrounding it were already full of guests in full costume.  Liveried servants went here and there through the crowds, bearing silver and gold platters of canapés, wine, and other sorts of refreshments, as musicians played sweetly in the background.

In the set of rooms that belonged to the elusive Count d'Auberie, however, there still remained quite a few people – for it had been decreed that now, at last, was the time for Clarice, his Lordship's lady partner, to ready herself for the festivities.

A vast army of hairdressers, cosmetic artists, not under ten assistants of both groups, and various other servants – all commanded by a confident and authoritative Chloe – were there, beginning what would surely be their greatest work yet on the most beautiful subject that they had ever, and would ever, in all likeliness, have to deal with.  Clarice bemusedly let herself be passed from hand to hand: from bath to hairdresser, who piled some of her thick, ebony mane onto her head, braided and twisted and curled other parts of it, and studded it all over with gems, feathers, ribbons, and other sorts of ethereal regalia, then leaving her to the makeup artist. 

"Ah, ses caractéristiques lisses et ovales font un canevas blanc seul, attendant son tableau!*" exclaimed the man when he had seen her. "Cherie, I will cherish the memory of this night – in which I was the one privileged to only further illuminate the gorgeous beauty of your flawless features!  Irréprochable*!"

Onto the skin of her face, neck, collarbones, and bare shoulders went a dusting of a fine white powder, which sparkled and shimmered against the natural pallor of her complexion.  Her cheekbones were brushed delicately with deep, raspberry red rouge, and a gloss of garnet hue was applied to her lips, drawing attention to their perfect curves and fullness.  Her eyes were outlined with a sweep of cobalt blue kohl – so dark that it was nearly black – and a dusting of yet another white powder was placed upon her lids, sparkling like ground diamonds.  As a final touch, the makeup artist placed two tiny diamonds at the corners of both her eyes, then stood back and pronounced her, "Magnifique!"

And all had to agree – indeed, she was.

Once this had been done, the real trial began: she had to be moved from the vanity table to the middle of the room, and stood upon a dais-like platform, while the dressing assistants went to work.  Chloe, of course, stood to one side and coached them all, watching each with a stern, unrelenting eye so that not one would make a single mistake.  She was presented with silk stockings, the latest novelty among the most fashionable ladies at court, a corset to be worn over her lacy shift, and a gigantic cloud of stiff white tulle petticoats.          

Then, the costume gown of the Fae Queen was at last brought forth, borne in the arms of the maidservants who held it like a precious and holy relic.  Clarice stared at it, transfixed by its luminous beauty. 

All of silver and pale blue and white, it was: seeming as if it had just descended from the clouds of which it was made.  Jewels innumerable and ribbons and laces and other fineries abounded in it; pale sapphires and diamonds and pearls glowed in the candlelight of the room.  Reverently, as if she was a member of the clergy crowning an emperor, Chloe came forward and slipped the gown down over Clarice's head, very careful not to let it touch either the girl's makeup or hair, and then she moved behind her to fasten its laces. 

Clarice stood still while this was being done, looking at the floor at her feet. 

Her heart beat lightly, rapidly: growing ever more loud and insistent.  She could feel the cool, deft caress of satin against her skin, the gentle tickle of lace, the brush of stiff tulle.  Whenever she moved, she could hear the swishing whisper of her skirts, which seemed to tell secrets that only their wearer could fathom.  The curls of her hair that had been left down by the coiffeur whisked against bare skin; her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of crimson than they had been powdered.

For once, she was truly conscious of the fact that, tonight, she was beautiful.

When Chloe had finished tying the laces at the back of the gown, she stood away and received from one of the other maidservants a long, full veil of sparkling, sheer whiteness that she pinned to Clarice's hair on either side of her head, letting it fall gracefully down her back like a shimmering waterfall.  A pair of satin dancing slippers, encrusted with diamonds and pale sapphires and opals and pearls, was then slipped onto the girl's feet; a bejeweled mask was handed to her…

And the Fae Queen stood before them all.

*                       *                       *

The ballroom floor was empty, a dance having just ended; all of the guests stood to one side, talking and moving about amongst themselves, as the musicians rested briefly, already preparing for the next song.  All of the candles in the room had begun to burn low, casting a soft, ambient light upon every surface, as the gentle, blue-white glow of the moon flowed in through every window. 

