Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge-podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir for betaing! Her own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen name "Chatastic".
Thanks to all of the awesome Frat!Pack-ers for your squees, reviews, and encouragement. I have a great time reading them! Y'all make this little authoress happy:)
In Which M. David is Rejected (Again) and the Ensuing Aftermath of the Entirely Disagreeable Situation
"Christine? We shall be departing Belgrade very soon. Perhaps you would like a bit of fresh air before the train begins to move?"
Henri David put an ear to the door, listening for any sign of life from within. He tried again. "Breakfast is being served in the dining car."
No reply.
He rapped once more. "My dear, a word of warning: the cabin steward will be along shortly to put away the sleepers."
The sound of someone who was violently ill met his ears.
"If you do not wish to join us for breakfast, I can have something sent to you."
He reached out for the door handle and paused, his fingers hovering over the polished brass. The avocat had never before presumed to enter a lady's bedroom uninvited, and he was not sure he wanted to now. Another retching sound came from the compartment, however, his mind was made up. Opening the door a crack, he hesitantly peered through.
"Christine?" he called again.
The woman was leaning against the wash cabinet, her back to him, cradling what appeared to be a basin. She glanced over her shoulder at the intruder and frowned. "Henri, please just go away! I will be fine in a moment."
The man shook his head and entered the room, crouching down next to her. "You certainly do not look fine."
"Maman is sick," came a small, serious voice. Henri glanced at the boy playing with his plush white horse in the corner of the bottom sleeper, his solemn eyes large and round.
"It is merely the travel, and the distress of our situation," she retorted. The train gave a sudden lurch and she put a hand out to brace herself, inhaling sharply. "Then there is this horrible corset that I must get used to wearing again," she muttered.
M. David chuckled and brushed a curl from her pale face. "Ah, the dictates of fashion have once more claimed us! I cannot say that I am entirely sad to don proper attire, however. Jerusalem was much too wild a place for my taste. Why, to think we lived more than three months without a decent tea or petit fours—"
Christine's face whitened even further at the mention of pastries and she moaned, turning back to her basin.
The unladylike noise startled M. David; he had never observed his dear friend in such an unbecoming state before. A sudden pang of pity struck him, and he lightly rested his hand on the ill woman's back. "Is there anything at all I can do for you?"
Christine sighed and gazed at her son. "Jean-Paul has not yet had his breakfast," she said through clenched teeth. "Will you take him with you to the dining car, s'il vous plait? I will join you before long, as soon as the sickness passes."
"Oh course." Henri sighed, stretched out his limbs and smoothed his waistcoat, then turned to the boy. "Come Jean-Paul, shall we see what spoils we can find? I imagine they have pastries of some sort." At the mention of pastries, the boy abandoned his play and held out his arms to the avocat. He picked up the toddler and turned to the door, his eyes again sweeping over Christine.
"You know, Christine," he said thoughtfully, "if you are still troubled by the man's death in Jerusalem, you needn't be. You did what you had to do—"
"Thank you, Henri. I will keep that in mind," she snapped, and turned her back to him, signaling his dismissal.
M. David sniffed indignantly and slipped from the room, closing the door as quietly as possible. He wandered down the narrow hallway, past the other compartments where well-dressed passengers who had just boarded the Express d'Orient were shuffling about, stowing their valises and settling into their seats.
It was divine to be amongst proper civilization; to have hot and cold water, crisp linens and soft towels, gleaming woodwork, and fine china; to be able to tip one's hat to a lovely lady, or nod to a groomed gentleman.
The first thing he had done when they had reached Constantinople was set about becoming a proper aristocrat. After a visit to a barber and clothing merchant's shop, he was once again handsome and polished. A tailor would have been preferable to the ready-to-wear suits he had been forced to settle upon, but there had been no time. His darkened skin and lighter hair, though by no means fashionable, did seem to lend him an exotic, mysterious air which, he could not help but notice, attracted the attention of several ladies aboard the train.
Christine had been at his side when one such woman had flirtatiously peered up at him from beneath her feathered hat, offering him a warm little smile. He had caught her eye and smiled back, secretly hoping against hope that his dear friend had noticed the interlude. Surely she must see that he was just as desirable as any man, and had felt a stab of jealousy! How could she not? Henri had glanced down at his companion to find her staring intently out the window at the scenery rushing by.
She had not noticed, after all.
