I woke to find a pair of blue eyes gazing intently into mine. "Good morning, Ayesha." I ventured. The residual soreness in my throat was gone; that was good.
"Brrr-Meow!" was her response. I lifted a hand to rub the crusts from my eyes, and she nudged her head under it, using my hand to pet herself with.
"Don't try that with me. Not after last night, you hussy." I told her. After I finished my chocolate mousse, I had gone to my room to find not one cat, but two, the second a stranger. A male stranger. Specifically, a tomcat. I had forgotten that Ayesha had been sheltered from more than owls when we lived underneath the opera house. I discovered an open window that I was sure had been shut when I left. Ayesha was uncannily good at working human-made mechanisms; I had sometimes constructed mazes and devices to amuse us both. She had learned a little too well.
"I suppose you've got a belly full of kittens now." I grumbled, as I scratched between her shoulder blades. She simply purred at me.
It was time to assess the damage I had done to myself the night before. I experimentally stretched and flexed my limbs. It was possible that I had broken or sprained something in my fall, and not known it at the time. Everything seemed to work, and nothing hurt in a way that suggested a crippling injury.
Which was not to say that nothing hurt. If I had thought I was in pain yesterday morning, it was as nothing compared to today. The next question was, could I get up? Ayesha jumped down as I shifted my weight, and sat up.
My spine was a writhing snake of pain. It seemed to drip acid on my nerves as the venomous serpent did upon the head of the imprisoned Loki, the Norse god of mischief, when his wife emptied the goblet she used to catch the drips of poison.
I had no wife, no goblet, and, in truth, no serpent—only a middle-aged body that was protesting its abuse. After a while, I decided I was not going to pass out from the pain, and essayed the monumental task of standing. My legs wanted to fold up under me, but I clutched at the bedpost like a drowning man to a mast, and eventually gained my equilibrium. The next step was literally a step…
Some time later, I was sufficiently clean and clothed enough to have breakfast with Nadir and Darius. The waiter was walking away down the garden path as I left my room.
Just before I entered the dining room, I heard Darius ask his master, "Should I go and ask him if he wants his breakfast, or should I take the tray so he can reject it in person?"
Entering, I informed him, "You can put the dishes on the table and set a place for me. I don't know how much of it I will eat, but I will at least taste everything." I had decided I was going to learn to appreciate Anne's particular form of genius. "Good morning, Darius. Nadir." I nodded in his direction, and pulled out a chair.
"Good morning, Erik. Did you happen to learn anything of interest from the brother—and why are you limping this morning?"
I seated myself gingerly, as my spine was protesting, and spread a napkin over my lap. "That a trip to Lyons is absolutely necessary to determine several important facts." I said.
"The ground under that tree must have been hard." Darius conjectured.
"Ground under the tree?" asked Nadir. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard about it when I took that letter to the office. Madame Touchet's peace was disturbed by a man spying on her and the boy last night. He was watching them from a tree outside their window. He fell out of the tree, and the dog chased him away. She didn't get a good look at him, but she said he was very tall and very thin. It wasn't too difficult to put it together from there." Darius finished.
"All right, " I admitted, to forestall the inevitable questions. "Yes, I did climb the tree. I did eavesdrop on them, and I did descend from the tree in the fastest and most painful manner possible. I wanted to see how she behaved toward him when she thought no one was watching her."
"And how did she treat him?" inquired Nadir.
I opened my mouth to answer, and was surprised by such a choking rush of emotion that I could not immediately speak. I took a forkful of the food before me, to occupy my mouth while I sought for words that would express what I saw without overwhelming me.
It was delicious. It was an egg and cheese dish, light and fluffy. I almost got lost while analyzing the component flavors and ingredients. Mustard? Thyme? Ham... I swallowed it before I managed to say, "Exactly as she did in company."
I could feel Nadir's eyes burning into me, but he did not press for more about my nocturnal adventuring. Instead, he returned to the original topic of conversation. "What was it the brother said that makes you think you need to go rushing off to Lyons?"
