Chapter Summary: Fear is the unseen presence lurking in the calm before the storm.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The air of late spring hung heavy over the European continent. There were still three days until the summer solstice and Nature had chosen to give a preview of what was to come as warm air drifted across the English Channel, bringing with it a humidity oppressing all in its path. It stilled the movement of man and beast alike, only the buzzing of flying creatures left to break the potent silence. Men longed for the end of work days when they could return home to loosen ties and remove heavy boots. Idle women sat next to open windows, high collars pulled back, exposing the skin of white necks, as they waited for a stray breeze to ease the discomfort caused by tight corsets and heavy fabric. Busy women rolled their eyes, moved sleeves further up arms and wiped at the sweat-beaded brows, sighing as they continued ever forward. People moved slowly through their lives, looking over their shoulders, waiting for something. It was almost as if they were trying to delay the inevitable, trying to hide from Fate.

It was a fool's game for Fate can never be denied.

Erik sat at his piano, hands resting lightly on the ivory keys, staring at an empty sheet of music paper. He could hear her voice in his head but he could not find the notes to commit her music to the page. He could not find the correct combination of chords and grace notes to express her honesty. He could not find the place where their music met and joined their lives together. Erik closed his eyes, struggling to hear the simplicity of her life song through the darkness that was his own. She had said there was beauty in the darkness that claimed him but Erik was afraid of that beauty, afraid of what it made him do. He shook his head, closed eyes narrowing in pain as buried memories crawled through that darkness.

"I do not want this," he whispered through clenched teeth. Unbidden, his fingers began to pick out notes, discordant and angry. "I do not know how to let her go." The notes, still discordant, grew quiet. "I do not know how to say goodbye." The notes deepened, growing sadder, until Erik suddenly slammed his fingers down. "Damn you, Christine!" he shouted as he opened his eyes and stood.

"Damn you, Christine," he whispered sadly as he walked to the window seat. Erik sat and looked down at the street below, a couple walking past, their heads close together as they shared a quiet intimacy. Erik turned away from the sight, unable to comprehend the emotions it stirred within his heart. "How am I to ever love her the way she deserves when I still hear your voice in my every thought? How can I ever be the man she sees when all I see is your face in my every dream?" His voice lowered. "My every nightmare." Erik sighed. "Damn you, Christine," he said without emotion. He slammed his head against the wall behind him, relishing the pain his action brought forth. "And damn you, Tallis, for not finding me sooner."

Tallis, too, was struggling with the powerful emotions that the last week had brought forth from the depths of her heart. She lay outside, in the back garden, under a towering oak tree. A blanket had been spread on the grass beneath the tree as Tallis tried to find a cool breeze, a bit of relief from the stifling heat, a bit of relief from the emotional heat that raced through her veins. Tallis gazed up at the sun that drifted down, rays dancing as they filtered through the leaves. She sighed as she watched the patterns of light and dark play over still leaves, over the blue linen of her dress.

"Light," Tallis said in a soft sing-song as she touched a small spot of sun on her stomach. "Dark," she said in the same tone as she touched a shaded spot. "Tallis," a finger touched a sunny spot on her throat. "Erik," as the fingers moved to lips shaded by the overhead canopy. "Erik," Tallis breathed again as her fingers moved lightly over lips that longed for the gentle hesitancy of other lips.

But why does he hesitate? Tallis wondered, personal demons crawling forth from dusty corners of long-discarded dreams. Am I not smart enough? Am I not pretty enough? Am I not enough? She lowered her gaze to the body and curves that stretched out in front of her. Can I ever be enough?

Antoinette watched her friend and companion through the window of her drawing room. She sat by the open window, a book forgotten in her lap as she contemplated the woman reclining on her back lawn. Antoinette had been relieved when Tallis and Erik had approached her with the news that their feelings had deepened, that they wished to court, to explore the friendship that had formed between them. She had smiled inwardly at the uncertainty the couple had manifested in their approach to her; their sweet, child-like joy in the discovery of their mutual attraction a relief to her soul. She also knew the doubts that plagued each of them, the tiny voices of fear that slowly nibbled away at the confidence of a soul.

Antoinette leaned her head against the window sash, closing her eyes and sighing. She was happy for her friends, happy that two wandering souls had found each other in the wilderness. Yet her happiness was tempered with reality, the reality of her own soul's small voice. It was the voice that wondered if two people so wounded by the unfulfilled dreams of a lifetime - however short - could truly be happy. It was the voice that wondered if light would ever be strong enough to penetrate a darkness that would shake the Devil himself. It was the voice that would wake her in the night, scolding, bringing forth her own inadequacies and fears. It was the voice that said she could have done more, should have done more.

