Author's note:
Let me apologize for the abruptness of introducing Christine—while I have the advantage of knowing exactly how events in that chapter coincide with the others, in my haste I did a poor job of showing this to you readers. I hope the connections, subtle as they sometimes are, become more apparent in this chapter and the following ones, and that you will come to understand my reasoning for bringing in her character at this time.
On a different note, updates should be more frequent, as this is my summer break. Thanks again to all readers and reviewers.
—Perros-Guirec
It was remarkably silent inside the carriage, the muffled fixed gait of the horses the only measure for the passage of time. Curtains were drawn, the shadows inside as heavy as those of the coming night.
Jaclyn brushed off the invisible dust from her exquisite ruby gown, admiring the feel of the satin pleated layers beneath her gloved fingers. It was her most expensive dress to date, intricately sewn beads and dyed lace covering the whole of it in a vast sheer layer, falling just off her shoulders and sweeping out in a slight train as she moved. Aubert had made no mention of the price. Indeed, he had said little of anything in the past weeks, she remembered wryly, the strange uneasiness surfacing again as she glanced at the darkened figure sitting across from her.
He was only visible by the pale half of his face, the rest shrouding the black that suited him so well. Darkness hid the eyes she found so captivating, and now they were as twin voids, seemingly as omniscient as they were unfathomable. Quickly, Jaclyn shifted her gaze.
Benoît sat next to him, pressed as far into the opposite wall as he could. His mother frowned. Despite the nearly regal, impassive bearing of the apprentice, her son was restless, hands flexing on his knees. His hair was slicked back in a vain mimic of Erik's usual style, the edges of the dark blonde strands curling just over the brim of the blue suit's high collar. It flattered Benoît's slender form as best as it could, his arms and legs still ill-proportioned to the rest of his body in yet another vice of his age. He had been poked and prodded for hours by the tailor, Jaclyn insisting that every detail of his attire was befitting of a gentleman and her son.
Jaclyn squinted, making out the outline of the gold and blue mask resting beside him. To her surprise, Benoît had initially chosen a black one, which she quickly rejected. She could not imagine her son in a mask so much like Erik's. Of course, she reminded herself, her son's facial structure was nowhere near as impressive, eyes and mouth too big for his head, eyebrows rather flat and heavy, lacking a tasteful arch. Even with a black mask, he would never had compared to the other, but he would have been similar, perhaps enough to be noticed…
She sighed, parting the curtain, watching the shops and small homes disappear behind them, the breeze rich with the crisp, damp smell of the sea. For being such a quaint village and landscape barren of activity or real society, there was a remarkable peace to it. Paris was interminably loud, beautiful in its swift modernization, but lacking the simplicity that abounded in this place.
She parted the curtains a degree further, her eyes resting upon the figures moving up ahead. The setting sun ahead of them, a father held his child's hand, both walking leisurely along the edge of the dirt road. A frail smile pulled at Jaclyn's lips. She barely remembered her childhood; a few scant memories sooner drowned than brought to recall. Yet the way this man held the child's hand so protectively, his walk measured so that the little girl would keep up with him; it was not unlike those times her own father had allowed her to accompany him to some scenic site, carting along his painting supplies. It was a simpler time, a happy one…and too distant to dwell on.
Jaclyn let the curtain fall back into place, collecting herself before she looked over at her husband. "Tell the driver to hurry. We are already late as it is," she commanded, her voice back to its native sharp tone.
"As late as everyone else will be," her husband reasoned. "It is certainly a long enough drive," he mumbled under his breath, tapping on the window. Moments later, the distinct snap of a whip sounded, the carriage lurching forward at a quickened pace.
Jaclyn ignored him, her eyes turning back to her son. "Stop fidgeting with your collar, Benoît."
His hands fell to his lap, but he would not look at her. The tension between them was almost tangible, evidenced by every dark stare or scowl. Jaclyn was certain he had not spoken of the things he witnessed, yet all the while, she truly feared. One ill word was all it would take to shatter her.
Jaclyn gripped her mask between her hands, her jaw clamped. She had come so close to escaping it all, if only not for her husband's strange act of adoration. Yet even for his unexpected decision, she could not remain. She would not.
Erik narrowly adjusted his position, interrupting her thoughts. She raised an eyebrow at him, noticing the slight tilt of his head, as though listening.
"We need to stop," he said, the music-like voice tinged with concern.
Jaclyn scoffed. "Don't be foolish."
"Now."
Aubert looked at him. "For what pur—"
The carriage jolted sideways. Jaclyn gasped, thrown forward into Erik. Pressing an arm against the wall for support, he shifted, quickly moving her back into the upholstered seat. A moment later, the carriage was level again, coming to a halt.
"What the devil?" Aubert muttered, looked out the window. Unruffled, Erik promptly got up and exited.
"Where does he think he's going?" Jaclyn hissed, glaring at the open door.
"Silence, Mother," Benoît reproved, following suit before his mother could utter another word.
The driver had already moved from his seat, raising a gloved hand toward one of the horses, the whip dangerously arched in the other. The animal threw up its head and reared back as much as the harness would allow, shaking the carriage once again. Erik could hear the sharp crack of wood and the pull against leather as the horse trembled, the whites of its eyes visible as it strained backwards.
Erik threw a sharp glance at the driver, wordlessly commanding the man to back away. Keeping in clear sight of the horse, he moved toward it, watching every tremor beneath the sweat-slicked coat, every steamed breath that rose from its nostrils into the cool air.
