Chapter Eleven

Isabel had a habit of gaping her mouth in surprise. It was a characteristic she hated, overtly feminine and silly. Daniel would never cease to tease her about it, the way her hand would fly to her heart as she inhaled sharply, how wide her eyes would grow. She was a helpless woman in moments of panic, a twittering fool with no sense of reason.

But, looking at the tall man with the startlingly green eyes and the warm brown skin, she surprised herself by shrieking.

The man looked shocked for a brief moment, then dropped his hat and waved his hands about wildly. "Madam!" he cried in an unfamiliar accent. "Madam, I beseech you, be calm!"

Isabel shut her mouth and placed a hand over her churning stomach. "Sir! You do not let yourself into the home of a gentleman unannounced!"

The man bent and retrieved his hat, wringing it in his hands again. "I apologize for startling you, madam, but I had no idea Erik was… keeping company."

Isabel grabbed a fistful of skirt and twisted violently. "I am his housemaid, sir."

The man's eyebrows rose. "His housemaid? I see." He stepped back and gave an elegant bow. "Nadir Khan, madam, at your service."

Isabel stared at the man blankly, her hand still at her stomach, her nerves still shaken. "Isabel Bauer," she said faintly. A thudding from upstairs sounded and Thomas appeared on the staircase, looking alarmed. "Mama, were you screaming?"

"Ah… yes, darling, but I'm alright." She motioned for Thomas to come to her and he complied, hopping down the narrow stairs and standing beside her. She placed her hand on his shoulder and looked at the man. "My son, Thomas."

Mr. Khan bowed again, his smile fading a bit as his gaze fell to Thomas. "Mrs. Bauer. Mr. Bauer. A pleasure."

Thomas stared at the man with awe. "You're not English!" he exclaimed.

"Thomas," Isabel muttered in a warning tone.

Mr. Khan waved a hand. "No, that's quite alright. I am not English. I am from Persia, as a matter of fact."

Isabel blinked in surprise. "You're a long way from home, sir."

"Or very close to it, should I choose to reside in England." His smile grew again and Isabel paused, gathering her wits.

"How are you acquainted with Mr. Bertrand, sir?"

"Who?" The man looked confused.

"Mr. Erik Bertrand?" She rubbed her stomach absently. "The master of the house?"

"Bertrand?" the man looked mildly amused for a moment, his eyes darting around the hallway. "Is that his name now…"

If he noticed Isabel's inquisitive expression, he didn't respond to it.

"I've known Erik for many years."

It wasn't an answer, but Isabel knew it was all she was going to get from him. Patting Thomas' shoulder, she raised her eyes to meet Mr. Khans'. "I'll fetch him, sir. He's by the gardens."

"The gardens?" the man said curiously. "Out in daylight, is he?" He peered around Isabel's form, as if trying to see Mr. Bertrand through the wall.

"Yes, sir, he is. I shall return with him presently." She turned to go.

"No need, Mrs. Bauer. I would prefer to make my presence known myself." Giving another polite bow, he wandered into the kitchen behind Isabel, and she heard the door to the backyard creak open.

She gave Thomas' shoulder a quick squeeze and dashed to the kitchen window, peeking through the faded lace curtain discreetly. Mr. Bertrand had his back to her, measuring a space on the wall of the stable. Mr. Khan stood a few feet from him, quietly observing. Then his voice broke the silence, speaking in a tongue Isabel didn't recognize, and Mr. Bertrand spun around, his eyes flashing. His body seemed to deflate when his gaze reached the man in front of him: his shoulders slumped, his arms fell to his sides. Isabel saw his mouth move, but his words were far too faint to make out. The dark-skinned man, however, must have understood, because he strode forward and offered Mr. Bertrand a hand. Mr. Bertrand stared at it for a moment before lifting his arm and shaking with the man, still looking strangely defeated. She glanced from the foreigner to her employer… and saw those blue-green eyes staring directly back at her.

Isabel dropped the curtain and tripped away from the window, feeling heat crawl up her face.


"Why a stable?" Nadir's eyes stayed on the structure, a trace of amusement evident on his face.

"Why not?"

"Really, Erik," the Persian sighed, seating himself on the ground, "I do wish you would make sense once in a while." He nodded towards the wet bandage on Erik's palm. "That hand looks like it is on the road to infection, if not there already."

Erik raised the hand and examined it briefly. "I have not had time to treat it, I'm afraid."

Nadir rolled his eyes upwards. "Merciful Allah. A pointless stable comes before an injury. Really, you are incorrigible, my friend."

"The horses will need a place to reside, unless I let them wander around the orchard, eating all my fruit and leaving piles of dung for me to step in." Erik picked up a hinge and scowled at the poor quality of the piece. "Shoddy. One drawback of living out here is having no variety in metalworkers."