He sighed, straightened his waistcoat again, and entered the dining car. The ready-made suit would have to do until they reached Prague.
M. David scanned the diners seated at the tables, looking for his party. Spotting them in the opposite corner of the car, he gave a little wave and claimed the table next to theirs. He settled Jean-Paul into the chair opposite his and tied a napkin around the boy's neck; Christine would be displeased if the child soiled his new clothing.
Jean-Paul stared at his empty plate. "Is Papa here?" he asked.
Henri's eyes snapped to the boy's. "No, he is not," he replied succinctly. "Your father is…" What the avocat had meant to say was 'Your father is dead'; however, as he stared down at the child's questioning blue eyes, he found he could not finish the thought. "Your father…he is not here," he finished weakly, and stared down at his own empty plate to avoid the child's innocent gaze.
A look of disappointment crossed Jean-Paul's face and for a moment, Henri was afraid he would cry. The boy soon became engrossed with his silver napkin ring, however, and to M. David's relief, all talk of 'Papa' ended.
"How is Madame Reinard fairing?" Ze'ev Borochov inquired from the neighboring table.
The avocat swiveled around and leaned over the chair. "Still as sick as a dog," he chuckled, shaking his head. "The poor thing could barely stand, she was trembling so. And such a temper these past few days! She practically ordered me to leave her room—would not accept a single bit of help."
"She has not been well since we left Acre," Ze'ev said pensively.
Henri shrugged and glanced at the breakfast list, then at the waiter pouring tea. "Smoked salmon, oeufs en cocotte, and an apple tartlet for the boy, s'il vous plait," he said, and turned back to Ze'ev. "Forgive the uncouthness, but Christine has never had a strong stomach. Why, she was seasick for nearly half of our journey aboard the H.M.S. Inflexible, and that was a large ship. The small rig from Acre to Constantinople was nothing compared to the navy steamer—of course she would be ill."
"She was awfully peaked right until we reached Jerusalem," Norry confirmed, absently toying with the French silver in his fingers. "Couldn't nye walk thirty steps 'fore she was leaning over the railing again."
"Messieurs, we have not been aboard a ship for three days," Borochov countered. He murmured something in Russian to his wife; she stared at him, then nodded and rose from her chair to assist the sick woman. "Rhivka shall see to Madame Reinard before she returns to our children."
Henri could not help but notice the knowing look that passed between husband and wife. His face went pale. "You cannot think—why, it isn't possible—"
"M. David, of course it is possible."
"But—with Jean-Paul, it was nearly two years!"
The man chuckled. "Not every marriage is the same, Monsieur. We cannot speculate based upon previous—"
Old Norry cleared his throat in irritation, suddenly making his presence known. "I can't help but think it's not our place to speculate whether it is possible or not. A bunch of old gossips—worse than women." He stabbed a baked apple and popped it into his mouth, then pointed the fork at the two men, his words low and serious. "All I know is that girl has been unhappy since we left Acre. She didn't want to leave her husband behind in Jerusalem. And my Papillon—who knows whether they were able to get out of the city!" He swallowed the apple and shook his head. "We shouldn't have left 'em behind—my girlie, the Persian and that man—we should have waited."
"We had no choice, M. Nitot," the Russian said empathetically. "Benyamin, Sasha, and Jean-Paul—we could not linger any longer in Palestine, risking their lives. Besides, if Madame Reinard is…you know…then it is entirely better that we left. Prague will be much safer than Acre. If the others escaped Jerusalem, then they will find us there, eventually."
"And how will they find us in Prague?" Norry asked. "They cannot visit every inn and hotel in the city. Suppose they were not able to leave Palestine right away, and aren't at the bridge on Sunday—then what?"
Ze'ev sighed. "We shall simply have to hope they show up. If not—we will decide what to do when the time comes."
The old caretaker grumbled something under his breath and stared out the window, surveying the Serbian countryside as it flew by.
Henri studied the crystal glass in his hand, lost in thought. Rolling its base around in the sunbeam that fell across the table, he watched the colored pins of light as they scattered along the wall. The waiter returned with their breakfast and set it in front of him and Jean-Paul, but he took no notice. "Christine could not possibly be…" he repeated sadly, shaking his head.
"Could not be what?"
The lawyer glanced up in surprise to find the very woman they had spoken of pulling out the chair opposite him. She had changed into a lovely blue dress and had pinned up her curls. Though still pale and tired, she appeared to have regained control of her faculties.
