Alexandre was apprehensive about seeing the vicomte.

Ch 58

Alex hid partially behind me and watched Julia walk through the threshold with the dying candle in her uninjured hand. He gasped and pulled on my overcoat. "He's got her! Father, he's got Madame Seuratti."

"He came with us," I said as I held firmly to his shoulder. I looked down at him and offered a smile. "He means no harm. We have a truce."

"A what?"

He knew what 'aesthetic' meant but he didn't know the word 'truce'. "We have a peace agreement. He came down with us to help find you."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because we agreed to find you together."

"But he tried to kill you."

"Well, that was days ago," I said, hoping it would quiet him down.

Julia trotted to Alexandre's side and wrapped her arms around him, carefully holding her injured hand away from him. She took Alex off to the side and looked him over in perfect motherly fashion, running her hand through his hair and along his face then checking his ears and his teeth. Hardly necessary, I thought. He was a child, not a racehorse. Still, I was glad for it. The brightness in her hazel eyes had returned. My Julia flickered back to life as she ran her hand through Alex's dark curls and kissed his cheek.

If only she would have been his mother, I thought ruefully.

I looked away from them. The vicomte hadn't moved through the doorway. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets and watched Julia scold and praise Alex in the same breath. The smallest of smiles touched the corners of his lips, one which struggled between relief and longing.

My eyes went back to Alexandre. His face was oval. Though more angular now, I wondered if the vicomte had been a cherub-faced youth. I had never seen them in close proximity before, and now that they stood several paces from one another I searched for similarities, to links between a stranger and a child, my enemy and my son.

It terrified me. Did he have Alexandre's veracious need for knowledge and explanation? Did he furrow his brow as he read? What did he do that my son may have inherited? What made Alexandre more the Vicomte de Chagny's son than mine?

Suddenly I didn't want him to speak with Alex. We were alike, I thought, Alex and I, but I wasn't certain. Nothing was certain.

I needed a son. I needed to have Alexandre with me.

The vicomte needed a son and successor. He needed a child to carry on his name and legacy. He needed a man to take his estates and manage his business affairs.

His needs were different but not more important than mine. His was a matter of carrying a name, mine was a matter of continuing my life. There was no doubt in my mind that losing Alexandre would be fatal. I couldn't even imagine living without him.

My mind was made up. I would fight to keep Alexandre. To hell with our truce, I wanted my son and no bloody aristocrat would take him from me.

Before I had boiled over in anger, Julia left Alex and came to my side.

"He would like to see Alexandre," she said calmly. She touched my chest. "He agreed to have me stay with them. But you—"

"Absolutely not. I will not have him—"

"Erik, Raoul is not going to toss Alex over his shoulder and run away with him. I've spoken to him in the hallway while you were with Alex and came to an agreement."

"I agreed to nothing!"

"You agreed to let him come down here to find Alexandre. Raoul just wants to see Alex. He gave you ample time with your son. Let him at least speak with him."

"I owe him nothing. Why in the hell are you using his first name? Friendly with him, are you?"

"After everything that has happened, I think you know where I stand." Julia looked at me sharply and walked back to Alex without another word. She gently took Alex by the hand and started toward the door but Alex stopped abruptly.

He ran back to me and hurled himself against my torso. The pain was beyond words but the rising lump in my throat prevented any protest from leaving my lips. I held him to me for a moment, the shortest moment of my life, and pulled him back to look him in the eye.

"Madame Seuratti will stay with you."

He started to panic. The fear in his eyes tore me into two pieces: one which knew he had to do this and another that made me want to row him across the lake and be gone from that terrible place forever.

"Where will you be?" he asked frantically.

"Right here. I'll be right here for you."

He hesitated. "I hit him with a rock."

"Yes, I know."

"He won't be very happy, Father."

"No, he won't. But I think he will forgive you."

Alexandre made a face. "Do I have to ask him?"

He made me chuckle. Despite my fears, he still made me laugh. "If you wish to have him forgive you. As a gentleman, I require you to be civil to him. He is a man to be respected."

"Do you respect him?"