"She was trained as a cook in a household near Lyons; she says she met her husband there, and she claims she was married to him in the Registry Office in Lyons. The brother says he has seen the certificate, and I believe him. May I also remind you that M'sieu Hussenot says that a law office in Lyons handles all the inn's monies and accounts—even to the point of hiring staff? Presumably they know who owns it." I turned to Darius. "Did they say, in the office, when the mail would go out?"
"It will already have gone out by now. The train picks it up three times a day. It should be in Paris before eleven and in your assistant's mailbox by noon."
"Admirable. What sort of jam is in that pot?"
"Various red fruits—strawberry, raspberry, red currant, and cherry. The waiter pointed out that it is made on the premises from local produce." Darius told me.
"That sounds excellent. If you would be so kind as to pass me that, and the toast as well—thank you, Darius."
"Something's wrong." pronounced Darius. "He's eating. That's not like him."
"I know what's going on." Nadir said in an undertone. "I doubt this one believes in angelic voices, Erik—or if she does, it isn't to the exclusion of more prosaic explanations."
"Oh, no!" said Darius, horrified. "Not again!"
"My sentiments exactly," I put in, gloomily. "Let us move on to another subject, or, better still, return to the previous one: Lyons. There must be any number of trains going there from here every day."
"I can provide a schedule." Nadir said, "I'm not sure you're up to it—at least not today. And I do not think you should go alone."
"You have my word I will touch no form of opium, or any other drug."
"That is not my primary concern. If you intend to go by day, you may need help in dealing with people—and if you go by night, you will need a lookout. In any event, if you are taken ill, you will need assistance."
"Daroga—while I do appreciate your concern—you cannot shepard me through the rest of my life—nor should you. More to the point, I do not want you to. I want to retain your friendship—I don't want you to transform into my permanent nursemaid."
He started to say something, and thought better of it. "Erik—we shall speak of this later."
"As you will," I agreed. "Oh, and when the waiter returns, can you tell him to pass it on to—Madame Anne, that the invalid is feeling so much better that he believes he might attempt more solid foods than she has hitherto prepared?"
"That can be done," Nadir addressed Darius. "See to it. Can you give me more details from the brother's account?"
"Certainly. No one in the family, other than Anne, can say they ever saw her husband. They did not even learn of her marriage until after she had become a mother. While she was fairly independent, and wrote infrequently, that seems to be carrying reticence beyond the credible. It wasn't simply an illegitimate child—the family has dealt with that before.
"There is also a possible connection to the crib death of a younger sister—the death occurred while Anne was watching her. No blame attaches to her—but she reacted with a violent, excessive grief.
"She also does her best to help out the younger members of her extended family, but in practical ways, rather than with money."
"Interesting. Will you want the infant exhumed and examined?" Nadir rubbed his eyebrow.
"Not as yet. Have you anyone lined up to be interviewed today?"
"Madame Hussenot will be available after lunch."
"Very good. It should be interesting to hear her on the subject of Anne and the boy—if only as a contrast to her spouse." I commented.
"Quite. What will you do until then?" he asked.
"Lie down, I believe. Think and rest."
"Brood, you mean. Indulge yourself in self-deprecation all you wish, if you must, but keep your conclusions to yourself." He shook his head.
He was right, as he so often is. That was quite an annoying habit of his. I made a mental note to speak to him about it.
Once back in my rooms, I did what I only did when I wanted to make a point to myself; I took off my mask in front of a mirror, and took a good long look at myself.
There I was, yellow-eyed, gaunt, lacking a nose…About the only deformities I had missed were a cleft palate and hare-lip. My mouth was far too wide, I could draw my lips up and out until I showed as much of my teeth and gums as an orangutan.
The lips themselves were uneven and misshapen. A large, worm-like lump on one side of the upper lip dwindled to no more than a line on the other. My chin did not recede, but that was the best that could be said for it.
Sparse dark hair—getting a bit long, though. Must see about borrowing scissors and neatening it up. It was a pity I couldn't go to a barber, like any other man. Every bone of my face and skull showed through faintly mottled skin like parchment. The cords of muscle showed almost as clearly as an anatomical illustration.
