I posted the wrong chapter for Paladin Chapter 96, so you might want to go back and reread it. It's a little bit longer than the chapter I posted on mistake.
Paladin97
They walked stiffly into the house with Erik and Monsieur Turro at the lead, Sophia and Madame Turro tittering behind, and Philippe slowly, cautiously dragging himself behind the rest.
Sophia looked back at him once and gave him a look that needed no words. It said he was being difficult, stubborn, and unnecessary.
He gritted his teeth, the awkwardness of the situation seeping into his bones. They should not have been in this damnable house. There was nothing to discuss, no need to be friendly with the neighbors—especially after what had transpired.
His palms perspired and he squeezed his hands into fists. How did one accept the tea and graciousness of the Turros when knowing full well that their son was not in India? He was buried, and Philippe was more than willing to stay on his knees for an eternity and beg God to resurrect the bastard so he could kill him again in a way he deserved.
They reached the parlor where Sabine appeared with Laure on her heels. The older girl looked at him with calm indifference, which irritated him further. A week he'd spent at her side, never leaving her unless absolutely necessary. She'd smiled and blushed, told him he didn't need to worry about her so much, that she appreciated his concern but feared he'd become ill. One week of their knees almost touching, of their eyes meeting in long gazes, but bodies kept respectfully apart.
By the sound of her voice and the look in her eye he thought for certain she saw him as a suitor, but then by accident he'd brushed his hand against her arm, and instead of an apology he offered a smile. Instantly she'd excused herself and walked away. She had not looked him in the eye after that moment. Physically he had repulsed her.
"Good afternoon, mademoiselle," he greeted Sabine, giving her the formality of a stranger. He didn't bother to look her in the eye. If she wanted distance, then so be it.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Dupree."
Her formality knifed through him. What had he done?
"You look well."
She smoothed her hand over her abdomen. "Coffee, sir?"
"No." He wanted nothing from her…yet he wanted everything.
"Hello, Monsieur Philippe," Laure cooed. She batted her eyes at him and gave her sister a noticeable kick in the back of the leg. "How are you?"
Sick, uncomfortable, completely worthless to everyone in this room, and blinder than Monsieur Turro…
"I am well, thank you."
Philippe awkwardly turned away from the two and took his seat beside Sophia. He looked around the room before his gaze briefly settled on Monsieur Belmont, who was staring intently at Madame Turro.
Philippe's eyes narrowed. Madame Turro had no idea her guest was memorizing her face. She was talking to Sophia about her dress and how lovely it was—a conversation that didn't interest him in the least.
Yet Monsieur Belmont continued to stare, his lips slightly parted, his posture stiff.
"Monsieur Belmont," Philippe said rather loudly. He realized he had nothing to say now that he had his employer's attention. "Do you need more coffee?"
"Have I hired another servant?" Monsieur Turro asked lightly. "Where is Sabine?"
"Here, sir." She stood behind the old man. "Monsieur Belmont's cup is still full, sir."
Philippe gritted his teeth. "My apologies."
"That is unnecessary, Monsieur," Sabine concluded.
She smoothed her hand over her stomach again.
-o-
She watched him from the corner of her eye but didn't have the gall to face him directly or acknowledge his presence. Anger, resentment, sickening fascination…regret…he didn't know what to feel as they were all equally strong inside of him.
What he expected from her he didn't know, but he knew for certain he hadn't expected this coldness. No, he knew exactly what he'd expected: Acknowledgement that he was in her home. That he had taken the home she offered to him.
"You do look simply beautiful, Sophia. I do imagine that every boy you meet is leaving a calling card at the door."
"Oh, Madame."
"Honestly."
"Well then, they must lose their way. After all, the roads do look the same."
Madame Turro—his mother—clasped Sophia's hand in hers. "You underestimate yourself, my dear."
Sophia met Erik's gaze and she smiled weakly. "We needn't speak of me all afternoon, Madame. You've simply embarrassed me." She gave an exaggerated shiver.
"Are you chilled, my dear?" Madame Turro questioned.
"Angelica, is she cold?" Monsieur Turro questioned. He squeezed Erik's wrist. "It is a bit damp in here, wouldn't you say?"
He turned toward the old man. "Yes," he answered, though he wasn't certain if he meant the air was frigid or the hosts.
Sabine dutifully walked toward the hearth but Sophia jumped up. "Why, it must weigh more than you and your sister combined. Here, we have two strong men in our presence. Surely one of them will assist." She shot her brother a look and he stood.
