The Epitomized Family

For some miraculous reason, I see neither Raoul nor Philippe for a solid week. It is a very good week. I fall asleep smiling, sometimes, simply because I am the only one in the bed. Clara and I find each other after breakfast one morning and retreat to the farthest corner of the gardens. She is positively glowing, an outward expression of how I feel inside.

"You haven't seen them, either?" I ask happily, sitting down on the stone bench. Her smile falls momentarily, and she looks at me.

"What? Who? Oh – Philippe and Raoul. No, I haven't, but that isn't the good news." She sits next to me and takes a deep breath as if preparing herself for something. She bursts, "There has been a revolt."

"That – what?" I slide closer, as if the bench is listening.

"A revolt, Christine, a revolt! A very small one, actually, but it was there! Down in the laborers' village. They tried to attack a passing carriage." She beams at me, but I only stare, puzzled.

"So?" I say. Her expression makes me instantly regret saying anything at all.

"You don't understand what this means (obviously)! They wouldn't dare do that without being convinced to. This is probably the result of the Man with Half a Face…But you probably don't know who he is."

I strain my memory for a moment before saying slowly, "I think I heard my father say something about him…once. He's the rebel leader, isn't he? That's all I know."

She continues to look at me, but her gaze is filled with pity instead of incredulity. "Christine, honestly. How could you grow up in a house like the one you did and have no idea about…well, anything at all?"

"You know, I've actually thought about that." I smile at her. "When we first talked about the Oligarchy itself. I think I've come up with an answer. It seems my mother couldn't be bothered anymore with children. She was tired of them and didn't care anymore when I came along."

"How many are in your family?" Clara asks.

"I am number six of seven: four boys, three girls. My mother was lucky. She thinks that's why I was picked for the marriage." Clara bids me to continue. "Well, Dacian is the eldest. He is high up in the government – nobody is really sure what he does, but apparently he does it well. He has a wife and five children. I never knew him. He was off at school when I was born.

Aldous, the second oldest, was killed when he was eighteen. He joined the military. It was hard for my father. Aldous was his favorite; he still says so. Jalena was the first girl. She died in childbirth with her fourth child. Her husband remarried two weeks later, apparently. Taurin was my favorite sibling. He was killed during an ambush as his military group traveled south. Miriam is the next girl. She is ready to have her third child – she has probably already had it. I come next, and, finally, my brother Willard. He's at school. And…that's my family. I'm sorry if I bored you."

Clara frowns slightly. "That is the prime example of an Oligarchy family: have as many children as possible because most of them will be killed. Oh – I'm sorry, Christine! I'm so very rude and tactless. But it's very true. You only have three siblings left out of six."

We are silent for a very long moment. I turn to her and say, "How many are in your family?"

"My mother lived to have four children. The eldest ran off, then I came, the third died in the military, and both my mother and younger sister died of fever." She waves off my apologies. I then ask her how many children she has. "Four," she says promptly. "Two boys, two girls. I hardly ever see them. They are being educated away from me. The very worst thing about having children is seeing them. The best thing is the pregnancy."

I stare at her. "I always thought…it was the other way around," I confess slowly. "That pregnancy is bad, but having the children makes all the pain worth it."

Clara shakes her head. "When you see them, you only know that you will never see them again. I love my children dearly, but I have never been given an opportunity to be with them. We hardly know each other, and that, Christine, is because of to whom I am married. Your children will be the same way. We are the exception." For another minute, we are silent. "Being pregnant is wonderful," she says. "You are waited on hand and foot. You are never required to do anything you don't wish to. You feign tiredness, you can escape from those dreadful dinners. You are the only person occupying your bed. And you are no longer starved."

"We're not starved," I object.

She looks at me shrewdly. "No, but have you ever been able to eat as much as you want? To eat what you want?" When I am silent, she continues, "They press you constantly with food. That's what is required, you see. You need to produce healthy children, not small, sickly ones that will be more trouble than they're worth. Of course, the moment you have the baby you go hungry once again."

"You're quite cynical, did you know that?"

After a smile, she laughs. "I'm not sure which I prefer – being a cynic or being naïve."

"Apparently we go well together," I say.

"Yes, but you won't be naïve much longer," Clara says, and her face falls slightly. "I only hope that you retain the goodness and purity in your heart, Christine."

----

It does not take long for Raoul to return. When he does, he summons me downstairs. I find him in the room which holds the piano. He is sitting on the couch, half-slumping, looking haggard and pale. I make a small noise to announce my arrival and he looks up.

"Ah, Christine," he says. Even his voice is tired-sounding. "You must sing for me – please," he adds quickly. "I find your voice most comforting."

I do so, singing one song after the other. After a very long time, I dare to look at Raoul. He is asleep, his eyes closed and his head resting on his shoulder. Quietly, I rise from the bench and make my way toward the door.

"You may sit by me."

I jump and turn around. He was not asleep; he is now looking at me. When I take a seat beside him, he leans his head into his hands and sighs.

"I am very tired," he says finally, and his voice is muffled by his fingers. "It has been a dreadful week."

Trembling, slowly, as if my hand will be cut off for it (indeed, it is not out of the question), I raise it and hesitantly place it on his shoulder, hopefully a sign of comfort. He does not shrug it off.

"I'm not sure what he wants me to do," Raoul continues. "It's hard enough keeping them here, but to actually suggest – ! Well, never mind it now. We've got it controlled, but that doesn't mean it's over." My heart flutters momentarily, and I listen carefully, trying to pick apart his words. But Raoul says nothing more – he merely sighs and stands before looking at me.

"How have you been feeling this week? Ill?" His last question is somewhat hopeful.

"Oh – yes," I lie, and his face alights. "I am not sure, but I will know soon." The look on his face wipes away all traces of fatigue and sickness that he once had.

Clara, however, is not as pleased by my lie as I tell her what transpired the previous evening.

"Do you know how dangerous it is to play with something like that?" she hisses. "You've gotten his hopes up, and he will not be happy when you crush them. It's utter stupidity to lie like you did."

"I didn't really lie," I say defensively. "I told him I wasn't completely sure."

"It doesn't matter," she snaps. "You'd better hope it turns out not to be a lie."

I am not offended by her words. She has been irritable and frustrated all day. Last night, I heard cries coming from her room, a sure sign that Philippe returned with Raoul. I pressed my hands to my ears to block out her stifled shrieks.

But weeks later, my lie becomes evident to Raoul, who arranges more and more doctor visits. By my sixth one, I no longer care.

"Do you bleed regularly?"

"Yes," I answer tonelessly.

"Do you have any unusual aches or pains?"

"No."

"Any unexplainable illnesses?"

"No."

I do not think I would care half as much if not for Raoul. The disappointment on his face is quite hurtful sometimes. He asks me regularly to sing for him. Once or twice, he called me to his study simply to speak with me. I cannot say I was much for conversation, but I seem to have made him happier.

They call me to the piano again when many of the men are gathered. Once more, Khan is overly-enthusiastic and kind, and the pale-faced Schurochka remains moody and pensive. But I live solely for the hours with Clara and the quietness of my room in the early morning and late afternoon, where I can sit and embroider or sketch or simply think. Perhaps it might not have been too bad: a few unpleasantries, but far outweighed by quiet, good things.

It would not have been unbearable – except for the fact that I am still failing.