Benoît stared in amazement as Erik rested his hand against the animal's neck. Removing a glove, long graceful fingers ran along the damp fur and the taut muscles in a deliberate soothing motion. The horse quieted almost instantly under his touch, the harness jingling as it gave a relaxed shake of its head. His movements no less cautious, Erik moved his hand down the horse's leg, gently easing it up. Benoît could almost see the frown on the other's face as he touched the hoof, gently lowering the leg back down.
"She will not be able to walk," Erik said flatly, without looking back at the driver. He replaced his glove, moving his hand over its neck, his visible eyebrow knit as he stared at the horse. The driver began cursing under his breath, stopping as a beam of light hit his face. Raising an arm to ward off the brightness, he watched the two passing carriages, one following the other, both moving at the full speed of the matched horses. They were rich in design, complete with doormen and footmen, all dressed formal eastern silks.
Benoît pressed closer to their carriage to avoid being hit. A moment later, dust churned in the air as the teams were pulled back, both carriages coming to a slow halt.
For a moment, there was silence, no movement from anyone. At length, a dark skinned man stepped out of the front carriage, his vivid red and yellow silks visible even through the darkness. Benoît took a step closer to the carriage, his wide eyes locked on the approaching man.
He stopped at a polite distance, bowing.
"Asr xoš," he greeted, straightening again. His sharp eyes rested steadily upon Erik's. "My master wonders what your trouble is," he asked in surprising articulate French. The masked youth bowed in turn, not a degree lower than had been shown to him.
"One of the mares has thrown a shoe and is lame," he answered, glancing over at the still horse. The man gazed at Erik curiously and then came forward, whispering in a foreign tongue as he approached an animal. The mare's ears tilted forward, but like with Erik, she was calm. The man continued his gentle murmuring, lifting the foreleg with sure hands.
He made a disapproving sound in his throat as he lowered the leg back down. "Indeed, the hoof is split." He shook his head, giving the horse a gentle pat on its shoulder. "My countrymen take great pride in their horses. It is a shame the feeling is not maintained elsewhere," he said, casting a foul glance at the driver.
A ringed hand motioned out of the front carriage window. With a smile, the man bowed to Erik once more. "My master will have you ride in the carriage behind his, as this one is useless to you. I believe our destination is the same," he said, inclining his head toward Erik's mask.
"We are grateful," the youth replied. The man bowed and left them, disappearing inside the front carriage once more.
"Who are they?" Benoît whispered as Erik approached. The other continued walking, glancing at him. "They are Persian, and judging by the extravagant appearances, royalty." He paused. "It would be foolish to refuse their generosity, especially in our present situation." Benoît's mouth hung open, Erik ignoring it.
With her usual indignant words, Jaclyn and her husband moved to the other carriage, tailed by their son. Erik followed last, giving one last grave look to the injured horse, well aware of its nearing end as the carriage driver pulled out a pistol.
The second he closed the door, the carriage jolted forward. A shot rang out into the night.
"Was that him?"
The servant shrugged, his eyes carefully lowered as he watched his master run a finger along the gilded ornamental sword sitting beside him. He had long since learned to carefully govern his answers, even in a position as high ranking as his own.
The carriage rocked slightly on the uneven path, the driver expertly compensating with the reins.
"He wore a mask akin to that of the rumors," he finally answered.
His master held up a hand, silencing his companion. "Watch him tonight."
The servant bowed.
Renée adjusted her younger brother's cravat, sweeping a hand over his coat lapels.
"There," she smiled, "you look far more dashing than Philippe. But do not tell him I said so," she added deviously. The boy gave a half-hearted grin to please her. Moving away, he stared down from the window at the carriages far below, all lined up around the huge circular drive, more entering though the gate.
"Will Élise come?" he asked miserably, still facing the window.
Renée looked away from him. Their older sister had married not long after their father's passing, having had to move to India with her military husband in the subsequent weeks. They all adored their little brother, who was so much younger than they were; yet it was Élise who had taken the place of a mother he had never known. The boy had been brave in their parting, his tears unshed as she kissed him goodbye. Her absence was hard on them all, especially with the loss of their father, yet she doubted the weight rested upon anyone as heavily as it did Raoul.
"You know she cannot," his sister answered truthfully. Sighing, Renée turned and looked in the room's mirror, seeing her own pale reflection. She was not the exquisite beauty her older sister was, but the fitted bodice and long peach colored silk chiffon skirts were mildly flattering, enough to ignite dim anticipation for the approaching evening. She longed to be able to smile again.
Their household draped in ceaseless mourning, Philippe was wise in his intentions to defuse the laden emotions with a grand social event. Yet Raoul was still so young; she doubted he would find any thrill in the often rigid environment, lacking any acquaintances near his age.
"Renée?"
She turned, seeing the tall form of her older brother standing in the doorway. "Hurry, they are arriving," he chided lightly. Renée nodded, standing up a fraction straighter, assuming her guise as hostess. Philippe offered her his arm, which she took gladly. She paused just outside the door, drawing away from Philippe's side. Her skirts swept against the floor as she crossed back into the room.
Raoul turned at her touch, staring at the object in her hand. Reluctantly, he took it, settling the stiff painted cloth over his face. In the pale light of the room, the white mask almost glowed.