Ghastly. Horrible. Horrifying. A living memento mori.
I hated to look at myself. I have always hated to look at myself.
The boy, now—. He wasn't afraid of the mirror. He wasn't afraid to look at himself. He even played at making himself even more grotesque. I wondered how she had accomplished that. I had a sudden vision of Anne holding the boy when he was still a baby and pointing to their reflections in a mirror, saying—"Look—there's Mam, and that's Erik,"—and the boy clapping his chubby baby hands, chortling in delight at the attention. I probably wasn't far off from reality.
Anne loved the boy, face and all.
It did not follow that she would also love me. I mean, even if my face wasn't objectionable to her, that didn't erase everything else about me. I was a little over twice her age, my hands were blood-stained, I was self-poisoned by drugs for years, I was tired, prone to moods both dark and angry, soured by life, and conflicted in heart. I had not even begun to delve into the morass of my emotions—was loving Anne disloyalty to Christine?
And I had so very little to offer them. I was unemployed, my fortunes were spent; the last of my jewels, save for Ayesha's collar of diamonds, were financing this sojourn in the country, and whatever qualities I might possess as a father were as yet unknown. I was as terrible at physical love as I was at nearly every other aspect of human interaction.
Damn my memory. There had been no pleasure for Christine at all in what we had done together, and very little for me, in all truth. It had been over so quickly—a lifetime of yearning for fulfillment at once emotional, spiritual and physical had ultimately amounted to no more than a few desperate pokes in the dark.
Passion was a cheat and a trickster.
The best thing I could probably do for them—for all three of them, Anne, Christine, and the boy, was to turn my back and walk away. They had a good life, a happy life here; I could only ruin it.
I was quite prepared to ride that spiral downward into one of my abysmal sessions of self-recrimination and blame, but at that moment, I heard a whisper coming from my bedroom.
"Hallo? M'sieu Makepeace?" It was a little voice, a young voice, yes, a child's voice.
I hastily replaced my mask and went into the bedroom. Glancing about, I saw no one in the room, but the window was open. I stopped. "Who is calling me—and where are you?"
"I'm outside, sir. My name's Erik."
He did not have to tell me that. I already knew.
"Erik." I said the name as his name for the very first time. "Are you the Erik who is Madame Touchet's little boy?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question, under the circumstances. I didn't want to give myself away.
"Yes. That's me. I'm sorry you're sick."
"Thank you. What can I do for you?" I inquired.
"Um. I thought I'd come help you feel better. Are you the one as was playing the fiddle the first night you come here?" He asked the question in a furtive rush.
"Yes. I take it you heard me play. Did you like it?"
"Oh, sir! It was beautiful! I never heard nothing like it! Umm…when you're better, might you play again some night?"
"I imagine I could." Yes. I would. I would play every night if that was what he wanted.
"I play the fiddle, too, but I can't play like you." He sounded sad, yet hopeful under it.
"Do you, now? What sort of music do you know?"
"Like this…" He began to whistle a jig.
"I see. Who taught you to play? Someone from around here?"
"Yes, sir. M'sieu Bertrand what works in the garden here taught me how. He's our friend."
"I see. Is he a young man or an old one?" And, what is his relationship with your mother?
"Oh, he's old. He's bent and wrinkled and his head is all shiny on top. He comes to dinner two-three nights a week and we play together afterwards."
"Are you just beginning with your lessons, or have you been studying a long time?"
"Umm. I don't know."
"Have you been studying more than a month?" I would try to break my questions into answerable pieces from now on.
"How long's a month?" he asked. Time is different when you are a child; it is always now, and anything else is vague.
"Four weeks—four Sundays." I amended, to help him mark time. Surely Sundays would stand out in his mind, with the break in routine afforded by going to church.
"Lots more nor that." he replied.
He fell silent, while I searched for something to say. "I'll make a deal with you. I'll play for you if you'll play for me." I finally said. 'Could you do that?"
"When?" he asked eagerly.
"Now?" It wasn't far to the house—with his young legs, he could go and be back in minutes.