Cheeks flushing in embarrassment, he quickly jumped up from the table and walked around to her side, pushing in her chair.
"I could not be what, Henri?" she repeated. Taking up a knife and fork, she cut her child's tartlet into smaller pieces, then slid the plate away. Jean-Paul immediately wrapped tiny fingers around the pastry, shoved it into his mouth, and grinned at his mother. She patted his hand and turned back to her companion, waiting for an answer.
The avocat glanced over his shoulder for help. Ze'ev and Norry stared intently at their plates, suddenly busying themselves with their breakfast. He turned back to his companion and gestured to the dainty china teapot. "Hungry," he replied. "You could not possibly be hungry; may I offer you tea instead?"
Christine nodded and handed the man her cup and saucer, letting the question drop. "When shall we reach Vienna, do you think?"
"Depending on how quickly we traverse Hungary, I would venture tomorrow morning. And from there, on to Prague." He handed her teacup back. "Prague is a magnificent city, Christine. My father sent my brothers and me on many tours of the continent—after the war, of course—and the Bohemian capitol was always a favorite of mine, despite its rather vulgar Austrian authorities. As Goethe said, 'In the crown of the cities, Praha is the most precious stone.' I am inclined to agree with him—Hradčany Castle, St. Vitus Cathedral, Charles Bridge, the river Vltava—such dark beauty cannot be found anywhere else upon the earth. Oeufs en cocotte?"
He lifted the lid from the baked eggs and offered them to the woman.
Christine put a hand to her mouth and shook her head, carefully averting her eyes from the dish. "No, thank you," she murmured and busied herself with her tea.
M. David grimly studied the woman before him. Then, as if he had dropped a mask over his face, he gave her a radiant smile, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue leather-bound book.
"For you, my dear," he murmured, sliding the object across the table.
Christine looked at him curiously. As she picked up the book, Henri's fingertips brushed hers and she quickly pulled her hand away, cheeks flushing crimson. She flipped open the cover and skimmed the title page, conscientiously avoiding the lawyer's steady gaze.
"The True City of Love: Janos' Conversational and Touring Guide to Prague. Henri, what a…thoughtful gift," she stammered, the corners of her mouth twitching in amusement.
The man beamed. "I purchased it in Belgrade this morning, during our brief stop. It shall be immensely helpful, I assure you. Once we reach the city, I shall show you every inch of it! You won't be disappointed, I promise you—Prague will be a luxury compared to the horrible conditions we endured in Jerusalem. The sights, the sounds—we must begin atop Hradčany, of course, and work our way down the hill, across the river and into Staré Mĕsto, the Old Town—"
"Henri," Christine cut in, "I am sure that Prague is lovely. However, you must not think we are going, simply to tour the city. Once I find my husband, there will be no time to loiter about."
The avocat scowled. "From what you have told us, it is not even certain whether Raoul is alive or dead."
"I spoke of Erik," she said softly, her eyes searching his. "He is my husband now, Henri. You must accept this."
"I will certainly try to accept this," M. David retorted, his face crumpling in hurt petulance, "but I highly doubt that Raoul de Chagny will be so keen to accept it. Should you discover him in Prague, he will be devastated to find that he has lost his wife," he added in spite.
Christine abruptly pushed away from the table and rose. "I have heard enough. Jean-Paul, have you finished your breakfast?" The mother untied the cloth from her child's neck as he crammed one last bite of the apple tartlet into his mouth, nodding that he was indeed finished. As she laid the napkin down, M. David's hand quickly closed over hers.
"Just remember, Christine, who has never left your side since London," he whispered fervently, "and who has always done the leaving. Simply food for thought."
Her eyes snapped up warily and she yanked her hand away. "I would hold your tongue, if I were you," she said, her words low and threatening. "You know what happens to men who get in Erik's way." She tilted her chin in defiance. "He will be at Charles Bridge on Sunday, Henri. Therefore, I suggest you keep your hand at the level of your eyes." And with her parting shot, she picked up her boy and turned on her heel, striding from the dining car.
M. David watched Christine's retreating form until she was out of sight, then picked up the discarded touring book and angrily shoved it into his pocket.
The sound of quiet chuckling met the lawyer's ears, and he whirled around to face the two men seated at the neighboring table.
"Well done, lad," said old Norry, still wincing from the disastrous scene. "If I were you, I'd best watch your neck from now on. If he doesn't get you, she will."
