Galen leaned over the bedside, resting a hand against the child's naked, flushed forehead. The fever had gone down over the night, the child laying in a deep sleep under the blessed effect of the laudanum. Even so, there were moments when he had stirred, crying unintelligible words as the young face contorted. Galen had been at his side in a moment, though he was powerless to do anything but view the effects of the child's nightmare before he slipped back into a peaceful void.
The physician picked up the soiled, fabric mask. The rough cloth was nearly worn through in some places, the edges ragged. Galen shook his head. How the child managed to endure such a thing was beyond his comprehension.
He took a long look at the scarred half of the boy's face. No burn could have amassed such damage, however severe. No…this child was born with that face…and likely rejected for the same. Forced to be seen to the world through a mask…a cruel fate to be given to any child, Galen thought sadly. His fingers tightened around the cloth. It was an even bitterer fate to acknowledge that this child had no choice. The miserable reality was that people had not yet learned—and a great many more refused—to see past misshapen appearances. Without this miserable cloth, the child would be victimized by the dregs of humanity, paraded as a freak of nature.
The boy shifted in his sleep, the marred portion hidden by the shadows, leaving only the untainted surface of his face exposed to the watching physician. The skin was pale, unblemished…even handsome compared to most children. Was it strange pity that afforded God to cede half the face without flaw because the other half was damned?
Galen dropped his eyes to the mask in his hands, his eyebrows furrowed. After a long moment, he lifted his eyes back up to the sleeping boy. Without hesitation, he walked over to the fireplace and threw the mask into the flames.
Adjusting his fresh suit as he moved down the stairs, Galen blinked through blood-shot eyes at the young boy and woman standing at the door. The boy turned, a smile lighting up his face.
Forgetting propriety, he dashed around his governess and threw his arms around the physician's waist, nearly throwing him backwards.
"Tonton Galen! No one told me you had come to visit!"
The man laughed, steadying himself. "I suspect they hardly had a chance. I only arrived yesterday afternoon."
He tousled the boy's sandy-colored hair, smiling warmly. "My God, you have grown, Benoît! You have a birthday coming up soon, don't you?"
His nephew grinned. "Next week. You will stay 'til then?"
Galen's smile dimmed only a fraction. "I shall have to see. But as of the moment, my stomach demands that I find breakfast. Perhaps with the permission of your governess, you will join me?"
The boy shot a pleading glance at the stone-faced woman. After a moment, she nodded politely to her charge in acquiesce. The boy followed his uncle down the hall with an unrepressed glee.
"You were in the audience with Queen Victoria?" Benoît asked, his eyes wide. Galen took another sip of his tea, nodding.
"Indeed. I am an acquaintance of her personal physician."
"What was it like?"
His uncle laughed. "Like any other concert. It was an honor to be invited, of course, though I was most impressed on by the violin soloist—it's a pity I never got his name. I am sure you would have loved hearing him."
The boy's face clouded. Setting down his teacup, Galen sat quietly.
"Did you hear me play?" Benoit asked miserably.
"It was a privilege, I assure you," Galen replied with a soft grin. His nephew did not look up.
"I am not very good. I think father hates it when I practice."
"Your father is just grumpy."
The admission brought the intended laugh. Benoît fingered the edge of a plate loaded with fresh croissants, his face becoming serious again.
"I am not even sure I like violin. I just like music."
"Have you ever considered another instrument?"
Benoît shook his head. "No…my mother wanted me to learn music—I don't think she ever cared what I played."
"No matter. The study of music is a noble pursuit. Don't give up on it."
The boy nodded thoughtfully.
"You know," Galen added, "your father once wanted to become a musician."
His nephew looked at him in surprise. "What did he…"
"Master Benoît?" a servant interrupted, "your fencing instructor awaits."
Sighing, the boy stood, Galen rising with him.
"I apologize, but I must go."
Galen waved it off. "Don't worry, Benoît. I have some errands to run myself." He smiled. "Would you mind reserving a breakfast appointment for me tomorrow?"