"I don't seem to remember you complaining about that much in Paris." Nadir's brow lifted as he gazed at the building again. "Of course, you weren't constructing shelters for invisible horses in Paris, either."

Grunting, Erik began aligning boards, wiping blood from the wood impatiently. "The town nearest here is too long a journey to make on foot. I plan on purchasing some horses to pull a cart."

"For all your social outings, no doubt."

Erik shot his friend a wary glance. "I don't suppose you will readily tell me your reason for suddenly appearing, daroga You always did like a mystery."

Nadir sniffed indignantly. "How utterly untrue. I simply wished to see how you were. 'Checking up on you,' I suppose you could say."

"And how did you find me?" Erik selected a metal brace from the line of materials and placed it on the board, glancing around for his hammer.

"I was the chief of police, if you'll remember. I have retained some of my stealthy ways."

"I do not doubt it," Erik muttered, driving a nail into the wood with unnecessary force. "However, my departing from Paris was done in complete secrecy and without a single human being's knowledge. You must have known where I was going."

Nadir merely smiled.

"Very well. How long do you plan to stay?"

"As long as I am welcome. So less than a month, I would imagine."

Erik snorted. "You were not invited. Ergo, your welcome has already worn out. But," he added at the Persian's dark expression, "since you have traveled the distance already, it would be pointless for you to stay elsewhere." He released a slow breath, staring down at the adjoined planks with some satisfaction.

"It is a simple structure," Nadir observed pleasantly, leaning against the side of the building.

"Yes," Erik said quietly. "Very simple."

"In earlier years, you would have completed it in a matter of hours."

"I am drawing this task out as long as I can, I must admit. I find the distraction it offers to be a comfort."

There was a moment of silence as Erik stood back from the planks and took up a curved metal strip from the organized line of materials in front of him. He knelt and drew up a ladder, leaning it against the gaping hole in the center of the building. Sticking the handle of the hammer into the waistband of his trousers, he climbed the ladder slowly, aligning the metal strip along the top of the hole.

"I met your housemaid."

Erik dropped a nail. Cursing, he swiftly descended from the ladder and picked it up, peering at it closely. "Yes. Mrs. Bauer."

"Isabel," Nadir said slowly. "A charming name."

"If names can be charming." He climbed the ladder again.

"I'm afraid I startled her rather badly. She shrieked quite loudly when I arrived."

"Shrieking upon accepting guests. How terribly like her."

"And I met her little boy," Nadir continued, ignoring Erik's irritated tone.

Erik snorted. "Yes, her son. Thomas, I believe his name is. He spends most of his time drawing on scraps of moldy paper and reading salacious poetry."

"I beg your pardon?" Nadir's mouth was curved into a faint smile. "He sounds perfectly fascinating to me."

"You know I am not overly fond of children in general. I would not be the right person to judge his character."

"You found a place in your heart for some children," Nadir said softly, his eyes focused on a dark cloud passing overhead.

Erik glanced at Nadir briefly. "Perhaps."

"Ah," Nadir said in a hushed voice. "Such a cool countenance, monsieur. And you are angry - that I can tell. You probably have been for some time." He released a sigh, a look of sadness suddenly taking his face. "You are unwell. I have never seen you so thin; and your complexion! You are paler than death! You have not taken care of yourself in your grief, I see."

Erik felt his shoulders tighten. "Do not speak of grief, daroga It is not a subject I wish to dwell on."

"You must speak about the happenings of that night sometime, Erik. You need to-"

Erik descended down the ladder slowly, carefully placing his feet on the ground. "Daroga, you would do very well to cease this conversation immediately." The words were spoken mildly, but the threat was plain.

Nadir stared at Erik silently. He drew a breath and shook his head. "If you continue to push these thoughts from your mind, you will never be free of your past decisions. You must accept them, Erik, as the inexorable truths that they are."

Erik slammed his injured hand into the wall, curling the fist tightly and shuddering at the sharp pain that ripped down his arm.

"Why can I not escape my past!" he shouted, rounding on Nadir. "Why must I always be reminded? I have suffered for my sins; why do they still haunt me?"

"Oh, Erik," Nadir said, the look of sorrow still lingering on his face. "Pasts haunt. It is what they are meant to do, to forever torment us. I believe we are supposed to learn from them, but…" he turned his head and gazed at the orchard, a small, ironic smile shaping on his lips, "sometimes, the grief is too all-consuming to allow any education."

Cursing, Erik turned and strode towards the house, leaving the Persian leaning against the stable, still smiling sadly at the cherry trees.