Crossing his arms in anger, Henri bit his tongue and turned to the window, watching the whir of the green hills. He reached up to the window and cracked it open slightly, then pulled the blue tour book from his coat and tossed it away. With a huff, he jammed the glass shut and fell back into his chair, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the now-cold eggs. Choking down a bite, he shoved his plate away in disgust.
She couldn't possibly be…he thought bitterly, and turned back to the window.
OOOOO
The call of the muezzins echoed through Jerusalem's dusky quarters, signaling the end of another long day. Once again, the city gates were closed to the outside world, their lion guardians of stone stoic and unwavering in the moonlit night.
An oil lamp burned low in the shabby parlor of the Franciscan monastery; two people, an old priest and a nun, sat in tense silence waiting, their bags at their feet. A mantel clock struck the time: a quarter past eight. If they were to reach Acre by morning, it would be necessary to depart within the hour.
The holy sister was the first to break the silence. "Father, are you certain that you wish to accompany us?" she asked, a look of concern crossing her face. "You have your ministry here. And suppose we were discovered…"
The priest patted the woman's shoulder. "Never you mind, my daughter. My ministry here will be well cared for in my absence. Moreover, I feel a certain calling to assist you and Daroga Khan in this endeavor to find your friend; and when one is given a calling, one must not turn away."
"It is Constantinople for certain, then?"
"Nothing is for certain, Mlle. Nitot. Constantinople is the most likely place for a political assassin of your friend's caliber to be incarcerated. The Turkish capitol holds the largest, most secure prisons of repute. Or rather, ill repute," he murmured, turning wizened eyes upon the woman. "Even if he has been taken to the city, there are many places in which he could be held—both in Constantinople and the surrounding area. It could be a long time before we discover his whereabouts, you understand." He rose and faced the woman, his voice edged with a plea. "Please, my daughter, will you not reconsider continuing on to the continent from Acre? Go to the Sûreté; find Mme. Reinard. You will be much safer there."
Papi smiled softly and shook her head. "My resolve is firm, Father. Like you, I too have a calling."
The priest sighed and touched the woman's head, as if offering a reluctant benediction. "Very well, then. We must all choose the will of God when he calls."
At last, the man they had been waiting upon, also a priest, emerged from the adjoining room, folded his prayer rug and slipped it into his valise. Smoothing a hand over his Franciscan attire, he grimaced and muttered a Persian oath.
"Allah forgive me for this blasphemy," Nadir muttered, and held out a hand to the cloaked nun.
Papi grinned and took his hand. "I am sure that Allah shall forgive you this one offense, M. Khan. If your friend can dress as an officer of Her Majesty's Navy and not be struck dead, you will certainly be forgiven, I am sure."
"The disguise will ensure safer travels," replied Father Jakob. "Holy men and women are usually overlooked on the roads from Jerusalem to Constantinople; usually, they are simply messengers between the Sepulchre and the cathedrals of the north. As are we." The priest slipped into his cloak and picked up his satchel.
Papi smiled and turned to the daroga. 'Well then, shall we journey to Constantinople?"
Nadir gazed at the young woman, torn. "Stubborn woman! I should lock you in this parlor and not allow you to leave. Mademoiselle, are you certain you wish to do this?"
Papi took her friend's hand and squeezed it. "Yes," she whispered, her eyes searching his. "Yes. Allow me this, Nadir. I have to help right the wrongs of the past, for my own peace of mind."
An enigmatic look crossed over the Persian's face, his jade eyes darkening. His fingers tightened over hers. A minute passed and yet he did not relinquish her grip.
Papi grew distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze; heart pounding, she glanced at the floor, pulling her hand from his.
Nadir turned from her and swept his cloak over his shoulders, carefully avoiding her eyes. "Very well," he murmured, "you shall go with us to Constantinople. I pray to Allah that I shall not regret this decision."
o
The cobblestone streets of the ancient city were dark and empty. Yellow light spilling from the second story homes of shopkeepers cast odd shadows against the sandy buildings, the meager glow offering little comfort to the three passers-by.
After a scant two weeks, the Turkish authorities had pulled their extra guards away from the convent, the orphanage, the monastery, and the city gates. Whatever the sudden disappearance of the guards meant, their lacking presence made Nadir and Papi's escape from Jerusalem all too easy.
