§ § § -- December 23, 2001
Roarke and Christian had both lunch and supper alone, and by the end of the second meal Roarke had grown very concerned at Leslie's absence. Christian seemed resigned; his reticence had increased as the day wore through, and he was close to shutting out everyone and everything around him. He had eaten mechanically and not spoken at all nearly all afternoon, and now he sat in one of the chairs in front of Roarke's desk, staring at the floor, silent and unresponsive.
Roarke, leaving Christian to himself, was scheduling fantasies through the first quarter of the coming year when the door opened and Leslie came in, slowly, with her head hanging. She shuffled spiritlessly into the foyer, where Roarke noticed her finally and looked up. Christian seemed oblivious. Leslie caught her father's movement and lifted her head, and they looked at each other for some ten seconds before his expression grew coolly quizzical. "Have you something to say?" he asked.
She nodded and stepped down into the study, stopping just behind Christian's chair. "I…I've been thinking. I don't know what's going to happen tonight…but I made a decision about it." Leslie closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, so that she missed Christian turn to look up at her with blank eyes. "When I did, I realized there wasn't any other choice."
"And what have you decided?" Roarke prompted gently, taking in her pale face and the huge, frightened blue eyes that opened once more at his question.
Leslie's gaze was steady, though she trembled just perceptibly. "If the worst happens, and Mephistopheles takes Christian's soul," she said quietly, "then I'm going with him."
Roarke nodded in complete understanding, his dark eyes warming. Christian began to come back to life; his eyes went wide and his mouth opened slightly with wonder and hope, and slowly he stood up, staring at her. "You'd do that for me?" he whispered, his voice a little rusty from several hours' disuse.
Curiously, she couldn't look at him. She nodded a couple of times, her movements stiff and a little jerky. Roarke could see what Christian couldn't: Leslie was utterly petrified of the upcoming confrontation, in a way that she hadn't been the previous times they had battled Mephistopheles. Now that he got a good look at her, he could see that her eyes were somewhat red from what must have been a bout of tears; her emotions were now back under all the control she could muster up. Only her eyes betrayed her, glittering as they did with her fear and her love. He knew it was taking everything in her to keep calm for what lay ahead of them, and she was devoting all her attention and concentration to that.
Christian reached up with a shaking hand, hesitantly laying the backs of two fingers against Leslie's cheek and stroking, just a little, back and forth. "Leslie, I only want to say…"
She closed her eyes again and went rigid under his touch; Roarke correctly read it as a fresh and desperate attempt to maintain control, while Christian saw it as another rejection and instantly pulled his hand away. Before he could misread her any further, Roarke stood up and closed his date book. "Let it be until later, Christian," he said gently. "It's time for us to meet the count and Mephistopheles." He came around the desk to lead the way out; and Christian turned away to follow. It was then that Leslie grasped his hand and interlaced their fingers, clinging so tightly it was almost painful. He cast her one startled glance, saw her hanging her head, and then tightened his own grip on her hand, clutching desperately at that one tiny bit of hope.
None of them spoke at all, all the way to the confrontation. Leslie seemed to have some idea of where they were going, and pulled out in front of Christian when the path they trod forced them to walk single-file. But she never let go of his hand; in fact, when he tried once to pull free, she increased her grip, sending a surprising thread of relief through him. She glanced back, and he smiled gratefully at her, evoking a fleeting twitch of the corner of her mouth in response and a slight warming in her frightened eyes. It was enough for him, and he squeezed her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb.
At last Roarke, Leslie and Christian emerged into a dark clearing, where the ground was hidden by a swirling mist and there seemed to be no trace of sky overhead—only a uniform blackness untouched by moon or stars. Christian peered uneasily up for a moment, then looked around in time to recognize the figure of the count, clad in his cape again, and the glowing red mist surrounding Mephistopheles as the latter stepped into view from between two trees. "Ah, Roarke, you're just on time…and with your daughter and son-in-law too. A real family occasion, wouldn't you say?" Roarke studied him with disapproval, and Mephistopheles shrugged. "Just trying to lighten things up a bit. You all look so frightfully gloomy. It's really depressing."
The count spoke impatiently. "What is this, comedy night at the local theater? We have business to conduct, for pity's sake, so let's get on with it."
Mephistopheles huffed. "Oh, LiSciola, you've become so tiresome. All right, all right, you do have a point…our time here is limited. Now, Roarke, I assume you've explained in full to your daughter and son-in-law our reasons for meeting here."
