Author's note:
Two chapters in two days; this is a first (and quite possibly a last!) for me. I felt slightly nostalgic coming back to this chapter, as it was the first thing I ever wrote for this story.
A warm thanks goes out to all readers and especially to the reviewers—your comments are greatly appreciated! But enough of my prattle.
Continuing on…
—Perros-Guirec
The mud-hardened streets of the little French seaside village were narrow, quaint shops lining them. Two figures moved along slowly, their cheeks and noses flush from the sharp salt-tainted breeze. The child gripped her father's hand, her bright blue eyes staring through the panes of glass to the luxuries within.
Feeling her step slow even more, her father paused and looked back. "Christine?" he asked quietly.
She looked up into her father's worn face, offering him a meek smile. He returned it, leading her into the bakery shop. The girl closed her eyes a moment, breathing in the rich aroma of bread, pastries and cakes. She pressed close to the glass display, her eyes widening at the shelves of mouth-watering delicacies. Nibbling on her lower lip, she threw a hopeful glance up to her father.
The baker entered the room, brushing flour off his hands as he greeted them warmly.
"The usual, Mr. Daaé?"
Her father lowered the violin case to the floor, using his freed hand to dig through his worn pockets. He pulled out a few coins, frowning. There was not enough for even a decently sized loaf.
Sighing, he placed the coins on the counter. "Whatever that may buy us, I will take, please," he said, his accent heavy.
The baker glanced at the little girl standing beside her father. She did not beg like other children her age among so much temptation. She waited, trusting her father with a devotion that he had never seen a child possess.
The baker took a single coin and pushed the others back toward Mr. Daaé. He went to the oven and pulled out two large loaves. Wrapping them, he put them in a bag, pausing a moment before he stooped and took a pastry from the shelf. Placing it in its own bag, he reached over the counter and gave it to Christine.
"For the prettiest girl in Perros-Guirec," he said, chuckling. She took the bag, giving the man a shy thank you and curtsey. Her father smiled, turning his gaze back to the bag with the fresh loaves.
"There was not money enough for these," he said, unable to take the bread.
The baker smiled, shrugging.
"My days would be far more dreary if not for the sound of your violin and the voice of the little angel beside you. Please, it is a gift."
With hesitation, her father took the loaves and nodded thanks. Fitting the bag into in the crook of one arm, he picked up the violin again, holding out the other hand. His daughter grasped it tightly, following him out of the store.
They walked side-by-side past the remainder of the shops, keeping to the edge of the street until it faded into a wide dirt path cutting through the vacant countryside. Christine let go of her father's hand for a moment, stepping over the heavy carriage treads to the grassy field on the other side, plucking a wild flower from its stem. Smiling, she ran back and lifted up to her father.
He took it in its hand, admiring it. "These were your mother's favorite. They reminded her of a flower from our homeland." Christine's gaze brightened as he placed the flower in her hair, just above her ear. "Like the empress," he told her.
She giggled, blushing. Just then, her gaze moved past him. "Papa, look!"
Teams of horses drawing opulent carriages charged toward them, the wheels leaving a spray of dirt in their wake. Christine's hand was snatched up as her father moved her off the road to the safety of the field, watching as the carriages blazed passed. The little girl gazed at them with wide eyes, standing up on her tiptoes to see them move off into the distance. The thud of hooves made her turn her head again as several other carriages approached.
"Where are they going, Papa?" she asked, looking up at him expectantly. "I should think there must be some grand occasion being held," he answered, his eyes following the next carriage as it passed. He felt his hand squeezed, drawing his attention back to his daughter.
"Can we not go?" the little girl asked. Her father smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, Christine, not this time."
He kneeled, smiling. His daughter clambered up onto his shoulders, laughing as he stood.
"I am closer to the angels now, Papa," she said, grinning up at the darkening sky. He moved through the field silently, his eyebrows knit. She was so light on his shoulders…so thin. If not for her voice and the generosity of the baker…
He closed his eyes, banishing the thought.
"Where shall we have our feast today?" he asked as they neared their home. Christine pointed to a tangled tree that stood guard behind their small cottage. Its bark long bleached from the sun and tides, the hideous and beautiful tree stood proudly among the rocks, its gnarled roots rising above the ground.
"Ah, a fine place, fit for royalty," her father said in his native tongue. When he reached the tree, he leaned over and let her step onto one of the roots. Brushing the sand off another root, he sat down, handing her a large chunk of the loaf.
"Dessert after," he chuckled, noticing her fleeting look at the wrapped pastry. Christine nodded, neatly breaking off a morsel and eating it quietly. They ate in comfortable silence, listening to the steady lap of the waves against the rocky shore, a note-less melody that never failed to lull them both.
Her father shivered as the sun lowered past the horizon of the gray sea. He stood, looking down at his daughter.
"Might I have a few minutes more, Papa?" Christine asked, her eyes hopeful.
After a moment, he nodded. "Come inside when you hear my violin."