Only the new Lion's Gate keeper stood guard that quiet night. The young man watched the holy persons approach his watch and he glanced about, unsure of what to do The position had been appointed to him quite recently after the rather gruesome murder of his predecessor, and thus far, he had yet to deal with strange occurrences. Travelers had requested entry to the city after dark on several occasions, and after a thorough inspection, the Turkish soldiers present had admitted them to the city. Surely travelers requesting to leave the city would present no problem.
"Sadik," the gatekeeper said uneasily, "what is your business tonight?"
Father Jakob stepped forward, his Arabic fluent and unassuming. "We are three servants of God who are called to serve outside the city. We travel to the northern settlements, without a moment to spare. If you will let us pass…" The priest gestured to the gate.
The guard eyed them warily. "The roads are not safe at night, Father. It would be best for you to wait until morning."
"A man is dying, Sadik," Nadir said emphatically, pulling the hood of his cloak down to hide his Persian features. "You would not deny a man his last rite. As the father said, we must go without delay."
The young Arab gatekeeper stared at the two priests and the nun. At last, he nodded, unbarred the heavy iron gate and swung it open, allowing the Franciscans to pass.
Hiding their surprise at the ease of the escape, they moved through the towering passage through Suleiman's wall, leaving Jerusalem behind. As they maneuvered down the steep, gravelly bank toward the Ofel road, an unspoken dread filled the minds of each traveler; though none dared to give voice to the question, each felt its presence.
It had been too easy.
Life had seemingly returned to normal, which could only mean one of two things: either the Turks no longer believed the Persian and the French woman to be in the city…
…or they no longer cared.
Either way, it meant that the police knew something they did not. They already had captured Erik; were they tracking the others to Europe, as well? Perhaps they had already found them…
OOOOO
In comparison to the splendid hotels lining the banks of the Vltava, the Brno Pension was a modest affair. With its old-fashioned, heavy mahogany furniture, stout oriental rugs, and faded velvet cushions upon the divans, the place had once been the epitome of style. The old inn on the edge of Josefov, in the heart of the Staré Mĕsto, was a prime location for any visitor wishing to soak up the gothic grandeur of the city. Given its proximity to the Jewish ghetto, however, the proprietors found themselves sadly lacking the wealthy patrons who had once frequented the inn, and now provided rooms to the Jewish bourgeoisie and French bohemians who desired to tour the city at modest expense.
The narrow bed and small bathroom was of no consequence to Madame Reinard, however. Though Henri David had nearly gone into hysterics when he learned they would not be staying in the Hotel Adria or Grand Bohemia, she found the inn to be perfectly suitable to their needs.
Glancing at her appearance in the mirror, Christine carefully pinned a wayward curl into place, lightly powdered her skin, and slid the dark blue bracelet Erik had purchased for her onto her wrist—one of the few mementos she had carried with her from Jerusalem. She twisted it about to admire the opalescent engravings, smiled weakly at her reflection, and swept from the room.
Today is Sunday, she thought with joy. Today is the day that Erik will be waiting for me upon the Charles Bridge, and we shall be together again.
Though they had only been parted two weeks, it seemed as though a lifetime had passed. The worst of it had been the uncertainty: not knowing what had become of Erik, Nadir, and Papi, whether they had safely escaped Palestine or had suffered a mishap along the way.
Today, however, her fears would be put to rest, and she could sleep in the arms of her husband once more.
With an anxious spring to her step, Christine lifted her heavy blue skirts, flew down several flights of stairs and into the large parlor where Henri, Norry, and Jean-Paul awaited.
"Maman," the boy cried, holding out his arms for his mother. Christine laughed and scooped up the child, smoothing down his sailor collar.
"Today?" he asked excitedly, quickly catching his mother's enthusiasm.
"Yes, today, my little man! Papa will be home today." She set the squirming toddler down, turned to her companions and gestured to the door.
M. David's lips twisted sourly as he offered his arm to the woman. "You look particularly lovely this morning, my darling girl. No sickness, I presume?" He placed his top hat on his head, careful not to mess the soft wave of his hair.
"No, none at all," she said absently, anxious to make their way to the bridge. The porter swung the heavy door open for her and she strode outside, glancing about for the carriage. "Henri," she asked warily, "where is the brougham? Surely you called for one."
M. David chuckled and patted her hand indulgently. "Such an anxious little thing today! For the past three days, you have taken a brougham to Charles Bridge, without a care for the sights and sounds of Prague. It is such a lovely morning, I thought that you would enjoy walking, taking in the city."
