§ § § - December 23, 2001
The house was dark when Leslie let herself in well after midnight; she was too tired and sleepy to bother with any lights, and she could have found her way around the house blindfolded in any event. Quietly she climbed the stairs, hoping to just fall into bed and try to escape into sleep, and rounded the corner into her old room only to discover that Christian lay in the bed, sleeping fitfully.
Leslie stopped cold and stared at him for a long startled moment. After their blowup that morning, she'd honestly expected him to sleep on the TV-room futon, and was very surprised to find him in here. A tiny trickle of relief snaked through her as well, and she tried to ignore it, turning away and changing in the dark. Brushing her teeth, she studied her reflection in the mirror by the glow of the seashell nightlight, battling a whole raft of emotions all at once. It had grown increasingly harder for her to keep them at bay throughout the day, and now in the dead of night, they were threatening to overwhelm her altogether. She finished brushing, rinsed and retreated to the bedroom, focusing on mundane rituals in the attempt to maintain control.
Cautiously she got into bed, trying to jostle the mattress as little as possible to avoid waking Christian, and gradually relaxed, lying on her back and staring at the canopy over their heads. Beside her she was hyper-aware of Christian's warmth, his restless breathing, the rustling of his fingers against the sheets in his sleep, an occasional tiny grunt. Sh realized he must be in the midst of a dream; a yearning to soothe him swamped her and she closed her eyes, trying to fight it. Dammit, at least one of us has to sleep. But in the end she too drifted off.
Two hours later Christian woke for no apparent reason and knew immediately that Leslie had returned. So she didn't go to a separate bed when she found me here after all. I hope that's a good sign. He opened his eyes and smiled wistfully at her; she lay asleep, facing him, and the temptation to touch her was more than he could resist. Tentatively he stroked her hair, then brushed two fingertips over her cheek—and at that, she stirred and rolled over, facing away from him now, without waking up. Christian stared as she quieted again, feeling rejected. He knew it was silly for him to react like that; after all, she was asleep and hadn't knowingly turned away from him. But it seemed like a message. Discouraged, he too rolled over and stared with stinging eyes at the wall, fiercely willing his sense of rejection and abandonment under control. How would others, particularly his parents and siblings, have dealt with such rifts in their marriages? He pondered it till his weary brain sent him back into slumber.
The next time he woke, the room was light; he must have shifted again in his sleep, since he now faced her side of the bed again. Leslie was gone, and he whispered a resigned curse, scrubbing his hand over his face. Why was she avoiding him like this?
About half an hour later, showered, shaved and dressed, he ventured downstairs and out onto the porch; Mariki was just putting out serving dishes, and Roarke and Leslie were already at the table. Uncertainty dogged his steps as he crossed the veranda. "I hope you won't mind if I join you," he said softly, mostly to Leslie.
"By all means, sit down, Christian," Roarke invited. Christian murmured thanks and moved toward his chair, itching so badly to touch Leslie that he actually put out a hand to stroke her hair before reconsidering and pulling it back. She seemed unaware of him; she sat with her head down and didn't look up when he took his chair.
For her part, Leslie couldn't meet Christian's gaze. I'm pushing him away, she thought bleakly. I know I am, but I can't seem to find a way to bridge the gap. What if we get into another argument, anyway? Does he believe me now, or is it only because Father finally made him understand? What if it happens again? And what's happened to me that I suddenly can't cry anymore? She hadn't cried at all since this whole thing had started, as if the old defenses she'd used in her early childhood had come back to the fore. On some level Leslie was aware that the longer she held back her emotions, the worse effect they would have on her; and she also knew that the longer she waited to reach out to Christian, the wider the gulf between them would grow. But too much time had passed already and she was no longer certain of either herself or him.
Roarke, looking on, reflected that each of them still harbored a wellspring of anger—for different reasons, to be sure. Leslie was still feeling betrayed that it had taken Roarke to make Christian fully understand the gravity of his situation; and Christian's rage at the count remained largely unvented, waiting for some outlet. Though the atmosphere was stilted and extremely uncomfortable, Roarke held his silence. Christian and Leslie were going to have to work this out on their own.
"You'd better eat, Miss Leslie," Mariki took up her usual refrain. "I don't know what's gotten into you now, but between you and Prince Christian, you eat less than Mr. Roarke does all by himself. Are you just going to sit there and stare at your plates? Both of you?"
Her emphasis on the last sentence made both Christian and Leslie look up in surprise, and their gazes collided and held for an electric five seconds. Then her nervous eyes skipped away and she compressed her lips, hanging her head again. "Just put anything on my plate, Mariki," she mumbled spiritlessly.
Christian slumped back in his chair and sighed in defeat. "Same here."
Very surprised, Mariki stared at Leslie, then Christian, then Leslie again, before seizing the opportunity to take advantage of their apparent carte blanche and loading their plates till they both turned to stare at her. "If I come back out here and those plates have even a crumb left on either one of them," Mariki warned, "there will be consequences. Dire consequences. Catastrophic consequences."
"Thank you, Mariki," Roarke said pointedly, and Mariki subsided with a shrug and left them. Christian and Leslie stared at their plates; then Christian shrugged as well and dug in. Leslie sighed gently and slowly started to eat too. From time to time Roarke looked up at them, but it wasn't long before it was clear to him that neither was going to move toward reconciliation. He continued to hold his own counsel, though.
Almost an hour passed before Mariki returned; though Christian and even Leslie had eaten steadily, they hadn't yet finished, and she predictably pounced. "What does it take to get you two to eat?" she began, working towards her usual bluster.