"Bah!" Antoinette whispered harshly to herself as she opened her eyes, turning them back to the book in her lap. "I cannot change what has happened," she continued and turned back to look at the woman in the yard, under the tree. "All I can do is keep watch and guide them whenever possible." She raised her eyes towards the sky. "Let them be as happy as my Meg and her Val."

Meg was happy in the arms of her Val; she would always find them a warm shelter from the harpies that scratched at the windows and clawed at the door. When she was in his arms, the matrons of Society, the old men with their appraising glances did not matter; all that mattered was Val and the love they shared. It was when she was not with Val that Meg's fears would begin to chisel away at the confidence she wore like protective armor. It was then that the ballet rat would falter in the carefully choreographed steps she wove through her life. It was then that she would begin to doubt what she knew. It was then that the steps became complicated and confusing. It was then that Meg would stumble, failing, falling; falling into the arms of her husband. Meg sighed and smiled, looking down at the head resting in her lap.

In the face of the morning's heat, Val had chosen to stay home, working from his study. Midday had found him lunching in the coolness of a shaded patio, Meg seated next to him. He had laughed with his pretty wife, lightly touching crystal glasses together, feeding each other like the newlyweds they still were. They had plotted like two school children over their visit to the grand estate that they would one day truly call their own. He had promised Meg that she would be allowed to throw open every curtained window, every closed door. Val insisted he wanted some of the sunshine that was his wife to pervade into his ancestral home even as it pervaded his soul. Now they rested quietly in Meg's drawing room, Val dreaming happily, his head cradled in the warmth of his wife's lap.

"I love you," Meg whispered as thin fingers traced the outline of an intelligent brow.

"No more than I love you," came the reply as Val grasped the hand on his face, drawing it to his lips.

"Not possible," Meg replied.

A smile crossed Val's face. "Everything is possible."

Possibilities were also on the mind of a young man who lounged in a drawing room in the south of France, long, elegant legs stretched out before him. He had his eyes trained into the crystal wine glass held between thin fingers, a small frown creasing an otherwise handsome face.

"You will never find the answers in the bottom of that glass," Didier told the man seated opposite him.

Henri plastered a smile on his face and raised his eyes. "It is not those answers I seek," Henri replied. "I am questioning the dregs of my drink as to whether or not they would like a companion."

Didier hoped his companion would not see the disgust on his face. "And what did they answer back?

"Nothing," Henri said as he returned his gaze to the glass. "Nothing."

"Do you not think you should be at Chagny with Philippe?" Didier wondered, careful to leave Christine's name out of it.

Henri kept his eyes averted, rocking the glass back and forth, watching the swirling shades of red. He closed his eyes again, his stomach turning as he saw his cousin's blood in the rich shiraz.

"Are you afraid?" Didier wondered as he watched Henri's eyes close.

"Yes," Henri breathed, unwilling to give voice to the fear that played across his mind. He was afraid that Raoul would die and that would leave him the responsibility of carrying on the family name and heritage. Even more frightening to the self-centered Henri was the thought that Raoul would not die. "I want it so much I can taste it," he murmured under his breath.

Didier had not caught the barely spoken words. "What?"

Henri returned the smile to his lips, raising his face. "I can nearly taste another glass of this fine shiraz." The smile disappeared as he took note of the disproving look upon Didier's face. "Do not judge me too harshly," Henri said as he raised the glass and drowned the dregs of the wine and his own selfish fears. "It is the only thing that is keeping me numb."

"We are all numb, I believe," Didier said as he stood and took Henri's glass. He moved to pour another glass, staring out the window. "I wonder if my uncle and Arthur succeeded in their task?"

The task that Xavier and Arthur had set out upon had been successful and even as Didier wondered, the two men were making their way back to Chagny. They sat on opposite leather benches of a plain black coach, a padlocked box resting on the floor between them, a suited man seated next to each of them. Another quiet man sat next to the driver, his hands resting casually in his lap, across the gun hidden by the travel blanket. To the casual observer it was just another coach making its way from Lyon to the country that lay beyond. They could not see the concern written on the faces of those inside the coach; but those who were aware of the unseen currents moving through the heavily laden air would have sensed the fear and worry emanating from inside the coach.

"How much longer till we reach Chagny?" Arthur wondered as he turned his gaze from the window to Xavier.