Christine took a deep breath and turned to the porter. "Sir, would you be so kind as to call a brougham?"
The young man stared at her blankly for a moment. Suddenly his face lit in recognition. "Brougham?" he repeated.
"Yes," she nodded. "Ano. Brougham. Dêkuji," she smiled sweetly, and turned back to her companions. "If you do not mind, I would prefer to take a brougham. You may walk, Henri, if you truly want to, and we shall meet you at the bridge."
M. David sighed dejectedly. "No, no. We shall simply postpone our walk for another day."
After several minutes, a carriage rattled to a halt in front of the inn. The lawyer held Christine's hand as he assisted her into the cab, and perhaps a bit longer than necessary. Picking up Jean-Paul, he passed the child to his mother and settled into the heavily cushioned seat next to Norry.
Christine leaned forward to peer out the window at her surroundings. The early May morning was a grey one; a hazy fog had settled over the Vltava and spilled into the maze-like streets of Praha, nearly obscuring the old town from view. Rows of pastel town houses and shop fronts sped by, their Baroque gables topping doors and roofs like delicate white frosting upon a cake. The woman smiled at the whimsical, fairytale-like quality of the building, and lifted her son to the window so he too could see the sights.
The brougham jolted along the rough stones, carrying them through the roads of the Staré Mĕsto until they came to a great square surrounded by red-roofed buildings. Next to the square rose a church, its gothic spires towering above Prague.
"The Church of the Virgin Mary before Týn," murmured Henri.
Christine ran her palm over the foggy glass and peered up at the old giant, gaping at the rows of black spindles piercing the clouds, loosing the daylight. All about the square, throngs of the holy made their way to the kirche, solemn and faceless in the morning murk. The colorless sight sent a chill through her body; it seemed as though she were watching a funeral procession, so quiet was the early morning hour; only the dull bells of the Týn church dared disturb the peace, their peals swallowed by the fog. Turning her eyes away from the ominous scene, she craned her neck to look up the square, towards the old town hall.
"Did you know, Christine, that this pile of bricks they call a tower is more than four hundred years old?" said M. David, his eyes shining. "Around the bend in the side of the hall is the most charming clock—an astrological clock, to be precise. I remember my brother, Michel, and I observed the clock for nearly an hour, watching the mechanisms and waiting for the figures to emerge from the doors. There was a little café to the right, of course, where we sat. Ah! It is there, still. Perhaps tomorrow we might take tea there…"
Christine pursed her lips and gazed through the window, watching as the carriage turned left, then right onto Karlova, carrying them closer to the river. She glanced down at her hands and noticed that she had been wringing her gloves in her lap, stretching the soft white material. With trembling fingers, she slid them onto her hands and rested her arm upon the door, ready to leap from the carriage as it clattered to a halt.
The large, age-darkened Powder Tower came into view and beyond it, the Karlův Most – Charles Bridge. The carriage passed under the arch of the tower and slowed in front of the bridge. Before the brougham had even stopped, Christine threw open the door and leapt to the ground, heedless of her heavy skirting. She peered intently through the fog partially shrouding the bridge, searching for the tall form of her angel. She could see no one.
With a disappointed sigh, she turned back to the carriage and held out her arms for her little boy, who was anxious to roam the strange place and seek out even stranger animals.
"Jean-Paul, you must stay next to Maman, do you understand? No running ahead this time."
The child nodded solemnly and grabbed a fist of his mother's skirt, eager to show just how well he could obey. Christine smiled down upon the boy and slowly made her way towards the bridge, careful to not out-stride her son.
"Damn fog," Norry muttered as they walked along the empty bridge. "Can't see a thing for its thickness." He put his hand to his forehead as if the action would magically clear the murk away, impatient to catch sight of his daughter.
The small party sauntered along the empty Most, valiantly hiding their disappointment.
"They will be here very soon, I am sure," Christine proclaimed, and settled upon a wrought-iron bench with her son to wait for her husband.
"I certainly hope so," Norry murmured, his eyes betraying tremendous concern.
M. David sat down next to the woman, his arm resting along the back of the bench behind her. "It is entirely possible there was some sort of delay in Palestine, you know: bad weather, trouble with paperwork, perhaps a broken wheel, even. One cannot say…"
"He will be here, Henri," Christine said resolutely.