"They are well aware of them, yes," Roarke said, "and since you are quite the stickler for detail and the letter of the law—and, if my memory does not fail me, the count as well—it would seem expedient to lay the ground rules for this confrontation. First and most importantly, whatever the outcome here, there is to be no further discussion of or dispute over this contract. I might inform you, Count LiSciola, that you are already on unstable legal ground here as it is. The contract was drawn up in Lilla Jordsö, presumably under the laws of that country, and that you are asserting its validity here rather than there tells me already that you are not convinced the outcome will be in your favor. However, I can see that you refuse to leave it alone, so we will work toward a resolution…"
"He thinks he's certain to win," Mephistopheles broke in, "but in the event he does not, Roarke, I suppose you are going to insist on no reprisals."
"But of course," said Roarke with mild surprise.
They went on laying the groundwork, and Christian watched with a vaguely nauseating mixture of trepidation, doubt and incredulity. Then Leslie, silent and blank-faced till this moment, turned to him and he immediately devoted all his attention to her. She bore a solemn, urgent expression that added a little fear to the mix. "Whatever you do, Christian," Leslie said quietly, "don't say anything, unless someone asks you a direct question. Don't call attention to yourself, just stand here with me and wait. And most of all, don't let the count goad you, no matter how hard he tries or what he says to you. Any distractions could be harmful…the last thing we want is to ruin Father's defense."
"I understand," Christian said softly, watching her. She nodded and returned her attention to the continuing discussion before them, and he sighed just a little and followed her lead. It was going to be an enormous challenge for him to do as Leslie asked: he was still scared, unnerved by Leslie's deadly-serious aura, and full of rage at the count. He felt like a pressure cooker—the wrong word, the wrong look, and he'd blow. His only reassurance was her strong, stubborn grip on his hand. It was as if hope were flowing into him from that hand, keeping him anchored and in control.
"All right, then," said Mephistopheles, "I suppose we're ready, if you're through with your stipulations, Roarke. You're fortunate that I'm so enamored of detail, no matter how petty. LiSciola, all you've done is bray about breach of contract. Now, kindly explain to me and Roarke exactly what damned contract you're trying so hard to defend."
The count drew himself up straight again, a nervous habit he seemed to have, and cleared his throat, reaching into his cape and withdrawing a piece of parchment folded in thirds. "This is the contract in question," he said, brandishing it at them. "I am an amakarna grower by trade and have managed to maintain a nice little business. My late daughter Paola would likely have inherited had she lived; she had a talent for growing the spice, and had a little side business of her own that brought in a very nice income. As it happens, I've been using the accumulated proceeds lately to pay off my son-in-law's never-ending debts, but that's another story.
"For approximately one hundred thirty years we've done business with the royal family of Lilla Jordsö, whose monarchs have adopted the spice as their own. My own father originally set up an account with King Carl IV, who discovered amakarna and its properties. When Carl's first son died in infancy and he and his queen had a second son, I advised him that amakarna would help to bolster and maintain the infant's well-being. It did at that, and the child grew up to become King Erik XIII. He learned the story from his parents, and was so grateful to my father that he agreed to long-term contracts on an indefinite basis. Thus, we drew up twenty-year contracts each time renewal came due. The arrangement continued when Erik passed on in 1934 and his lone son, Lukas VI, took the throne."
Christian shifted uneasily where he stood. Hearing this man he so despised casually discussing his most immediate ancestors made him want to smash the man flat; but Leslie's words still reverberated in his head, and he set his jaw, stilled himself and slowly rubbed his thumb back and forth across Leslie's hand.
"It was an excellent arrangement…but then my father died of the damned bone-eating disease in 1980. By that time Lukas VI had died, and Arnulf I ascended to the throne in 1962. So it was he with whom I found myself dealing, and I decided to add a little something to the mix. Why not connect our families? Surely there was some unwed member available…" Christian twitched and clenched his teeth; Count LiSciola blithely prattled on. "It would be an extra bond between us, and could open the way to friendship between the families. I brought my adored little daughter Marina to Lilla Jordsö early in 1981 when the contract was about to expire, so that Arnulf and I could negotiate new terms. The king was delighted at the chance to find a wife for one of his family. He had two grandsons of about the right age, and I had thought perhaps my little girl could be matched with one of them. But he offered his youngest son instead. Now I had seen the young man on television once or twice…he had recently been widowed, and I could see that he was attractive enough to complement my Marina. So I agreed. The marriage couldn't take place till Marina was grown anyhow. So we drew up this very contract—" again the count brandished the folded parchment— "signed it in good faith, and waited until my Marina reached her twenty-first birthday in July 1996. Two days beforehand, she and I traveled to Lilla Jordsö. By then Arnulf I had died and his son, Arnulf II, was king; I knew he would honor the contract, for he had been present at the signing…"
July 13, Christian thought with a jolt of memory. The very day I told Leslie for the first time that I loved her, this greedy old man was on his way to destroy my life. The hand that clutched Leslie's clamped tighter; the other hand clenched into a fist.
