Thank you all for your patience! I hope finals treated everyone well (for those of you taking them). I hope you all enjoy this chapter and please leave a review, they lift my spirits and keep me writing! :)

Big thanks to Birds Love Words for all her wonderful corrections.

Chapter 16

The uproar over Amelia's murder was far greater than the uproar over William Frankenstein's. Their differences were great: one was a young boy, the other, a beautiful and desirable woman; one was allegedly by the boy's fair haired nanny while the other was carried out by a grotesque monster. Perhaps they weren't all that different? Men were tossed out of the courtroom of Felix's trail almost as soon as they entered. Rossignol struggled against them as he made his way to the tumultuous room. With great difficulty, he managed to keep his mask on.

The chamber rose several stories above Rossignol almost like a theater, and housed angry spectators eager for the court to arrive at a verdict, even when nothing had yet been discussed. In the center of the cylindrical chamber stood Felix, or what was left of Felix, hissing and spitting at the angry crowd. Priests and other clergymen sat a safe distance above the madness, watching the spectacle with grim faces. Felix, had, at some point, shredded his clothes, forcing many women to flee in disgust. He was undoubtedly a monster. Victor was careless in his construction. Rossignol found him to be revolting. None of the pieces that brought this new form of Felix together seemed to match: one arm was bigger than the other, his chest was flat, and his belly was big. The skin discoloration was obvious.

Rossignol was led to the witness stand that sat elevated, but close to the caged Felix. He prayed that Felix would not call him brother in front of the court, it would be his own death sentence. Once seated, Rossignol scanned the room, and he found that he had allies in the musty, damp chamber. In the eight months he spent creating this facade, he became a beacon of generosity and compassion. The spectators were not so overcome with bloodlust that they forget to offer him encouragement.

"Signor Rossignol," started the judge as he stared down the chamber at him. "State your full name."

He understood Italian better than he thought he would, but a translator who spoke French sat near him regardless. "My name, your honor, is Gabriel Rossignol." His first name was something dear and private to him. Exposing it to such a large crowd made him feel exposed and weak, not unlike his first few days alive in such an unforgiving world. An angry, plump woman was one of the first humans he had ever come into contact with and her first reaction had been to shriek as she chased him from her house. Her scream riled the villagers to chase him away in his poor, famished state. A repeat of that incident was not something he wanted.

Beneath the scrutiny of the Italian locals, Rossignol thought back to Justine and what she faced during her trial in Geneva. Had she been afraid? If he could go back and change what he caused, he would. Rossignol would restore her life, if it were but that simple. But as anguish and regret threatened to overturn his calm testimony he thought back to the reason why he had chosen the name Gabriel. Rossignol often thought of himself as the fallen angel, the abomination doomed to crawl the earth, unloved and alone. Meeting Georgia allowed him to see himself as something more heroic, more noble. He could not fail her or his namesake, a voice from God to the teachers of humanity. He wanted benevolence and compassion, and above all, love.

Below him, Felix snarled and spat, effectively bringing Rossignol back to the grim scene around him.

"Was Signorina Amelia Rizoli attending your ball when she was murdered?" Asked the judge. Rossignol answered affirmatively. "Why did you invite her to this ball? Were you not the man she was entrusted too?"

Interesting question to ask a witness. "Your honor, Signorina Rizoli's father was one of the first men to hire me to salvage his lost goods when I came to Venice. His kindness enabled me to make a name for myself. I invited his family to the ball, Signorina Rizoli was the one that came. She was not entrusted into my care. Signor Morea, the other victim, was her chaperone. Both were in my company. Signorina Rizoli believed she was the guest of honor, although, she was an honored guest."

Rossignol watched the feather of the judge's quill flick as he jotted down notes upon an unfurled parchment. Apart from the perpetual hissing of Felix, the room remained quiet. "Then Signorina Rizoli was not the person whom the ball was thrown for? Was she a decoy for your English girl, ah, Signorina Georgia Daniels?"

