Dear Faithfuls:
Painful short chapter alert….it has been another interesting week, this time we've auditor's in our agency all week (the equivalent of having the IRS wake you from your sleep in the middle of the night!) So I've been burning the candle straight through a few evenings. I promise two chapters for next week…you have my solemn vow. I thought it better to give you something, however painfully short, than to hear nothing but silence. Enjoy!
"10, April. Agreed on a sum. It shan't be much work, but the deception shall be more treacherous than I can now even imagine. Forgiveness, should I ever be found out, will not be mine. Days, weeks only are likely, though I cannot be certain, for I've never….it shan't be long. Heaven have mercy on us all. What shall haunt me forever is the wailing, the pleading. No heart, no matter how callous, would surely not break under such conditions. Exact size is hard to determine with no instruments, but is seemingly ordinary. Save for the one hideous thing it would have been so very different."
Erik sat the book down on the divan next to him. No year, no real information of revelation; just curiously cryptic language eluding in the most vague of manners to some event or thing that had obviously been done with great secrecy. It puzzled him greatly. Why the books? If one were to be so vague…was it worth the effort of dipping the pen in the ink?
His head slightly lowered. He was tired. He glanced over at Christine; she was resting so peacefully, he'd no want to disturb her. He glanced back toward the books. It was the oddest thing, the manner with which it was writ, the lack of emotion…there was something haunting about it. He pressed his eyes closed. He needed rest, he needed sustenance, he needed…he needed her.
He sighed heavily. It had been the most difficult, most magnificent, most painful night he'd ever lived. To be that revealed, that open, that loved….that forgiven…that spent…he sighed…was…releasing. He felt something akin to a great lion having a thorn removed from its paw by the gentle hands of a fairy. His own claws making the task impossible, but her delicate hands had touched him, removing with great ease, the thorn that had so deeply imbedded itself that it had nearly become a permanent part of him. He closed the book, tucking it back into the linen sack. Walking over he put it in the box seat beneath the window. He'd return to it on the morrow…now all he could think of was returning…returning to her.
He climbed in next to Christine. His hand tracing her outline; his eyes searching her face. She was his. This splendid, tender, creature was his. He smiled widely. The baby was awake again, tossing about beneath her flesh. Erik watched Christine's face. She could sense the movement, though it did not wake her…she was ever mindful. Erik's hand rested above the child. It would not be many months now when he could whisk the child away in his arms off to another room so that her mother could sleep in peace. He smiled, not long at all.
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Malden made his way up the back stairs to the quarters that had been prepared for him. The light in her room had been extinguished. What fortune he thought; perhaps he'd have peace until the sun rose. He sat down heavily on the side of his own bed. He'd no need for light now, he was only to undress and then climb beneath the coverings. He rubbed at his eyes, stretched and stood, and began removing his outer coat; un-tucking the tails of his shirt.
"Surely you did not return empty handed…" A dark voice came from the shadowy corner in the furthest reaches of the room.
Malden grabbed at his chest as if he would fall dead to the floor from the fright. His breathing was labored as his heart pounded. "You…I…" he gasped, lifting his coat, digging into the depths of the inner pocket. "Here," he extended his hand. She would come to him, that was simply her way.
"What trifle have brought me?"
He heard her moving across the floor. He'd been mistaken, perhaps rest would be an illusion. He felt her snatch the cloth from his hand. It was a mere offering, surely not enough to satisfy her, but it was all he had. He sat back down on the side of the bed as he listened to her move toward the window with the token. He looked over. She stood tall, and had a most regal silhouette; the darkness of the shadow obscured her truth. She was beguiling, beseeching, betraying, and few had ever survived beyond her grasp. He closed his eyes. Even now in this journey, it had been that very thing that motivated her. It was the one she'd never conquered, that had never surrendered, that she'd never possessed. Malden's breathing was shallow.
She wanted what she could not have. She wanted those painting for her collection, and this time she'd not be so easily dissuaded. She might not have been able to have the man whose hands had painted them, but she would have whatever part of him she could lay her hands on. Of one thing Malden was certain, she'd not rest until they belonged to her…even if blood would flow to that end. This time she'd not leave Paris until they came with her.
He put his head in his hands. His only real hope of peace was that Abbas had found the art dealers, retrieved what she'd already paid for, and had brought them when he returned. If fortune had not smiled on Abbas, Paris would be witness to the murder of an elder woman if not the next evening, then certainly the following. The Sultana would not be turned away so easily again.
He wanted to sleep, but the fear of even suggesting it kept him silent. He would be permitted to sleep…when she decided.
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Sebastian had not slept for days. Each time his head had snapped forward in surrender to the tidal wave of desperate lust for sleep, fear threw his neck straight up, his eyes wide and wild.
He rubbed his eyes. They'd been open so long, the fluid had evaporated from every surface of them; they felt like they were on fire. His mind had rummaged every terrible thing he'd ever done; guilt was now his only companion, save the fear that seized him in waves. The one question that he murmured over and over again under his breath…. "Why hasn't Pyotr come for me?"
He glanced at the hulk of a man that sat at the end of the long chain of cells. He slept, snored, drooled…he hadn't a worry in the word…and at once, Sebastian envied him vehemently.
XXXXX
The shopkeeper jumped down from the steed he'd rode up on. The yard seemed to be devoid of occupants. He hoped at once he'd been led on a fruitless venture that would result in nothing more than his re-latching the gate that now flapped in the wind. The carriage that had arrived from the tiny hamlet just north of Chauesser had told story of hearing the shot of a gun, and a scream, but all seemed well enough. What they'd thought to be a the force of powder exploding in the steel barrel of a gun was most likely the very sound of the iron latch that banged against the wood from the gate. Nevertheless, he felt compelled to check. Monsieur Courtland had been his best patron, and indeed had become something of a respected figure, and fodder for whisper in the town.
He made his way to the gate, the iron latch noticeably bent from the forceful beating it had endured from the wind. He struggled with it to no avail. He looked back at his horse, immediately wishing he'd brought his carriage, for a store of tools lay in it's belly that would have been put to good use just now. He scratched his chin. He'd stocking to do at the mercantile. He glanced toward the building behind the house. Perhaps he could find something there to prop the gate closed to save it from further damage until he could return in the morning to repair it properly. He opened the gate and passed through it toward the carriage house.