"Oh. No. I couldn't get my fiddle. They'd all want to know where I was going with it. I'm not supposed to play until after dinner—and I'm not supposed to talk to guests, neither." His voice sank to a whisper.
"Really? Why not?"
"Cause if they don't like it, my Mam could lose her place here." he answered, in the same tiny voice.
Given all that I had learned already, that seemed unlikely, but I did not question it further. "Did you decide to speak to me because you heard I liked to hear people talk?"
"Yes, sir. And because of how you plays the fiddle."
I decided to venture something of my own. Perhaps I had something to give, after all. "Would you like to learn how to play like I do?"
"OH!" he exploded. "Would I? Sir!"
"I take it that means yes. Quiet down before you're heard to be talking to me. Now, I don't think I could or should start teaching you without your mother's permission."
"But if she finds out as I've been talking to you, she'll be mad again and I won't have no dessert for years and years!" he finished with a wail.
"Has she already been mad at you today?"
"Uh-huh. Cause I put my broccoli in the drawer and made a big stink and the inspectors would have shut us out of the house."
That made no sense to me at all, but no doubt it did to him. Children are often inexplicable. "Then we can't have you getting in trouble again today. Let me tell you how we'll arrange this……."
A/N: A cliff-hanger!
Egg and Cheese Soufflé for A Very Good Morning
3 eggs
½ cup milk
Dash of salt
1/8th teaspoon dry mustard
1/8th teaspoon dried thyme
3 slices firm bread, crust removed and sliced into cubes
½ to ¾ cup shredded cheddar or gruyere cheese
paprika
2 ounces chopped cooked ham (optional)
The night before serving—so you don't have to do it in the morning—whisk together the eggs, milk, salt, dry mustard, and thyme. Add the bread cubes and the cheese. Mix lightly. Pour into two custard dishes, sprayed with cooking spray. The dishes should be glass or ceramic bowls that are oven safe.
Refrigerate overnight.
Next morning, preheat oven to 400 degrees and sprinkle chopped ham over the egg mixture, if desired. Lightly dust with paprika. Bake for 15-20 minutes, until it is puffed up and no more than lightly browned.
Serves two.
A/N: Hello, everyone! This one is just flowing especially well right now, so the updates have been frequent.
Butterfly-Guitar: You're welcome. It may get more confusing before it all starts falling into place…
Pickledishkiller: You mean my profile picture? (Don't know what you could mean otherwise) Thanks! I got to see that one in person at the Library of Congress. It's even better in person. It's one of a series, and the other images look like something from The Ring and The Grudge.
Ellen: Glad you're still along for the ride…FF has been trying lately.
Bella: Here I thought I was being fairly plausible in the way I brought in Madame and Mademoiselle Giry. Okay. I won't do it like that again. Thanks. I want to tell the best story possible. I admit I was having a lot of fun with the wedding menu. In retrospect, I wish I'd saved the summer menu suggestions for a later chapter. Oh, well.
Nota Lone: Because they like their sushi really, really fresh? Baited breath, get it? Okay, never mind….. (shuffles off before people start throwing things)
Phantomphluter: You're welcome! I try to get my grammar right— I don't always succeed. But Anne's sections would never work if Erik's weren't well-polished, so I do my best.
An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin: Thanks! (blows nose) I've had a cold this week…
Emily: Thank you! Darn it all, I may have to make a small version of that cake before I'm done!
Erik for President: Anytime.
Thornwitch: Jules-Renfield! I love that comparison…
Awoman: The Baron Castelo-Barbazac may or may not have been real. I got the name straight from Leroux's Introduction, when he mentions getting information from Meg.
Sat-Isis—But why are cake batter and cookie dough so delicious if we're not supposed to eat it raw, that's what I want to know.
HDKingsbury: I got your e-mail, and you should have mine by now, unless AOL has eaten it.
Allegratree: (Sigh) I am striving for consistency in the use of the dialect, but sometimes it eludes me. Thanks. And also for your assessment of my use of the Girys. I had fun writing that.
Sue Raven: Sparks at the wedding? Wait and see….Preferably from a safe distance, such as another continent.