"I pride myself on being a gentleman," I replied. He made no further protest, so I gently nudged him toward Julia. If I didn't have him go that moment, I would have changed my mind. "Go with Madame Seuratti. She will stay with you."

He looked back at me with consternation but didn't say a word. He trusted Julia enough to go with her and not argue. I hoped he could trust me as well but that was entirely up to the vicomte and what he did. Nodding was the extent of my reply. Once Alex turned and followed Julia, I stood in the parlor.

As I had always been at the house on the dark lake, I stood alone.

Walk, I told myself. Pass time or the moment would last forever. I stared at the old organ for a moment and frowned. It probably didn't work anymore. The poor thing had been neglected for years.

After several moments of aimless wandering, I stood before the room where my mother's old bedroom furniture was kept. Hesitating, I drew back the curtain and stretched my arm out before me, lighting the room with a three-taper candelabrum. With a shuddering sigh, I entered the darkened room.

Of all places, this was where I felt the greatest surge of emotion.

I remembered everything about her furniture when it had been inside the old house. The Forbidden Room, I had secretly called it. Her room was the one I was never allowed inside. My father had beaten me more times for entering this room than for anything else.Those were the only times I really understood why he hit me.

Even after years had passed, it still felt sinful to stand in the presence of her belongings. If I looked over my shoulder, I expected to find my father's dark ghost looming in shadows, belt in hand and unearthly form smelling of alcohol. I sucked on my tongue, waiting for the familiar taste of blood to stream down my throat.

"Why?" I asked the ghosts I felt around me. I turned to the dresser and set the candelabrum down. For a long time I stared at a small figurine of a baby within a cradle that sat on a moldy lace doily.

This small figure had been their hopes and dreams, their perfect son. A cherub's face, alabaster skin, gentle blond curls and bright blue eyes on a round face. Perfection. A lovely little angel cooing from the cradle, smiling up at their adoring faces.

Alexandre was the perfect baby, the crimson-cheeked infant my parents had wanted.

Raoul de Chagny was a perfect baby. As was Christine. As was Julia. As was Meg, and Madeline and Charles before he had gone to war and lost mobility.

I brushed the dust from the small figurine with my shirt cuff. The little doll had become a trophy for me. Despite the beatings, despite the cruelty, I would steal this reminder of the dreams I had destroyed. I would will myself each night to become this porcelain doll, to become perfect. I prayed my heart would stop beating, my skin would grow cold and shiny. I wanted to be this doll, this little thing my mother talked to at night.

Not to stop my father's hand. Not to stop my mother's cruel words. None of that mattered to me. All I wanted was one moment of affection, one embrace, one kiss. Only one small show of affection, one kind caress, one gentle word.

"Everything would have been different," I said to the figurine. The hairs on my arms stood up as I drew in a ragged breath. "Why couldn't she kiss me once? Why did she run from me?"

Thirty-five years I had waited for one show of compassion. That was why I couldn't hate Christine. She had given me something. We had shared something. Perhaps it was all a lie, but up until then it was all I had ever known. False was better than nothing. From her voice emerged hope, swelling like the tide. She had pulled it away from me but something had remained. My pearl. My son left on a doorstep.

I glanced around the room at the armoire and small chest and blinked away the single tear against my eyelashes. My mother would have hated me having her furniture. She would have been disgusted knowing I had any part of her. My poor mother, I thought, my poor unhappy mother always running away from me in terror. No amount of music, no amount of trying desperately to please her had ever worked.

The figure found its place on the dusty dresser once more. I kissed my fingertip and pressed it to the little blond head. I shed no more tears for my life or for my mother's unhappiness. I blew out the three candles and waited for the orange tips to go dark, for the white curls of smoke to become nothing. When the room was quiet, when my heart stopped hammering, I turned from her room and walked to the door. The soft glow of candles greeted me from the parlor.

I stood in the threshold and felt the ghosts draw back from their phantom son. The air was cold, as cold and damp as the places I hid in their house, bloody mouthed and emotionally broken.

"I forgive you both," I said quietly. "I forgive you for everything because I have known happiness. True happiness."

I looked up to the hallway and saw Julia through the doorway. She stood with her hand on Alex's shoulder.

"I have known true happiness, and none will take that from me."