They waited upon the Karlův Most for the entire morning, gazing up and down the empty bridge, with only the looming black statues for company. Christine found herself drawn to the giant silhouettes lining the edge of the bridge; the sandstone saints possessed a dark, sad beauty, which at once warmed her heart and chilled her senses. She studied the statue before her: the crowned queen of heaven, rising through the clouds on the backs of a dozen cherub-faced angels, tenderly gazing upon a repentant holy man kneeling at her feet. In her arms was her son, the sovereign orb resting in his lap.
Christine stared down at her own little son, now curled peacefully at her side. Jean-Paul had played happily for most of the morning, every now and then darting along the stone wall, chasing birds and trotting his dull white horse about. When he tired of that, he settled into his mother's arms, singing old Breton songs and telling silly stories to pass the time until Papa came to them. Soon enough, he had dropped off to sleep, the morning's excitement wearing on the two-year-old's constitution.
M. David chatted happily at her other side, every now and again asking her opinion. She murmured a vacant "yes" or "no", and he would rattle away, heedless of her reply.
As the noon hour approached and the churches emptied, the Charles Bridge slowly came to life. Town folk and artists alike wandered along the stone expanse, hawking their goods and creating their masterpieces. An organ grinder resplendent in a black bowler hat and bohemian vest set up his painted barrel organ not far from their bench. As the strains of Le Donna e Mobile bellowed from the pipes, Jean-Paul started awake and immediately slid from his mother's lap, curiosity sparked. A small monkey climbed onto the organ grinders shoulder and chattered. The child clapped in delight.
Christine rose from the bench and joined her son, a smile spreading across her face as she observed the monkey's tasseled Persian vest and cap. "Your Papa has a music box in Paris that looks just like this small monkey, mon petit," she whispered into the child's ear. "If you ask him nicely, one day he might just fetch it for you."
The boy pointed to the active little animal climbing up and down the barrel organ. "Like this monkey?" he gasped incredulously, his eyes glistening with excitement.
The mother laughed. "No, not like this monkey, Jean-Paul. The one in Paris does not run around and chatter quite as much. But they are very much alike." She kissed the top of his curly head and handed him a coin. "Hold out your hand," she instructed.
The toddler held out the coin for the Persian monkey, then squealed and yanked it back as the animal snatched the silver from his fingers. He turned to his Maman and held out his hand for a second coin.
"I will give you another soon, little man. Let us walk down the bridge first, and see the other artists."
She took the child's hand, clucking her tongue as he scowled in protest. Soon, however, the other sights and sounds of the circus-like bridge lured him in; a violinist and accordionist playing an odd rendition of a Czech folk song; a gypsy woman twirling about with brightly-colored scarves; the Art Nouveau followers with their easels and sketchbooks, painting their intricate patterns and curving lines.
As they paced up and down Charles Bridge, Christine intently scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for the flash of a white mask. Fair and dark, wrinkled and smooth, but her husband was not among them. With a sigh of impatience, she grasped her son's hand and strode back to Mssrs. Nitot and David.
Another hour was spent in the company of the organ grinder, the boy squealing as the monkey took coin after coin. Soon, however, the repetitive song became dreary, even for Jean-Paul, and he quickly grew shrill and hungry.
"I want!" was the war cry, and Christine picked up the squirming, red-faced boy, rocking him back and forth. When it became apparent that the child would not be appeased, she put forth a desperate plea to M. David for assistance.
"Henri, Jean-Paul needs to return to the inn," she said urgently. "Would you be so kind as to call a brougham?"
The avocat at once rose to do as he was bid, then halted. A charitable thought stirred in his mind—a rarity for Henri David—and he gently took the boy from Christine's arms.
"Do you wish to remain here with M. Nitot, my girl?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers.
Christine nodded.
"Then I shall take your son back to the inn, feed him, and put the little savage to bed. How does that suit you?"
The woman stammered her thanks, at a loss for words. It wasn't until she watched the rapidly departing back of the lawyer that she realized, he too, had grown hungry and weary of waiting.