Benoît's face lit up. "Of course I wouldn't!"
"Good. Then off you go," his uncle prodded, grinning in return. Walking out of the large dining hall, Galen gathered his coat and hat, exiting the house to the dim sound of clashing sabers.
There were moments when he was sure he was awake. Always, there was that voice…"It's alright. Shhhh…drink this…"
Darkness always followed, its depths welcoming before the dreary return to a foggy reality. Surrendering into consciousness, he waited, listening to the dim voices. There was the voice he knew…the one that spoke to him before the dreams took hold. The other was beyond recall.
"Black? That's a little ominous, don't you think?"
"What would you have me do? I did not think the boy would appreciate the painted likeness of a china doll."
Something rested against his face…hard and cold, yet all the while, strangely relieving. He tried to move and the voices hushed.The darknesscame again…
"He said he was coming?"
"For the last time, Benoît, yes!" his mother snapped, looking up from her needlepoint. The boy silenced once more, sitting restlessly on the overstuffed chair.
His uncle peered out quietly from behind his book. The boy had been more patient than most his age, enduring the fussing of his mother and servants while he was taken shopping, sitting through an endless dinner with the sharp reprimands of his revolting posture….
Galen chuckled inwardly. It had hardly been his place to intervene, but after a few mouthed words and sly gestures, his nephew seemed to perk up once more. Still, as the evening wore on and there was no sight of his father, the boy's somber spirit returned.
A carriage stopped outside. Benoît jumped up and ran to the window, a smile breaking over his face.
Jaclyn looked over her needlepoint once more. "Benoît, you will sit down this minute and behave like a proper gentleman. Do I make myself clear?"
He nodded, biting his lip. Returning to his seat, he flashed a small grin at his uncle, who returned the gesture.
Galen set his book down as his brother entered the room.
"Aubert! We thought you would never come," he chided playfully.
"You didn't think I would miss my son's seventh birthday, now did you?"
Benoît's face fell.
"Eight, Aubert. Your son is eight today," Jaclyn hissed.
"Oh...of course, silly me. I must be more tired from the site than I thought." He approached his son wearily, laying a neatly wrapped parcel in his lap.
Smiling, the boy quickly unwrapped it under his father's intent gaze. Galen watched as the excited smile transformed into suppressed dismay. He held a fine drafting kit—a notable gift for any beginning architecture student, though hardly appropriate for a child.
"It is very nice. Thank you, sir," Benoît said quietly. His father flashed a weak grin.
Galen cleared his throat. "I believe there is one last gift for the young monsieur," he said, standing. "If you would care to follow me, Benoît?"
His nephew leapt to his feet, followed at length by his parents. Galen stopped in front of the large oak double doors, pulling a key from his pocket.
"Eyes closed," he commanded. Benoît obeyed, his smile growing with the turn of the lock. Pushing open the doors, Galen led him inside.
"Alright."
His nephew drew in his breath, his mouth agape. In the corner of the room stood a coal-black grand piano, its high polish glistening in the low light. It was beautifully cut, the pure ivory and rich ebony keys beckoning to be played.
Jaclyn lifted her skirts and went to admire it with her son, running her hands of the smooth surface. "This must have cost you a fortune, Galen," she said, looking back at him.
"I suppose it is a bit much for an eight year old," Galen replied, "but perhaps it can make up for all the birthdays I missed while in London." Benoît ran up and embraced him.
"Oh, I love it, Tonton Galen! Thank you. I cannot wait to learn how to play it!" His uncle patted his back, taking a glance at the boy's observing father. He did not miss the dark look fired at him.
Frowning, Galen shifted his gaze out of theroom to the shadowed objects outside. Squinting his eyes, he saw a dark figure perched on the stairs, watching silently. The light flickered off the pale flesh of the unmasked side, lost in the depths of wet hazel eyes.
A moment later, only the shadows remained.