A/N: The beginning is different and this chapter is sorta slow, but bear with me, please. I think it'll help with the storyline. Wait—do I even have a storyline? Pause. Yeah, yeah, I do.
Phew. Scared myself for a moment there.
Thanks to all you spiffy reviewers. You know I love you guys.
Chapter Four: MorganDear Charles,
You've no idea how difficult and awkward it is for me, your dear father, to call upon you like this after a year of ignoring our blood relation. I still have significant trouble comprehending why you've forsaken medicine in order to do something so common as architecture, which is of so much lesser value than medicine. Yet I digress. I've written you because of a much more important crisis.
It is about Morgan. She disappeared from our house a few days ago, I do not know how or why. She was safely drawing the moment I left to check on a sick blacksmith, and when I returned I could not find her at all. She was gone, along with precious trinkets that belonged to your mother once.
I strongly suspect that thieving, vile gypsies captured my dear little Morgan. I cannot even entertain the possibility that she is dead. There is nothing left I can do here at home but pray. The local leader sent a few people out to search for her, but all in vain. I send this letter in hopes that you will assist me in finding her, and send her back home when you do. I'm sure such a tragic and scarring experience has greatly frazzled her and all I wish to do is comfort my little girl. I miss her deeply.
I hope we can put our differences aside for the time being,
John Maurice Garnier
Your Father
Rereading his letter, John Garnier scowled deeply. Who was he joking? Charles wouldn't help him, even if it were for his sister's benefit. He feared that Charles hated him with a far deeper passion than Charles loved Morgan. It would be a waste to even try.
With a frustrated cry, he tossed the letter into the crackling fireplace and watched, immobile, as the flames swallowed up the parchment in seconds. The last word he could make out was a sad-looking, beseeching word that clutched his breaking heart.
Morgan.
Morgan's POV
What a saturnine countenance my masked guide possesses!
He's yet to tell me his name, or take off his mask. And even eat for that matter. It is as if I am traveling with a skeleton with no name, no face and no need for nourishment. It is rather disconcerting to say the least.
His horse, Shangri La, is nice, if it's any consolation. She was the black horse that I had attempted, to no avail, to take.
She is patient, unlike her master.
After the man had coolly instructed me on how to mount correctly, hold the reins, and guide the horse, he allowed me to try with Shangri La (what an unusual name) who nipped me, only once, when I grabbed her mane to keep from falling. This earned me quite a scolding from the monsieur.
"Mademoiselle! Kindly do not assault my mare. You'll go on foot if this occurs again."
I feel compelled to point out that the nip and reprimand could have been avoided if the man had helped me onto Shangri La to begin with. But no, he seems to have an aversion to contact, ever since he almost choked me to death.
Not that I mind, this aversion, but it is rather curious. Usually a man seeks a woman's touch.
Once he made sure I could handle my horse we continued on the journey to Paris. We traveled on a path that didn't seem to even be there and we passed no one.
I had hoped to show my gratitude at his consent to take me to Paris through conversation. I attempted to make conversation, asked him questions, tried to learn his name, but he brushed aside all my words as if they were pesky flies. He reminded me of the rules I agreed to—no touching, disturbing, talking, or disobeying—and stated in a slightly melodious voice, "Irk me any further and the side of this forlorn path is where you'll find yourself."
How rude!
After that I kept to myself, passing the time by watching the scenery, humming to myself and daydreaming about Charles' wonderful Opera House. I was just as eager as him to see it be completed. I was somewhat of an artist, with a few lessons from an instructor, I was able to draw and sketch buildings as well as Charles. I had a couple ideas ready, to help him in his design, if need be.
We rode the whole day through the forest without any more talk. Frequently I caught the man watching me from out of the corner of my eye and this unsettled me to no end. He made it perfectly clear to me that he disliked my presence from the very beginning, but if that were true, why would he study me so closely? And then quickly place his gaze elsewhere when I glanced at him?
I had trouble believing he was simply doing this to correct my stance on the horse, which he did occasionally.
Was he attracted to me? Perhaps. But this was difficult to believe too. Though he was handsome in a mysterious way and apparently strong, he was also incredibly unfriendly and aloof. I don't think he was used to company.
Yet why should I care? I asked myself. It is not as if I like him.
"Monsieur," I began, when I noticed him watching me again. It was becoming increasingly unbearable. His gaze was powerfully heavy. "What in heaven's name are you staring at?"
He spoke without pause and didn't sound at all embarrassed at being caught. "Why, you, of course. Those bruises on your neck are growing rather unsightly. Put some of the salve on them, won't you?"
I stared at him, my mouth agape, shocked at this sudden and odd response. How dare he? The absolute gall and insolence of this man! At home, my father would have instantly cuffed this man for such language directed at me, a lady. Such utter disrespect!
"Never in my life have I been spoken to so rudely!" I cried in umbrage. He continued to look ahead, not even glancing at me now, but he quirked his only visible eyebrow in my direction. "Oh?"
This mocking little reply further insulted me. "Oh, indeed! You hardly have the right to call yourself a gentleman, monsieur. What with your discourtesy and hiding behind that mask of yours…tell me, what are you hiding from, hmm?"
"You'd rather not know, Mademoiselle Garnier, I promise you." He scanned our surroundings. Involuntarily, I noticed how green his eyes were. Like emeralds.
"Don't be dippy. I know what I want and I would very much like to know and see why you wear that mask. Care to enlighten me, monsieur?"
He released a discouraged sigh. "It is growing late. We stop here for today." He stopped his mare, Rosetta, and dismounted.
I rolled my eyes at his back. "Insufferable soul," I muttered, descending Shangri La clumsily, well aware that he had avoided my query entirely.
We were still in the forest, despite our steady pace. I settled myself against a particularly tall tree with a thick trunk that provided sturdy support when I leaned against it. Ignoring my guide, I drew my knees up before me and procured a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil from out of my dress sleeve. Taking great care to appear busy, I sketched random shapes and objects on it as he secured the horses together, gathered wood for a small fire, and unpacked supplies for a brief meal.
He went about his tasks with the ease that comes from daily routines. It was growing darker by the moment so eventually all I could see of him in his black cloak was his white mask, which held for striking contrast against the blooming darkness. Soon I wouldn't be able to see my parchment at all.
The masked man built the fire near the tree I was leaning against, which I found strangely thoughtful. When he lit the fire, I was bathed in a cheerful orange glow that revived my drawing from the blackness.
I gave the man a half-smile of thanks that he probably didn't even see and looked back down at my sketch. My mind wasn't focused on it though. Instead I was thinking about this strange man before me, wondering what his true intentions were. He spoke to me as if I was a mangy flea-infested dog, tagging along behind a prince, but his actions stated differently, I believed.
He must be fond of me, if only a little, I thought, my pencil poised on the parchment. Why else would he have given me his cloak when I fainted? Or take me to Paris? Perhaps this man is not as monstrous as I first perceived.
A metal cup of hot tea was pushed in my direction. "Here," he said softly, as if not wanting to disrupt my train of thought or artistic stimulation.
"Merci."
A/N: Hmm. Awkward chapter. But I'm trying to get things moving. Feedback wanted!
Erm, the next chapter probably won't be up soon. My cousin is visiting. I must entertain.
Review?
Alda