Without warning Leslie snapped. "Dammit, Mariki, shut up!" she cracked out and shoved her chair back, springing out of it and stalking across the veranda with her shoes thudding loudly on the floorboards. Mariki's mouth hung open; Christian and Roarke both looked up in startled shock, and all three gaped after her.
Seething now, Leslie stomped down the steps and right into the middle of a small group of natives, some of Roarke's employees from the hotel, who were having a loud and urgent argument about something. When they saw Leslie heading for them, they instantly dragged her into the middle of it, all of them talking at once. Forced to resume her fragile mask of calm, Leslie determinedly shoved back her turmoil and tried to sort out what was going on.
At the table, Roarke shook his head and said, "Mariki, I realize you worry, especially about Leslie, but just once I must ask you to refrain from nagging her about her eating habits. And for the sake of peace, you might extend Christian the same courtesy."
"Is there something happening here that no one's told me about?" Mariki asked.
"Yes, there is," Roarke said bluntly, without elaborating. Mariki waited, but the silence stretched and she finally realized he wasn't going to say any more. Grumbling to herself in Hawaiian, she returned to the kitchen.
Christian hadn't moved all the while; only his eyes had followed his wife as she retreated, as she headed down the lane, and now as she stood in the middle of a small knot of gabbling natives. As if she felt his intense scrutiny, she turned to cast a glance back onto the porch, and once more was arrested in his stare. Neither moved, till a native grabbed Leslie's arm and made a demand, yanking her attention back to the problem at hand. Only then did Christian sag and let his head droop again. "Excuse me, Mr. Roarke," he said softly and got up without waiting for an acknowledgment, going back into the house. Roarke watched him for a few steps, then shook his head again and finished his meal before going in after his son-in-law. By then Leslie had managed to resolve whatever problem the natives had had, and the lane was quiet and deserted.
In the study he saw Christian at the computer, scrolling through e-mail messages in his private account. "Christian," he said, "when you are ready, you might be of some assistance to me in the matter of Mephistopheles and the count."
Christian glanced at him and nodded. "One moment, Mr. Roarke," he requested, his voice still soft and toneless, and Roarke smiled agreement and settled behind the desk while Christian finished answering a message and sent it off. Then he signed out and went to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "What can I help you with?"
"The contract," Roarke said without preamble. "How much do you know about it?"
"I know that it was drawn up behind my back, and that I knew nothing of it until my brother rudely filled me in just as I was falling in love with Leslie," said Christian, his eyes reflecting a startling pain for just one brief second at mention of his wife's name. "I know also that it was a deal, offering me in marriage to the count's daughter so that Arnulf and his daughters could be assured of a steady supply of the amakarna they needed to survive." He hesitated. "I learned somewhat more about it in June when Leslie and I were in Lilla Jordsö, but…" He shook his head. "It's of a private nature and I see no need to go into it unless it's called for in the course of fighting the count and Mephistopheles."
Roarke nodded, accepting this for the moment. "Have you ever seen it?"
"No," Christian said. "Not once has anyone ever shown it to me. The count himself found me in here yesterday and went so far as to tell me he was carrying a copy of it; when I demanded to see it, he refused. I suspect he was aware I would have torn it to shreds."
"Then it's as well he didn't let you look at it," Roarke remarked with a trace of humor that got a grim, mirthless huff from Christian. "That contract is the only thing that stands between you and damnation." He paused momentarily. "So you were not aware of the contract at all until July of 1996. Who signed on your behalf?"
"My father, I presume," Christian said. "Arnulf told us he was present when the contract was drawn up, and he said it's Father's signature."
"Of your name, or his own?" Roarke asked.
Christian hesitated, surprised. "I don't actually know," he realized. "That was never clarified. Arnulf didn't say, and I can't ask him now."
"Do you think either Prince Carl Johan or Princess Anna-Laura would know?" Roarke queried. Christian focused on him with wide eyes, and Roarke offered, "If you wish, to expedite this, you might call the castle directly from here." He indicated the phone.
For the first time that day Christian cracked a smile, wry though it was, and advised, "It's going to be a very expensive call, I'm afraid."
"Only monetarily," Roarke assured him, returning the smile. "Go ahead."
Christian's smile softened into one of gratitude before he pulled the phone over to him and made the call. He figured his best chance of help would be from Carl Johan, even if he hadn't actually witnessed the signing. As he listened to the connections going through and the double beeps that signified the ringing, he remembered Anna-Laura's words about having discussed it with their mother, and wondered what his sister knew.
"Ah, hallå då, äldrebror, dehär är Christian som ringer, va' händer däromkringa?" he suddenly asked, his voice curiously more animated in his own tongue, Roarke thought. He sat back and watched while his son-in-law carried on a conversation in jordiska, asking question after question, grabbing a note pad early on and jotting down notes as he listened to Carl Johan's responses. The call lasted some twenty minutes, and when Christian finally wound up the conversation and bid his brother goodbye, he looked quite thoughtful.
"I suppose that call will seem quite long in exchange for what little I learned," he said apologetically, "but Carl Johan did manage to shed a little light on things, and he provided some useful information. He has some basic knowledge of law; he studied pre-law for a time before his interests shifted and he got a degree in landscape architecture. He doesn't know either whether the name my father signed was his or mine…but he gave me a nice piece of ammunition for the argument, and I think you'll be very interested in it." Roarke leaned forward and listened intently while Christian explained, translating his jotted notes in jordiska as he did so, and after a little while they both began to smile, just a bit.