Isabel ran a thin cloth over the table in front of her, examining the clean streak she had created in the dust. She heaved a tragic sigh, looking around the room with distaste. It wasn't as daunting as the library, to be sure, but the entire room was covered in dust and grime, and the chairs and sofa were all threadbare and stained. There was no way to make them presentable, but she would do the best she could. Lifting her head proudly, she glanced back at the small, dirty table, and sighed again, slumping her shoulders. She had forgotten the monotony of the work, the thankless job of keeping a house in a tidy, organized state at all times. She was quite horrified to admit that, upon reflection, she was beginning to remember how she really didn't care for the work at all. Dropping herself into a cushioned chair, she surveyed the room lazily. The floors needed to be swept and scrubbed, the windows needed to be washed, the furniture needed to be…

"Burned," she muttered to herself darkly. The upholstery that covered the chairs and sofa was a dull gray, embroidered with pink buds and light green leaves. She wasn't normally one to be critical of furnishings, but the entire set was simply atrocious. It was no wonder the former owners had left them there to rot.

A loud thudding going up the stairs startled Isabel from her musings, and she jumped off the chair. Walking to the door, she peeked out of it cautiously. Nothing looked amiss or out of place. Making a mental note to tell Thomas not to clomp up and down the stairs so loudly, she began to shut the door again when a sharp crack issued from over her head. Swinging the door open, she rushed to the staircase and hurried up it as fast as she dared. Mr. Bertrand emerged from his room, a look of shaken fury etched on his face. Even the mask seemed to glare.

"Have you been inside my boudoir, Mrs. Bauer?"

His deadly calm tone unnerved her.

"No, Mr. Bertrand." She took a step back, easing herself against the handrail of the staircase.

"I do not suppose you have seen a crate containing vials?" He looked at her steadily, his injured hand flexing gently at his side.

"Vials? No, I haven't seen any vials."

"Damn," he swore, turning away from her. "That bloody lout who transported my belongings from the dockyard… I knew he was untrustworthy…"

Isabel blinked at his mutterings. "Is there something I can help with?"

"No," he said stiffly, moving towards his room. "I am sure I can tend to it."

Glancing at the red bandage, Isabel sighed. "What were in the vials, Mr. Bertrand?"

He stopped, turning his head to look at her. His body paused for a moment, as if he was considering his answer. "Medicines," he said at length. He stayed still, his eyes remaining on her form.

"Is it your hand?" she asked quietly, her fingers gently tugging at her skirts. "Has it become infected?"

Mr. Bertrand's gaze sharpened. "It is none of your concern."

"Mr. Bertrand," Isabel said crisply, stepping forward, "it is of no concern to me if your hand falls off from neglect, but I do think you will mind. While it is my job to take care of your home, it is also my duty to help you in any way possible, as well."

"Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Bertrand said in a low voice, "I am very adept at tending to wounds-"

"Is that why that cut hasn't healed in all the days you've had it?"

The question hung in the air. Isabel took another step back, suddenly very aware of the thickness of the humid air. It felt suffocating in that hall, as if the dark walls were closing in on her. Mr. Bertrand's heavy gaze rested on her once more, but he was silent. The thought that he may be too infuriated to respond crossed her mind, and she edged closer to the railing of the stairway, keeping as much distance as she could.

"You would be wise to never use that tone with me again, Madame."

Isabel looked up at the cold words. "Pardon my impertinence. I merely wish to help." Her voice was soft, and she realized that she was coaxing him, gently beckoning him to allow her to assist him in this one task, this impossibly human problem. Perhaps it was the maternal side that Thomas had created in her, but at this moment, despite his imposing height and obvious anger and harsh words, she saw a hurting man who needed help, even if he would rather suffer than admit it.

Mr. Bertrand grunted in the back of his throat and he whipped past her, heading down the stairs. "Get me some alcohol."

Isabel rushed after him, stumbling down the stairs and hurrying into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door and grabbed a bottle of whiskey. She removed the cap and sniffed it delicately, shuddering at the sour odor.

"Get a rag."

Isabel spun around. Mr. Bertrand stood inches from her, taking the bottle from her hand and placing it on the counter. Slowly, he unwound the cloth from around his hand, wincing. Isabel rooted through another cupboard, withdrawing strips of cloths. She turned towards him and her eyes fell to the wound on his hand. The cut itself was inflamed, a thick, grayish fluid mingling with the blood that still dripped out steadily. The entire palm was an angry red with dark streaks formed around the wound. She shut her eyes, trying to quell the sickness she felt in her stomach.

He went to the washing basin and eyed it with disgust. "Is this water clean?"

"Yes. I pumped it this morning, before going to town."

He nodded slightly, dipping his hand into the water and gently washing the wound. She could see his muscles tensing, but he made no sound. After several minutes of silently cleaning the injury, he turned back to her.

"The bottle."

