Gabrina fails to take the blame for the apparent disaster that occurred when posting this chapter. She apologizes for wasting not only your time but my time as well. My little muse would also like to thank Hermine for pointing out that by your standards--and in American dollars--I made roughly 130,000 a year in the opera house. Hermine was crucial for executing this chapter as without her, Gabrina would have been a bumbling idiot. Well...

On with the show, I say. There is little need for a recap. Who could forget that I told Alex that I love him, and that he told me that he loves me.

Ch 43

Neither of us moved for quite some time. His arms tightened around my back and pressed against the bruises on either side of my spine. He apologized softly and loosened his grip when I flinched.

Alex sat upright and rubbed his reddened eyes. He stared at me a moment, his gaze narrowed on the center of my forehead. He pushed his hair up and showed me the thin horizontal scar.

"Do you remember that?" he asked softly. His voice was raspy from his emotions

"I remember everything you did." I smiled at him. "Madeline would have slapped your ears back if she hadn't thought you would bleed to death."

He exhaled sharply and looked away.

"I didn't know what to do," Alex said suddenly. I made no reply. If I waited a moment he usually clarified what he was talking about. "Mother Giry was asleep; Charles would take too long, Meg…" He didn't say anything about Meg. Interesting. "I know Julia is up late because you talk to her only at night."

"You did well," I replied. It was still difficult to look him in the eye. Considering his parentage he was docile but I dreaded him asking too many questions.

"I thought he would chase me home," Alex continued. He glanced at my lips and my cheek and made a slight grimace. From the bruising and scrapes and the stitches in my head I had no idea what he made of me. "He called me a name. He…" Alex looked towards the door and lowered his voice. I wasn't sure who he was hoping wouldn't hear. Julia, I suspected, who apparently demanded more respect than I did. "He called me a bastard. Is that bad?"

"It isn't a compliment, but I don't want you to be shamed."

"What is it? Charles and Meg wouldn't tell me."

"It's complicated. I doubt even the dictionary would know," I lied to him.

He nodded and grew silent a moment. By the way he pursed his lips together I knew that there was something more. I looked away from him for a moment.

"You forgive me then?" He stared at his hands.

"Alex, I was never angry with you in the first place."

Even without looking at him I could see his lips trembling, his emotions faltering again. Tears welled in my own eyes as I knew that what upset him was undoubtedly my doing.

"Then why…" He tried his best to remain stoic but a tear dripped down his cheek. "Why did you stop speaking to me?"

I touched my knuckles to my swollen lips and shut my eyes. He blamed himself for our silence. "It was never you. None of it was your fault," I whispered.

He nodded. "If you were angry with me would you no longer speak to me?"

"Alexandre, I would never hurt you, not intentionally." I paused for a moment, attempting to think of the most sincere apology I could offer a boy his age.

"I touched an Algerian woman at the Exhibition," Alex blurted out as he looked up at me.

What could I have possibly said to that? I stared at him as he sat twisted around on the bed. Curls of dark hair hid his uneven shirt collar. No wonder Madeline had been beside herself over how Alex looked like a ruffian.

"They had a street that looked like one of their villages, with tents and everything. M Lowry said it was called a 'bazaar'—and he was right! It was! I looked it up."

"What were you doing going about touching people you don't know?"

He shrugged. "She didn't know. When she wasn't looking, I touched her."

Lovely, I thought. Now the gendarmes would come for me and a band of Algerians would be after my son.

"Alex, that's quite inappropriate." I tried to be stern but couldn't help but chuckle.

His smile widened. He searched my face, his gaze drawn to my right temple for several seconds as he took in the uneven bruised flesh. At last he was settled enough to see what was before him.

I wasn't even sure what an Algerian was when he mentioned it. Desert dwellers I thought, though my knowledge of Africa was limited. Travels had taken me there once and it was nothing I wished to recall. Executing one criminal was quite different than slaughtering entire families from infants to elders. Even the thought of my travels to Africa made me shudder.

Still, I couldn't help but ask him. "Where did you touch this Algerian woman?"

"At the Exhibition."

"No, no. Her hair, her arm, her…her hair." Lord knows where he could have touched some poor unsuspecting woman.

"Her arm. She had a veil and everything just like in books so I couldn't see her hair or her face; just her eyes really."

"Yes, well, let's not make it a habit to go about touching people. You don't know anything about them."

"She was probably a Sunni Muslim," he answered. "She probably came from the Sahara Desert. Most Algerians live by the sea. Did you know that? Did you know there are sand oceans?"

I shook my head. He knew more about the world than men in their forties. The more I listened to him the more I suspected that he knew more than I had, even about the countries I had visited. I couldn't help but think that Christine would be able to show him an authentic village not one transplanted into a fair.

"The elevator for the tower was too crowded. Did you know you could ride an elevator? Two elevators!"

Frankly I didn't much care. Eiffel's erection would be torn down after the fair and hopefully forgotten shortly after.

"I didn't," I answered him.

"It's magnificent! You should see it, Father!"

He excitedly told me as fast as his lips could move each detail of his four hour excursion to the fairgrounds. From what he said he must have ran like lightning as he had seen the Faerie Gardens, the tower, some sort of Edison exhibit and of course the Galeries des Machines which he swore I would love.

All the while he looked me in the face. Once in a while he would switch his gaze to my forehead or to temple but he was far too concerned by sharing his day at the fair than ogling what had been hidden from him for years. I wondered if he expected that the beating was to blame for everything. It didn't matter. He was happy. For the first time in months he seemed happy.

And he looked at me when he smiled. That hadn't happened since he was a toddler.

"May we have a phonograph?" he asked just as he told me about a woman who had watched a demonstration next to him. "Her name was Hermine, I think. She smelled very nice. Lilac water, I think but not as strong as what Mother Giry wears sometimes."

He would barely take a breath so I nodded at each thing he said.

"She told me there was a place where they could record your voice but I didn't see it. I must have taken a wrong turn but it didn't matter because there was a tea garden. Have you ever seen a tea garden? It's not what you would think. I didn't see any tea at all, but of course it could have been the plants. Do you think it is plants? Perhaps I should look again, Father."

"A tea garden?" Julia stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. "Monsieur Alexandre I believe it is time for you to dream of tea gardens and phonographs upstairs in bed."

Alexandre slumped forward as though his body had suddenly doubled in weight and there was no possible way he could move. He moaned in dramatic protest but Julia would not tolerate his show. She hauled him upright and pulled him off the bed.

"Wash your face and change your clothes. It's already past your bedtime. Your father must eat and do the same."

"But Father said I could stay—"

Julia gave me a sharp glance and I merely nodded for Alex to be on the way. "Tomorrow if you listen and are good all day. Now go."

He turned; a baleful look in his eyes as he once again stared at my chest. His arms slightly rose from his side and I nodded. It was a shame that I had to give him permission for an embrace, but it was better that he asked than stood there and did nothing.

He put his chin to my shoulder and sighed on my neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He pulled back one last time and looked at me. Though I had no idea what he meant by his apology I had a feeling it would be something difficult to forgive in the end.