Birdsong, gentle and trilling, greeted Cécelie's ears where she lay in bed. A thin beam of morning light warmed her face from the small semi-circular window at the head of her bed. And for the first time in years, she awoke from her sleep with a smile on her face.
To stretch, to sprawl in a feathered bed was like heaven compared to the jail cell, but the freest feeling of them all was knowing she woke alone. Released from prison, free from her shackles, and liberated from the brute of a husband that once she had. But she was done dwelling on the wounds he left her as her only inheritance with his death. The thought of wounds sent her hand wandering absent-mindedly over the center of her stomach. Enough. She'd started a new sort of life before, and this one suited her far better at any rate, she encouraged herself.
Standing from the mattress, she strolled softly to the mirror opposite the foot of her bed, taking careful stock of her face, strange as it looked to her since she last saw it. Her hair, pale and earthy as the straw, fell far down to the middle of her back; her face, usually so round and full, seemed hollow and papery in the light, and her entire figure appeared leaner if not skinny, losing some of its curved fullness from that stay in prison.
No matter. A new look would suit a new way of life just fine.
As she began to finger the knots from her hair, a knock sounded heavily through her door. "Enter," she spoke clearly.
The creaking door timbers opened and shut, and heavy footfalls fell across the floor, halting just behind her. In the reflection, the Inspector's flinty complexion appeared unchanged, his uniform perfectly fitted, his hat impeccably straightened on his broad head; not a hair or a line or button was out of place. Across his arms, she observed a swath of matching navy fabric, long and trailing almost to the floor, a set of starched white petticoats folded perfectly on top of the pile.
"Bonjour, l'Inspecteur. How thoughtful of you to bring me these," she greeted to the man's reflection, meeting his mirrored eyes, their intense color undiminished by the glass. "You may set them on the bed, Monsieur. I will tend to them later," she refocused on her hair, as knotted and unruly as it was from her quick, frigid bath last night.
"You are to tend to them now," he replied immediately, holding them disdainfully from his body, "Get dressed. I am to have you report to the Commissioner as soon as you are decent. " He stepped in front of her in two long strides, "Here," he forced the clothing into her unwilling hands, and a sneer curled his lip as his eyes flashed once up and down over her thinly clothed body, that white shift hiding so very little of her skin. His groin began to ache again, but closing his eyes for a moment, he regained himself; control was his always his strength.
She looked over the simple blue dress, the stiff garments tussled in her hands for a split second before she set them across the foot of the bed herself. To her surprise, there was no sound of receding footsteps. Turning, the severe face of the Inspector remained fixated on her, standing at attention, unmoving between her and the door. She furrowed her brow at the familiar look on his face; he was guarding her still, just as he had for the past week. A wicked thought crossed her mind, a smirk crossing her face; how long would the iron clad will of the Inspector last—she was about to find out.
Without turning her back to him in modesty, she began slowly lifting the course nightshift from her body, her eyes never once leaving his for a moment. Impressive resolve, she thought as she exposed her bare legs to his unmoving gaze; his eyes never once darted to glace down at her body. A quick pull over her head, and she bared herself to him, standing stark naked under his green, icy eyes.
Still, he trained his eyes only on her face, not even a flicker or the slightest movement to her breasts, her waist or her thighs. Perhaps he was not a man, but a machine as rumors would have him. That could not be, no man is purely perfect. Slyly, she considered again; if she were to divert her face from him, and what part of her anatomy would he observe then.
Lowering her head and hiding her eyes, she began to examine her own body, drawing her hands gently over the mounds of her breasts, between their vast fullness and down to her stomach. There, with an acute pain to her heart, a single finger traced over the hardened, puckered skin drawn in a straight line over just under her navel. The scar still hurt to the touch as she pressed along its horizontal length. Before her memories, dark and disturbing, could stir, she snickered to herself, running her hand even lower to the coarser hair of her womanhood between her legs.
At this, the Inspector cleared his throat, and she looked up slowly, only to meet the same steely gaze, unmoving from her face or her down-turned head. He certainly was a hard man, resolute and unyielding. "If I may, the Commissioner is attending on your presence. And you must be dressed before him," his voice resounded clear and commanding, not a trace of husky desire to it.
Inside, she relinquished her game, quickly complying to necessity and pulling her petticoats and undergarments on in due order. The dress she lingered on, examining its thickness, its officialness—almost as though it was a police uniform itself in dress form. It even wrapped around and closed in front like the jackets worn by officers of rank.
With the last button fastened, she heard those heavy footfalls return to the door, "Come along, woman," his familiar growl and sneer waited for her beside the opened door, "Monsieur le Commissionaire has not my patience, as you will find in time." She followed his large form through the corridors of the Préfecture to the thick, oaken office door of the Commissioner.
And despite all the coolness and calm she prided herself on, Cécelie's heart raced. She always had succeeded at trial by fire in the past, somehow escaping burns if not scars. Swallowing hard, she understood too well what would happen to this new, if not fresh, chance at a life if this meeting should fail.
She had nowhere else to go. So she might as well remain.