Xavier pulled his watch out of its small vest pocket, his lips drawing down. "Not much longer yet still long enough." He put his watch back, shaking his head as he did so. "I hope we are in time."

"We must be," Arthur said quietly. "I cannot even bear to think upon what might happen if we are not."

The man sitting next to Xavier discreetly cleared his throat. "I assure you gentlemen," he began, "we shall be in time."

Xavier snorted and turned to Chief Inspector Robert Pichette. "No disrespect, Inspector, but you have not seen what these man are capable of and willing to do."

"None taken, Monsieur," Pichette replied. He had been their contact in Lyon and now accompanied the two men and the ransom back to Chagny. "It was a poor attempt to allay your very real fears."

"There will be nothing that will allay our fears less than the Vicomte's safe return," Arthur told him. Inspector Pichette inclined his head in understanding as Arthur once again turned to Xavier. "Did we do the right thing in telegraphing Desiree and Charlotte?"

Xavier thought in silence for a moment before nodding. "Philippe was right to contact them. They are Raoul's sisters and deserve to be at Chagny. You know they would never forgive any of us were they not there."

"But to telegraph?" A look of disgust crossed Arthur's face. "It seems so callous."

"Would you rather we send riders to Vienna and Rome? The time lost would have been too great." Xavier shook his head. "No, we did the right thing." Now it was his turn to look out the window. "I cannot even begin to imagine the anguish those dear ladies must be feeling."

"No less than the anguish already felt at Chagny," Arthur replied softly.

And at Chagny anguish performed a frenzied dance with fear. They followed through every door that was opened, tagging along at the hem of every skirt, clinging to every pant leg. They taunted with waking nightmares and haunted the darkness of restless sleep. They were the ghosts in remembered images of bloody clothes and torn hair. They were the unseen and unwanted guests that stole breath and stopped hearts. They were the demons that hid in the shadows waiting to rend apart the very fabric of life.

Christine stood at the dresser in her room, a drawer open before her, the box containing the Saint Joseph medal in her hands. She had one finger resting on the cool metal, studying the image of the human man holding the Son of God in his arms. Tears threatened to overwhelm her vision and Christine closed her eyes, willing them down. She sniffled, swallowing her own fears back, before opening her eyes, once again fixing her gaze on the medal held in her hands.

"You had the strength to look past your own fears," she whispered to the man, her finger moving gently over the image of the child. "You looked past your fears to see our own." Christine paused. "Raoul could always see past his." She sniffled again. "Past mine." She snapped the small box shut, slipping it back under the shawl, closing the drawer with a strong shove. "Now it is my turn." Her chin trembled as she looked at her pale reflection in the mirror. "Now I must move past my fears for his sake." Her lips formed a thin line. "I must." Her gaze drifted downward toward her feet. "For all of us."

Christine left her room and walked downstairs in search of Philippe. She found him where she knew she would - in his study, back to the room, staring out the window that overlooked the front drive. "Philippe," she called softly.

Philippe turned to her, his complexion as pale as her own. The dark circles under his eyes no darker than the ones under her eyes. "I thought you were resting," he said simply. "Are you feeling better?"

"Somewhat," Christine said as she entered the study, leaving the door open behind her.

"At least you can sleep," Philippe said somewhat bitterly. He closed his eyes at the look that passed over Christine's face. "I am sorry," he told her. "Each person must deal with their own grief and fear in their own way."

Christine clasped her hands before her. "To think that I came here to apologize."

Philippe's eyes snapped open. "What?"

Now it was Christine's turn to lower her eyes. "I have been acting like a child and I want to say that I am sorry." She sighed. "I have been so wrapped up in my own fears and guilt that I have not been the woman that ... that Raoul would wish me to be. He would be so disappointed in me and that is a feeling I have never been able to bear." She lifted her head. "I promise I shall stop being a burden to you."

Philippe laughed, a broken sound that threatened to become sobs; he coughed them down, composing himself. "Christine," he began, "you are not a burden. You are a woman who is terrified for the man she loves." Philippe took a step forward. "I have loved my brother for twenty-four years; you have loved him for two. Yet the time difference does not make the love each of us feels for him any less intense." Philippe took another faltering step forward. "It does not lessen our fears, our guilt." And another step. "You are not the only one feeling guilty. If I had not been selfish in asking you both here ..." Philippe stopped, unable to find the words to continue.

In the space of a single breath, Christine had crossed to Philippe's side and drew him into her arms. "It is all right," she managed through the tears she could no longer control. Christine felt Philippe's head go to her shoulder and she placed a trembling hand on his neck, feeling his tears soak into her silk-clad shoulder. "I need to be strong for him, for us" she whispered as her fingers gently massaged Philippe's neck. "I need to be strong for you."

