Chapter 16

"Mama? Where are we?" the small boy turned his eyes up, blinking away the scattered raindrops, in innocent awe of the stone carved marble piece of architecture. Great wooden double doors were pulled open, revealing the extravagant furnishing inside. Flanked on both sides were symmetrical numbers of Corinthian columns holding up the matching entablature. A long red carpet was rolled out, past the stone steps, past the colossal columns, past the foyer, and right through the gaping doorway.

He clambered up the stone steps with great effort and a little help from both sides. His parents held his hands and lifted him from one step to the next. "This is the place where the worlds' most treasured goods are bought and sold, mon fils. You will one day know this place very well too," the father supplied him, while the mother waited patiently as the boy teetered through the doorway and long corridors of the building.

The impeccably polished cream marble sprawled across the high-ceilinged halls. The thud-thud of his leather dress shoes reverberated up to the high French windows, from which sunlight streamed in by day and moonlight peeked in by night. Two doors down the hall to the right, his father stopped abruptly, produced a wax sealed envelope from his inner pocket, and was let in.

This cavernous room, unlike the marble and stone foyer, was lined with silk carpet from wall to wall. A long oak counter dominated the front, while rows of cushioned Victorian chairs were arranged, facing forward. Men in long beards were fingering solid black suitcases. Fat, elderly women were admiring rings which covered half their fingers. Taking a seat between his parents, the little boy fussed about his tailored tuxedo.

Bang, bang, bang. The room went silent. "Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you all a sincere bonsoir. We do so gather here on this evening to participate in Auction #1424, concerning the articles of the late Monsieur Maisoné, whose blood relatives are all apparently deceased and whose possessions, thereby shall be sold in the benefit of charity." And so it went. Sophisticated-looking bidders, coolly raising their satin-gloved hands, to tens of thousands of francs, each in attempt to stare the whole room down with those frosted eyes.

"Lot #216, a polished walnut jewelry box, hand-painted floral designs, found stashed away under the master's bed," the auctioneer boomed, "it was said by his very assistant that for some strange reason only known to himself, the box was his most prized possession in recent months. He never ventured anywhere without it. Starting at hundred thousand francs…"

From the look in his mothers' eyes, anybody could tell she secretly adored the ornate jewelry box. It seemed his father knew too. With silent resolute, he raised his hand. "Hundred thousand, sir!"

"Hundred and fifty thousand, to the gentleman over there," the hand of a large burly man rose. "Two hundred thousand!" his father bided. The man would not give up, "Two fifty-three hundred!" so would his father.

"Perhaps you shouldn't, it is not worth it, spending so much on a box like that," his mother reasoned quietly.

"Nonsense, if you take a liking for it, I would be willing to pay much more for it," and his father claimed and he bid he did. The bidding went on, till well over seven hundred thousand, and both men would not yield.

The tension in the room diluted, when finally his father's hand raised and the auctioneer sighed, "Nine hundred thousand, going once, going twice, sold to…" but the little boy was distracted. The burly man was grunting and even through the gentlemen and disinterested ladies, the boy could see he was infuriated. His father's eyes shone with triumph.

"You shouldn't have! I shall have to watch your spending habits in future, my dear," the sweetness in his mother's voice was obvious, as they turned into the marble hallway. With the box under one arm and the little boy in the other, they made their way to the reception area chattering and laughing. Just as they arrived at the tearoom, the burly man stepped in front of them, "Excuse me, sir. I wish to speak with you and your wife," then seeing the boy, added, "alone."

Up close, the man looked even worse. His dirty brown skin was coarse and wrinkly, and the bushy eyebrows looked as if a painter had smeared too much ink on them. Though he might have been in a tuxedo, this was no gentleman. The man's bigness and rough voice scared him, and he looked up at his parents. His father's face was blank and his mother seemed as worried as he.

"What would this be regarding?" his father inquired, in a flat tone.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear, monsieur, I would like the both of you alone."

"Why don't you go help yourself to some refreshments, my darling, Papa and I have to talk to this man for a little while. Stay inside here and we will join you shortly, alright? Why don't you save us a seat?" his mother held him close and whispered, before she released him and he sped off for the éclairs.

They were heavenly—and sinful. Creamily light chocolate crème, and warm, moist pastry practically melted in his mouth. He must save some for his papa and mama. Having managed to place four more éclairs on the fine china plate, he tottered to an oak table with matching chairs. He couldn't wait till his parents came back.

His father had taught him to read time from a very young age, when he had been fascinated with his father's gold pocket watch. The boy would always love it when his father placed the watch in his small hands, opened it, and explained how to make sense of needles that went round and round. Presently, though, the little boy had been watching the solemn grandfather's clock. Mama and papa were already gone for a quarter of an hour. He missed them.

Placing the plate of éclairs aside, of which he had eaten two, not being able to resist the rich aroma of them, he slid off the Victorian chair and stumbled his way through the crowd to the patio he had seen the three adults go.

The rough man was talking rudely to his parents, yet his father did not seem at all intimidated. In fact, from where the boy was peeping, he looked confident, and as though he would not budge over whatever it is they were arguing about. The boy wished they would stop. Hadn't mama always told him not to shout, even when he didn't feel happy?

The more his father seemed unruffled, the angrier the man got, and the more worried his mama looked. At a point, he saw his mother take the box from under her arm, only to have his papa push it back. Even from where he was peering, the little boy could feel the heat of tension in the cold winter night.

There was a curious glint of metal upon the men's black coats. The wind picked up its speed. In one swift motion, the glint rushed toward his papa's waistcoat. From what the boy could see, the next time the metal glinted, it was as red as wine. Pushing his wife away, the boy's papa swayed, and collapsed. His mama screamed then, and he joined her, running heedlessly toward his mother. Though his mama hastily picked the boy up, and was about to run, panic drove the man to thrust that glinting metal into her back, sickeningly soundless. With her last breath, she pushed the boy the box, and whispered, "Sébastien, sauve qui peut!"

With ruthless calm, the man now turned on the boy, bloodied dagger in his leather-gloved hands. Grinning wildly, he advanced upon him. Clutching the box, the little boy stared up at the man with the large eyes of a frightened lamb. Somehow, he reasoned that there was no use running. His mama had tried that. Backing away, he'd dared not shout, for if he did, the man would surely close the few feet's distance between them and that would be the end.

It seemed hopeless. There was no plausible way out. Then, the wind brought a scent of his father's cologne and he remembered how he had always admired his father's gentle courage. That was what he would do now, stand his ground. He would be just like papa.

Keeping himself from flinching, he rooted himself to the spot instead, still as stone. The man came closer every moment, brandishing the dagger with surgical perversion. It was silent for a moment.

Then, small bursts of giggles and chatter grew louder. Someone was coming! Desperate, the man rashly aimed, the boy dodged, and the knife missed. The voices were louder now. Hesitant, the man wrenched the box away from the boy's arms—there was no resisting, he was simply too strong—and fled. Terrified and traumatized, the little boy ran to his parents, and tried to shake them up. They wouldn't wake.

He might have been only a boy, but he was not naïve. They had left him, and knew it, he did. Sobbing, he gingerly took his papa's pocket watch and his mama's sapphire ring, and slid them into his pocket. He was kneeling mournfully in prayer and sorrow when the chattering group of young gentlemen and ladies chanced upon him and his lifeless parents.

Their laughter was quickly doused and they approached him, shouting muffled words in the wind. He backed away. They pursued him. He spun around and ran—away from adults. Adults couldn't be trusted, they had murdered his mama and his papa.