The afternoon passed just as the morning had for Christine and Norry: intervals of crossing the old bridge, studying the artists, musicians, and stone saints, discussing this and that. And always searching…waiting…
Before long, the sun began to sink below the Hradčany, casting the entire skyline of mighty Prague into shadow. St. Vitus Cathedral rose high above them, lording over the Hradčany, its black spires and buttresses glowing green in the light of the sprawling palace. The artists and town folk wandered back from whence they came, gradually leaving Karlův Most dark and empty. A young lamp lighter made his way along the bridge, carrying his ladder and propping it up against the gas street lamps, one by one, until the road and sandstone saints were bathed in soft light. The sky became a brilliant orange…then a dusky rose...purple…as the night slowly secured power over the Pearl City.
Christine pressed her fingertips to her stinging eyes, her head wearily falling back against the cold iron of the bench. I will not cry, she silently repeated over and over, a prayer upon her lips. I will not cry…he will come…he will come…
"Madame," said Norry at her side, his sorrowful eyes shadowed by the street light. "I think it is time for us to leave."
"No!" Christine cried. She suddenly sat up and clutched the old man's sleeve, her eyes pleading with his. "You don't understand, Norry. Erik—he always comes at night, when there are no people about. He prefers it, you see."
"Christine, child—"
"—And he always appears from thin air, when you least expect it." A frantic edge crept into her voice as she fought back tears. "Just when I begin to believe he will not come, he always does. He always comes to me."
Norry shook his head sadly, his own tears threatening to spill over. "Madame, I want them to be here as much as you do. Merde, I miss my daughter just as you miss your husband. The truth is, though, they will not come!" He rose from the bench, offering his arm to the upset woman. "It is time. The streets have grown dark, and it is no longer safe."
At last Christine nodded and wearily stood, stretching her limbs after hours of sitting. The pair made their way across the bridge and back to the Powder Tower, scanning the near-deserted streets for a brougham. After stumbling along the rough paving-stones past the closed, dark shops along Karlova, the sound of a lone carriage clattering along the street caught their attention. Norry called to the driver and handed his mistress into the cab, climbed in behind her, and settled into the cushions.
Neither spoke as the brougham carried them back to Josefov. They passed through the quiet town square, the gothic spires of V. Mary before Týn barely visible against the black, starless sky. Both passengers stared though their windows at the specter-like square, each lost in their sad thoughts.
"We should not have left them there," Norry murmured at length, more to himself than to Christine.
"I know," she whispered, tears now running down her cheeks.
Quiet again fell upon the coach as the truth sank into Christine's heart. She had known. Somehow, deep inside of her, she had known. In Acre, she had felt him…felt his desperate eyes upon her. Yet she had banished the feeling, refusing to believe that anyone or anything could fell her mighty angel.
Well, now I know the truth, she reflected grimly. So what shall I do with it?
"Norry, I am going to return to Palestine," she said suddenly, her head flying up from its forlorn tilt. "Will you go with me?"
The old caretaker sat up in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"
"I am going to return to Palestine. I am going back for Erik."
"Madame," he stammered, "have you forgotten why we left to begin with? And who knows where they could be by now?"
She shook her head, her blue eyes flaming with determination. "I must find them—I will find a way. Perhaps I can write to Sister Helena, or Father Jakob. Or maybe I need only return to Acre. Or Raoul…if he… I cannot say. There are several things that must first be done in Prague, but I will discover what happened to them, I swear to you." She placed her hand on his wrinkled old one, her face unyielding with a certainty beyond her years. "Will you go with me?"
Norry studied her face for a moment, and then nodded. "Of course."
Christine leaned against the cushioned seat and offered him a twisted smile, cold confidence pulsing through her veins and bleeding from her person.
The sight chilled Norry to the bone.
"Good," she murmured, and turned back to her window.
A/N:
Story Recommendation: Buds Bursting Into Bloom, by Chatastic
This is my wonderful Chatastic's masterpiece. And while I may be biased, as she is my beta, I have to pass this hysterical diddy along to you. After the last few depressing Frat chapters (forgive me!), I thought some clever humor was called for. And Buds Bursting Into Bloom is just that.
Chat has researched and read many a dreaded Mary Sue phic, the worst of the worst, and compiled her discoveries into one delightfully perfect, gorgeous, and dumb-as-a-rock Mary Sue named "Cat". Humor is hard to do, and Chatastic's writing style is intelligent, creative, and witty. She parodies everything, from the classic ALW "mirror scene", to the Paris Commune. Even the Phantom's name does not escape her sharp sense of spoof.
The best part about it? The spoof actually has an interesting story line, amidst the dream sequences, 80's rock ballads, and plethora of innuendoes.
Enjoy!