The count continued: "…and he thoroughly approved. He said that his brother had never remarried even though his wife had been dead sixteen years, and it was past time he was wed. My Marina became twenty-one on July 15, and that day, she was married to the young prince by proxy. I was satisfied and returned home the following day.
"So you see, this contract was drawn up and executed in good faith. Now I find that it has been unceremoniously breached! This past January I was preparing to return to Lilla Jordsö for renegotiations with King Arnulf…and just before I was to leave, my little girl came home announcing that she had been freed from the king's brother and was back to marry a worthless stripling she claimed to have been in love with since the age of nine. Worse yet, the man to whom she should rightfully have been wed had disappeared to marry a woman he was supposedly in love with—Roarke's daughter! And what am I left with? Nothing…nothing, I tell you! The lucrative royal account is now in the hands of another; my child is wed to a useless weed of a boy, and her prince has slipped right through my fingers!"
Christian snarled low in his throat, and Leslie turned sharply and hissed, "Shhh!" He subsided with reluctance, breathing deeply. No one else seemed to have noticed.
"Breach of contract," mumbled Mephistopheles, considering the count's long narrative. "Roarke, do you have something to put up against his words?"
"Yes," Roarke said. "The count mentioned, for one thing, that the king seemed bent on offering his son, rather than one of his grandsons, in marriage. I am surprised that didn't evince more doubt in him than he claims it did."
Mephistopheles looked at Christian and asked, "Did your father discuss it with you, young man? Did he tell you you were contracted to the count's little girl?"
"No," Christian said grimly. "He never once consulted me."
"Hmm," Mephistopheles mused. "And why do you suppose that was so?"
"My father had just begun to show signs of Alzheimer's disease," Christian said in a tightly controlled voice. "Of course, in those days no one had ever heard of that. He was diagnosed with dementia in 1982, and then rediagnosed in 1991. It was a slow but steady progression, and it killed him in mid-December 1995. And he also…" He caught himself, then cleared his throat and closed his mouth.
Mephistopheles noticed. "There's more, isn't there, my dear prince? You'd better spit it out, because you're not in the best of positions, you know. Even I know that one can never pinpoint the exact onset of Alzheimer's disease, and if it was a year at least before the dementia diagnosis, you can't be certain that he was suffering from it when he signed the contract. What else might have prevented him from telling you?"
Christian swallowed and protested stubbornly, "We knew there was something wrong with him by the time the contract came up for renewal. He had been showing signs for most of two years already."
"That's not what I asked you," Mephistopheles said with a dangerous look at him. "Answer the question you were given."
Christian gave Roarke a desperate look, and Roarke nodded solemnly. Christian sighed, muttered a resigned jordisk curse and said grudgingly, "My father also labored under the delusion that I was homosexual. My first marriage came about because of this misconception, and apparently he continued to believe it after I was widowed. I was recently told that it was the reason he offered me to Marina instead of one of my nephews."
"Oh," said Mephistopheles, intrigued. Count LiSciola laughed; Christian stiffened and blazed a glare across the clearing at him, taking one step forward.
"Stand still, Christian Enstad," Leslie ground out through her teeth, putting all the pressure she could call forth on his hand. She heard Christian's quick, sharp indrawn breath of surprised pain at her grip, but he obeyed with another startled glance at her. She had never once looked at him, and he shook his head and looked away.
"Count LiSciola, I would advise you to have a care," Roarke told him, silencing the man's amusement. "Don't be so quick to take delight in Christian's misfortune. Since no one told the young man that he was supposedly bound by that contract, he had all the right on earth to protest the situation."
Mephistopheles shook his head slowly. "LiSciola, I warned you that contract had better be airtight," he said ominously. "It's beginning not to look so good. Roarke, before you get the wrong idea here, I'm going to ask the prince some questions. I need to know the particulars from his side—purely for the sake of legality, you understand."