Ch 29

Recap: (told by Erik) I was surprised to learn that Julia has always known that I killed Louis Seuratti. She brought me dinner and I never ate it. The only hunger I had was for her.

That was fun. :) Penkitten suggest recaps to keep everyone up to date since no one is reading just one story.

By the sheer mercy of God, I managed to slide my feet over the bed, steady myself for one pathetic step, and collapsed with the grace of a rock into the wheelchair. My shins were on fire, my upper legs fatigued by the pressure of weight, and my ribs suffering from movement. Julia never said if she suspected one being broken, though from the feel of it, I assumed it was so. My father had very kindly given me the experience of a broken rib before in my youth. The inability to inhale deeply was similar to what I remembered in youth, as was the blackened eye and dislocated shoulder. A broken rib, however, seemed like the last of my concerns. For at least ten minutes of torment, I thought my stomach would erupt. Thank God it was nothing more than a feeling.

A few deep breathes and muttered curses and I squeaked and creaked my way down the narrow hall, scraping a path against the walls on my way to the water closet. I hit my already bruised knuckles against the walls as I teetered back and forth. Another storm growled somewhere outside of Paris, and my path was illuminated by the occasional wink of lightning. I imagine I must have looked like Mary Shelly's Frankenstein in a moaning wheelchair.

Once I returned to the bedroom undisturbed, I knew without a doubt that I wouldn't sleep. There were two reasons, one of which made me wonder if I was going mad. Ever since Alex insisted bringing her home, the Basset Hound, Bessie, has slept in my room, usually in my bed. For weeks I howled and made a stink over it since the dog was supposed to be his responsibility. I threatened to take it somewhere and leave it but Madeline swore she would take on the duty of caring for the dog. Not even a day later, the thing was scratching at my door, whining and crying and begging to be allowed in for the night.

Not having her warm, wet nose against the back of my neck or her nails digging into my spine made it impossible to sleep again. One would think that for once, I would have been able to rest. But there was no one. Even Julia would have sufficed, though I imagine if I would have told her she was replacing a dog, she would have poisoned me.

But I couldn't close my eyes. If I fell asleep again, I knew I would wake the whole house. A childhood spent beaten and a lifetime as a recluse made nights anything but restful. Before I locked my door at night, Madeline would come in and wake me with a violent shaking. She would force me to change from sweat-soaked clothes so that I wouldn't catch a cold. Only once did she stay with me until I fell asleep again. I will never forget the childlike delight I derived from feeling her hand in mine. She has always been my mother, as much of one as I had ever known. She has tolerated much for my sake.

Around three in the morning, I heard the floor creaking upstairs. The sound moved down the stairs, light and devious. It was either Alex or Lisette, and since Lisette was with her mother, I knew it was Alex. He was coming down the hall when I turned down the lamp.

"You should be sleeping," I said when the door moaned open.

He was quiet for a moment and I smirked. He was sly, but he wasn't as practiced as I was for lurking about unseen. "How did you know?"

"I know everything."

He chuckled then as he padded into the room and stood beside the bed. "May I stay here for the night?"

Since he couldn't see me, I turned over in bed and sighed. "It's rude of you to go walking about the house at night, Alexandre. You are a guest. I trust you will act properly."

"Yes, father."

"Sit," I ordered, fearing he would leave me. Wide awake and restless, I had no desire to be alone. In darkness I could speak to him as I should have long ago. There was always such safety in darkness. Lightning flashed again, spreading through the gap where the curtain didn't quite touch the window sill.

Alexandre flopped into the chair that Julia had occupied earlier. "May I turn up the lamp?"

"No. Why are you awake?"

He hesitated. All I could hear was his breathing. "Madame Seuratti told me I had to stay in Lisette's room. I told her that you said I could stay here and she refused. I lay awake until I knew for sure she was asleep."

He had me both appalled and impressed. There was no question that he was my son. Still, he needed to be reprimanded. My path in life would not be his.

"In the morning, I'll have Madame Seuratti bring me an ink pen and paper. Your list of punishments is growing, Alex, starting with you disappearing the other night. You should not have left."

He gasped, undoubtedly wishing he had remained in bed for the night. "I was angry."

"Anger is not a reason."

He muttered something under his breath and moved in the chair again.

"Open your mouth when you answer me, Alex. I will not tolerate you murmuring."

"I said you've used it as an excuse. Sir."

He made a valiant attempt at the end to save himself from trouble, one that would not work. As much as I had not intended to argue with him, he was speaking in a manner I did not care for. Not at all.

"And look where it has taken me," I muttered back. A fine example of do as I say, not as I do if there ever was one.