Then – a hush fell over the room.  A ripple of murmuring voices, fraught with wonder and curiosity, went through the crowd, as all turned…

A single costumed guest, a masked lady, stood in the center of the room, having just entered it through the huge set of doors that were to be found at one end.  She was a pale, cool, dazzling beauty, garbed in an array of silver, white, and pale blue, with a river of ebony hair falling down her back and a pair of emerald eyes that sparkled like those very gemstones.  Wordless and graceful, she remained where she was, like a living statue.

The Fae Queen.

Within the crowd, another lone figure became apparent.  It was the tall, slender but well-formed, elegant but powerful form of a man: garbed all in white, silver, and pale blue he was as well, but for the mask that he wore, which was a smooth, gleaming black.  From behind it looked out a pair of entrancing, bizarre golden eyes, which focused intensely on the beauty before him, looking directly into hers and seeing nothing else.

The Fae King.

Standing still, the perilously fair creature waited for him.

He came out of the crowd, moving towards her.

And then…he held out his hand.

Every movement and sound in the ballroom halted: everyone freezing where they were, riveted by the strange, silent scene that was unfolding before them.  The air was spellbound, enchanted…wonderful.

The hands of the two touched and intertwined: the man drawing his companion towards himself, locking both of their hands between them, and continued to gaze down into her eyes.  The vague beginnings of a knowing smile flickered at his lips, and – slowly – her mouth curved into a captivating smile.  The words were so nearly tangible on the air that they didn't even have to be spoken.  Shall we dance?

*                       *                       *

Erik led them both out to their positions on the floor, gazing into Clarice's lovely young face as she beamed at him in complete happiness.  Gallantly, he bowed over her hand as she curtsied to him, his eyes shimmering with barely contained mirth.  Behind them, the other guests at the masque stood by, too mesmerized by the sight of such an unearthly beautiful couple to move out and join them, seemingly unwilling to do so.  Strains of music filled the air.

And then they began to dance.

Once upon a time…

It was all too wonderful, all too indescribably lovely – it seemed as if it must be a dream.  She had long thought this to be so, even when they had been running for their lives…for it felt, to her, as if everything in her life – in herself – was perfect when she was with him…when they were together.  This world, and the next…completion…

Once upon a time…

Could anything compare to the feel of his arms around her, to the ever-present, tender strength and warmth of his embrace, his presence?  It had been with her for so long: from the moment that they had first met, and even before then, and she wanted nothing else, as shocking as it seemed.  She buried her head in his chest, closing her eyes and leaning into his reassuring, protective strength.  The scent of him washed over her: fresh and new as a forest in spring, and yet also as timeless and wild as the mountains, evergreen and dark.  All she wanted to do was hold him.  These were not the fancies of an unsteady, fickle young girl…no, it was something much deeper, something infinitely more ageless, true as the dawn…

Once upon a time…

Here they were, here they would always stay.  They were together.

"Erik…" she whispered.

He looked down at her, tipping her chin up with one finger, and gazed deeply into her eyes for a moment, reading her soul as no one else could.

"You are incredible, bien-aimé de mon coeur *," he told her. "No one else is as wonderful as you – nothing else can be as beautiful as the world is when I am with you…and tonight, I hold one eternal knowledge in my heart…"

Around them, the music swept, whirling them about, twirling them into one another.  She looked into his eyes, into that masked face.  Her heart beat loud.

"And this…all of this, is true because you are you, and I am me…and together, we are a fairy tale, a happy ending.  I know this without a single shadow of a doubt in my heart…and tonight, I will prove it before the entire world."

And then, without preamble or fuss, he bent his head, drawing her close to him and ceasing the dance between both of them, their feet rooting to the ground, her fingers twining with each other behind his neck, his heart beating in time with hers…

He kissed her.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  *sniffs, wipes eyes with hanky* I hate to have to do this now but…read on…  *sniffs again and reaches for the box of tissues*

*  Ah, ses caractéristiques lisses et ovales font un canevas blanc seul, attendant son tableau! – Ah, her smooth, oval features are like a white canvas, awaiting its painting!

*  Irréprochable! – Flawless!

*  Bien-aimé de mon coeur – beloved of my heart