"Allow me."
Sabine politely smiled and stepped aside while Philippe bent and hefted the firewood into the hearth. He grabbed the poker and rearranged the logs while Sabine crossed her arms and looked on. At her side, Laure beamed and gave Sophia an appreciative grin.
"Monsieur Belmont," Sophia said. Her formality made him turn at once. "Would you be so kind as to retrieve more firewood?"
"He doesn't know where it's kept," Philippe said over his shoulder. "But I cut it and I—"
"No, he doesn't know where it's kept," Sophia interrupted.
She pursed her lips, which Erik assumed was for effect, and gave a light, feminine sigh of contemplation. She was bluffing. He could almost see the plans drawn out in her eyes. "Madame Turro, you would not mind showing him, would you? Unless, of course, Monsieur Turro disapproves?"
"My wife has a will of her own," the old man laughed.
Erik's heart came to a crashing halt. He stood, clenched his hands, and trained his gaze on the doors. Being the head of the household, she would most likely send Laure or Sabine. Now it was a matter of waiting to see if she'd face him or merely wave a hand in his direction.
"Of course." His gaze shot to her face and saw her expression. Warm, gentle…friendly. He blinked in order to clear his mind of expectations yet the smile remained. "It would be a pleasure, Monsieur Belmont."
He looked to Sophia, who had turned to place one hand on her brother's shoulder and the other on Sabine. Satisfied with her work, she tittered with laughter and set to remedy a different situation.
"This way, Monsieur Belmont."
Erik followed Angelica, his footsteps light and soundless on the dark blue woolen carpet.
"I prefer Erik," he said.
She closed the parlor doors and looked up, which struck him as odd. He'd always looked up at her.
"Erik," she said. The single word rolled off her tongue as it had so many times before.
Erik, are you listening? Erik, please help me, will you? Erik, you will get us both in trouble with your giggling. Oh, Erik, how I adore you…
"You are much taller now," she said quietly.
He made no reply, deciding he merely wanted to hear her voice and see her face one time. One last time.
She reached out and smoothed his lapel even though it was unnecessary. Or perhaps it was necessary for her, for him, for both of them. Her touch froze him, the familiarity of her presence leaving him speechless—but with dozens of unanswered questions.
Their eyes met and she weakly smiled. "How have you been? Well?"
He wanted to lie to her but instead he looked away and shook his head. He'd been miserable, physically and emotionally beaten, sustained his life on sewer water and half-rotted food, battled rats for a place to live…to exist. And then at last, when he felt he'd recovered and could emerge into the society that had rejected him, he'd met Christine. And now he was exiled to the place of his birth.
"I have not been well," he answered at last, biting off his words. "Your charity is unnecessary, Madame."
"I do not offer charity." Her hand pressed harder to his chest.
"You do not wish to acknowledge me—"
"I didn't know how to acknowledge you. How does one….after so many years?"
"If you would rather I leave, tell me. I shall leave," he responded bitterly.
"I looked for you," she whispered.
His breath caught in his throat, remembering the note left in his box—the note he'd never seen. "Madame Giry—"
"No, before that. On…that day. With the fair."
He stared at the top of the head, wanted to grab her by the chin and force her to meet his eye. Instead, he waited with unusual patience.
"When you left me?"
Her gaze met his and he saw in her eyes all of the pain he'd felt for years: Shared, magnified beyond comprehension. Tears flooded her gaze and her lips trembled.
"I didn't leave you."
Could she lie to his face? Cold stabbed at his heart.
"I remember."
"We were separated," she blurted out. Her fingers clasped his lapel and tugged him closer. "Separated. I didn't leave you. I lost you."
He heard someone exhale and realized it had come from his own body. He wasn't sure why it brought him a sense of relief.
"Come with me, away from the door," she insisted. Her fingers skimmed down his arm and took his hand.
"Why?"
She looked up at him, smiled softly, her eyes clouded with memory. "Stubborn as ever, I see."
Her words made his feet move and he followed her down the hall to a cold. Drafty storage room where firewood was piled on the floor.
"I would never have abandoned you," she said with her back to him. "And I am ashamed that is how you have thought of me." Her voice trembled with emotion and she sniffled.
"Then…what happened?" he questioned.
She frowned and wiped the tears away. "It was raining and my gloves were soaked. There were people all around us and I was nervous…for you. But you didn't notice. At least I don't think you noticed. You were…mesmerized. I released your hand, only for a moment…and you were gone."
He remembered.