Neither of us spoke for a while. His silence made me increasingly uncomfortable, especially since he decided to tap his fingernails on the bedside table.

"Father?" Alex said at last.

I grunted.

He was silent again. I picked out his silhouette in the darkness as he sat slouched over in the chair. He was really nothing more than a head tilted down and a body cut off at chest level. By the movements of his shoulders and arms, he was fidgeting.

"Did Madame Seuratti put honey on the wounds?"

There were times when he spoke and I had no idea what he meant by his words. My first instinct was to laugh at the absurdity of his question. "No," I replied dryly. "She didn't have enough ants."

"Oh."

He didn't understand. It was difficult to think of him as a child sometimes as he was amazingly advanced in mathematics, history, science and language. Literature was the only thing that didn't interest him, and I found his indifference to books kept him out of my library.

"It's a form of torture," I explained. At least there was something I could teach him, something good for a change. Like torture. "The honey attracts ants, the ants bite."

It really was ironic, given the situation. Honey drawing something that would invite danger and pain.

"Ancient Egyptians used honey to cover wounds. It keeps out infection," he explained.

Not exactly the discussion I had expected, but he amused me. His enthusiasm was something I had always lacked. His retention of the most bizarre facts always made me smirk.

"I thought he had killed you," Alex said suddenly.

For a moment I stopped breathing, unsure of how much he had seen. My greatest fear was that he had witnessed all of it, every kick, every punch, every bit of the fight.

"You're fortunate he didn't see you. And that I didn't see you as well."

He said nothing as a reply. My eyes closed in the darkness. He had come close to danger, closer than I found necessary. It was foolish for him to be out that night and even more so that he was looming around the hotel.

"He did see you, then, didn't he?"

"Yes," came the weak reply.

"How?" I asked. Again there was silence borne of frustration and humiliation. "Alex, I asked you—"

"I threw a rock at him," he answered through his teeth. "So that he wouldn't kick you again, I threw a rock at him." His body shuddered. "They…"

"They what?" I demanded.

"They took off the…" he stopped, unwilling to say it.

"The mask," I said for him. The words came easier than I had expected. He nodded in the dark and brought a hand to his face. He sniffled and wiped his eyes. "He was going to break your nose, I think. So I threw a rock at him and he chased me."

"Oh, Alex," I sighed. That had been my fear, that the vicomte would see my son, his wife's son. If he knew what Alex looked like, he would be able to find him. And now he knew that I had told the truth for Alex is the mirror image of his mother. No wonder he had come to the door. He would be looking for Alexandre now.

"I heard what he said about you, father. He's a liar. He's a liar and a pig and I would do it again. He's wrong about everything."

"What did he say?"

"I would kill him next time," he said, ignoring my question. "I would smash the rock into his face and I would kill him…I would kill him," he panted.

"Don't say that," I whispered. He was a good son, an intelligent youth. Despite my own hatred, I didn't want him to feel as I had for so long. Hatred was a disease that constantly needed to be fed. If there was anything I had to say about it, I would starve his loathing.

He inhaled a ragged breath to stop his tears. "I never want to meet her. I saw her. I know what she looks like but I never want to see her. Not ever."

"Did she watch?" I murmured. I had expected that if she could see from the hotel that she would have stood by the window and observed.

He didn't answer. The chair scraped against the wooden floor and he rose, his hands groping in the darkness to find his way from the room. "I know what she looks like." His form moved towards the door. He lingered a moment in silence. "Father, I know what you look like as well."

I thought he had walked out of the room. I could no longer see his shadow in the darkness, not past my tears. I started to reach for the lamp when I heard him whisper, "I'm sorry."

"Alexandre?"

"Father, I'm sorry."

The door closed behind him and I heard his footsteps shuffle up the stairs again.

Once I heard the bedroom door upstairs close, I sat up in bed and turned on the light. There were two things his parting words may have meant. He could have been very sorry indeed for seeing my terrible face. Or he could have regretted ever stepping foot in my room. The proof of his boundless knowledge sat on the table, a disappearing painted smile smirking at me.

The figurine of his mother, which he had left on the bedside table, looked into my eyes.

This is my gift to you, she said. The gift of one night, a compensation for your misery made out of pity.

My hand swept out and knocked the wax figure on its side. So that was what he had been holding the entire time, what he had been fidgeting with while we spoke. I knew then that this figurine was the reason why he had come into the bedroom in the first place, a wordless confession. He knew the way into my locked room. He had discovered the path into the cellar, and God knows what else. Far too much, I suspected.

He was more like me than I could have imagined, trap doors and all.