"What?" she said faintly, carefully keeping her eyes away from the wound.

"The bottle, Mrs. Bauer! If you insist on helping me, help."

She turned and picked up the bottle, taking off the cap, and handed it to him quietly. He grabbed it from her and took a swig, swallowing loudly and closing his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he held out his injured hand and poured the whiskey on the wound, hissing as the liquid hit the flesh of his palm.

"Rag!" he commanded, setting the bottle back on the table. Isabel quickly handed him the clean cloth, and he gently dabbed at the wound, grinding his teeth.

Isabel held the bottle out again silently, and he accepted it, throwing the rag to the floor. Pouring more whiskey on his hand, he seemed to relax somewhat. He handed the bottle back to her and she grabbed a fresh cloth. He wiped at the wound, shuddering deeply.

"I shall need to gather some supplies from town to properly treat this," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on his palm. "I assume, perhaps foolishly, that there is an apothecary in the village?"

"Yes. Hardings', I believe it is called."

"Very well." He selected another clean rag and began to wrap it around his hand. "I will not send you into town twice in one day, but you must go tomorrow. I have been idiotic in letting this go on as long as it has."

"Mr. Bertrand, wait." Isabel raised a hand and placed it on his arm gently. His body stilled completely at the contact, and he looked on her with an expression she could not place. Surprise, wonder… perhaps even horror. She removed her hand quickly and dropped it to her side, her face heating.

"Just wait one moment," she mumbled, turning back to the cabinets and digging through them. She removed canvas bags of dried beans and jars of fruit preserves, muttering about disorganization. Finally, she spotted what she was searching for. Smiling triumphantly, she withdrew a canister of honeycomb. Opening it, she pried some of the sticky wax out and crushed it between her fingers, walking back to Mr. Bertrand.

"Give me your hand," she said firmly.

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Your hand, Mr. Bertrand. It will only take a moment."

He held out his injured hand, watching her closely.

She placed the canister on the counter beside them and took his wrist with her clean hand, pulling it towards her. His skin was cool, despite the faint dampness of sweat glistening off it. She felt the slow throb his pulse on her fingers and she moved her hand, unnerved by the sudden intimacy of the situation.

Forcing herself to focus on the wound, she pressed the honeycomb into it gently, holding Mr. Bertrand's forearm firmly. He jerked his arm back at the contact, cursing, but she merely glanced at his face and continued the application, dipping her fingers into the canister and collecting more honey. She gently wiped around the wound with her finger, clearing off any excess, and took a rag in her hand, trying to clean the sticky comb off her fingers. She picked up the cloth Mr. Bertrand had been tying around his palm and wrapped it around the wound slowly. Knotting it carefully, she stepped back, walking to the basin to wash her hands. Seeing the water, red from Mr. Bertrand's blood, she stopped. She grabbed the basin and hurried out the door with it, throwing the tainted water into the backyard. She barely registered Mr. Khan staring at her openly from the orchard, a bemused expression on his face. She rushed to the water pump and rinsed the basin out, wiping frantically at the sides of it until the water in it was clean and clear. She let out a long breath, holding her hand under the stream of water until the honey was washed from it. She picked up the basin and went back into the kitchen. Mr. Bertrand was staring at his hand.

"Honey to treat infection?"

"A remedy my grandmother swore by," Isabel replied lightly, returning the basin to its place. "It always seemed to work, as well. It will do until I get to town tomorrow."

Mr. Bertrand's eyes flicked from his hand to her face. "I see," he said quietly. He straightened himself slowly, his cool presence somewhat dissipated. "I shall make out a list of what I will need from the apothecary."

"Please do," Isabel said pleasantly. She felt a strange calm in the room, a begrudging respect coming from him. She resisted the smile that her mouth wanted to form.

"Mr. Khan and I will take dinner in the library tonight, I think."

"Very well."

He nodded stiffly and walked to the door. He paused, casting her a sidelong look. Turning to face her, he inclined his shoulders briefly, and it occurred to Isabel that he was giving her a bow.

She returned the gesture out of habit and when she looked up he was gone. Looking around the kitchen, she saw him striding back towards the stable. How he had left the room without making a sound was beyond her.

As horrible as seeing his injury had been, she felt a certain relief at the sight of his blood. There were times when she wasn't completely convinced the man was human. The unearthly music, the silent creeping, the violent temper. Such things seemed other-worldly. She glanced down at the bloody rags on the floor.

If it hadn't been for that physical evidence of his mortality, she would have suspected she was dealing with not a man, but a ghost.


As always, the beta, Chat, is the supreme being of the universe. She edits, she suggests, she helps, and the story would be a hopeless pile of rubbish if not for her.
Gracious, 100+ reviews. I'm stunned. And bouncy with joy. You're all wonderful.