Philippe drew back, reaching for the hand that had been massaging his neck, raising it to his lips. "Do not worry over me," he said weakly. "I am quite strong."

Christine managed a small, sad smile. "Did you not tell me that this was a burden you could not bear alone?" She straightened her shoulders. "You need whatever strength I have and I need yours."

Philippe returned the sad smile, still holding to Christine's hand. "And together we shall be strong enough to bring Raoul home."

Outside the open door to Philippe's study, Monique stood; she had been coming to look in on Philippe when she had heard voices. She had peeked into the room and quickly drew back as she saw Christine. Now Monique stood silently behind the open door, leaning against the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks. She ached for her friends, for the lives and possibilities that hung in the balance. She mentally berated herself for the selfish little ache that always lived within her heart – the ache of her own vanished possibilities. Monique cried for Philippe and Christine and what they might lose. She cried for the life that hung in the balance. She cried for herself and what she had lost, reaching a hand up to brush away the tears. Monique closed her eyes in silent prayer, bargaining with God, offering a continued willing acceptance of her own life if only He would bring Raoul home safely.

Thoughts of home were playing across the mind of the man for whose life everyone prayed. They faded in and out - almost like ghosts - as pain laid claim to the body and fear laid claim to the mind. Raoul struggled to hold onto the images of loved ones and happier times until a slight change in body position would cause pain to flare - despair hard on its heels - sapping strength and sanity. Fingers, muscles cramping from cold brought about by lack of circulation, curled as if they could hold to the fleeting, intangible images that teasingly reached through from the subconscious. His head dropped forward as the oppressive weight of the darkened room closed in upon him, chasing away all thoughts of rooms filled with bright light and laughter upon which sang the music of angels. Raoul shivered and did not know if it was from the pain, the fever that he could feel building within his pain-wracked body or the fears from which he could not run.

"Christine," he whispered, trying desperately to hold onto his last remaining link to sanity. Even in their darkest moment, he had found his strength in her dark eyes. Now those mirrors to his wife's soul were the dimming beacon in a night that surely and steadily closed in upon him. Raoul slowly raised his head, slightly shifting his position on the hard floor. Leg muscles involuntarily jumped from disuse, cramping up, adding to the pain from bruises Raoul could not remember receiving. He cried out once before letting the pain claim his mind, sending him sinking back into the still void where none could reach him.

"How much longer can he go on like this?" Edouard wondered as he watched from the doorway to the room in which Raoul was kept chained to the pole.

Francois shrugged. "However long it takes. He is alive and that is all we need do – keep him alive."

Edouard ran a hand across his face. The bones in the hand were thin, the fingers long and tapered bespeaking a romantic dalliance with a person of leisure somewhere in his ancestry. "I do not know," he said softly. "I do not see the need for such pain if all we are seeking is money."

"You are not required to see or to understand anything beyond that which you are told," a voice said before Francois could respond.

The two men turned around to see Louis and Nico coming in through the front door of the cottage.

"Forgive me," Edouard said with a look on his face that was in sharp contrast to the words that passed his lips.

"Forgiven," Louis said with a turn of his head and looked to Francois. "How is our friend?"

"Miserable," Francois replied.

Nico closed the cottage door and walked toward the two men standing opposite him. "He does not even know the meaning of the word," Nico told them as he pulled a small tool from his pocket, raising it before his face and turning it lightly. "Is he awake?"

"No," Francois said, his eyes going wide.

"Then you must wake him," Nico said softly.

Edouard blanched and turned away.

"I suggest you leave if you cannot deal with what must be done," Louis told him.

Nico walked to Edouard, turning first to look at Francois. "Wake him," he said before turning back to Edouard. He tapped the tool he held in his hands on the end of Edouard's nose. "Run away little boy." The tool snapped open and shut causing Edouard to narrow his eyes. "Run far away before the demons eat you, as well," Nico said, his eyes wide and never blinking before moving past, following Francois into the room.

Louis, too, had crossed the room, pausing briefly by Edouard's side. "Take his advice," he said simply. "You will know when to return."

Edouard said nothing but moved quickly across the main room of the cottage, going out the door and moving into the shelter of the surrounding woods. The first scream caused him to close in his eyes in pain. The second caused him to slump against a tree. The third caused him to clasp his hands over his ears in an attempt to blot out the sound.

He struggled not to hear the others.