Rossignol's eyes narrowed and his brows furrowed beneath his mask. He felt sick for Amelia and distraught that his character was being questioned. It would be simple for him to just leave. He could kill them all and be out the door in minutes if he so chose. But he wanted to be better for Georgia. And himself. And for William, Justine, and Henry. Rossignol spoke slowly so that he maintained control of his passion.

"The ball was not for Signorina Rizoli, but I was not a singular host: I did not ignore her. We danced a waltz before I joined several men in attendance for coffee and conversation. Signorina Rizoli accompanied me. I was then informed that my guest of honor had arrived. I dismissed myself from their company and from Signorina Rizoli. I was away from Signorina Rizoli for at least two hours where I was seen in the company of Signorina Daniels. I did not use Signorina Rizoli in any capacity other than conversation."

Above him the judge nodded and a chorus of murmuring rose around him. The harsh crack of the judge's gavel striking his podium startled Rossignol and frightened the spectators into silence. "Signor Rossignol, your account of the evening has been confirmed by your many attendants."

Rossignol felt the muscles in his body begin to relax. The chamber seemed less dark and suppressing. But this interrogation needed to end. Above him he noticed Signorina Pausini. She smiled down at him, a mild assurance, but then his sharp eyes noticed a subtly stitched pattern in her cloak. He smiled to himself. Signora Pausini had taken the time to embroider a snowdrop into her dress. She was a saint and a true friend.

"A letter was sent to you shortly after the departure of the English guests you were entertaining. Signor Lafoy sent the magistrate letter as well. These letters have been in our keeping until today. Signor Lafoy's letter exonerates you from any concern this court may have felt towards you. You are free to go, Signor Rossignol. We are sorry for the loss you have felt in this tragedy. Return these letters to Signor Rossignol," finished the judge as he handed a cluster of letters to one of the men next to him.

Rossignol rose from the uncomfortable wooden chair and descended the steps, passing by Felix as he did so. Felix hissed at him, but thankfully said nothing. He hadn't reacted to the mentioning of Georgia's name. Was he aware that he would die soon? How could he be so enraged that he would murder someone and then act pacified and ignorant? Rossignol found it disturbing and unnerving.

He ascended the steps of the cylindrical courtroom and stopped at the judge's level where he received his stolen letters. The plump aid handed Rossignol the letters, but not before asking him another question.

"Where is the translator, Bernardo Carlozzi? He was summoned but never appeared. Do you know where he is?"

Rossignol thought for a moment. "I haven't seen or heard from him since the ball. I sent Signorina Daniels away, terminating my need for his services. Why?"

The plump aid leaned forward and dropped his voice. "You helped my aunt by hiring her to make those gowns and your suit. She's alive again. I thank you for that, Signor. We believe Signorina Daniels was the target, but Signorina Rizoli's murderer confused them. You've been cleared, Signor. I suggest you return to your intended and keep her safe." His warning rang clear.

The aid left Rossignol clutching his letters. Rossignol felt his world sink, like he was stuck in quicksand, there was no way out. Bernardo had been missing for a least two weeks. Overcome with madness, Rossignol ripped through the letters. Sir John's letter was dated as November 24th; one from Georgia was dated for November 30th, and December 5th; there were no more. Three letters were all that was sent to him. His breathing quickened and a sheen of sweat formed beneath the mask on his brow. Georgia's handwriting was the same as it always was, flowing and long.

December 5th, 18—

My dearest poet,

I am in utter agony since we parted. My feelings for you have not wavered, but I miss you terribly. Sir John informed me that the trial will be held soon and he has sent a letter as testimony. I sent one at his encouragement. Please, write me. I am in agony; I do not know if you are well.

I love you. I truly, deeply, love you. Return to me, my poet.

With all my love,

Your Georgia

Rossignol's heart soared and heaved, causing his stomach to lurch. He wanted to know the outcome of Felix's trial but he was desperate to get to Georgia. He prayed that Bernardo hadn't gotten to her, he prayed that Bernardo had nothing to do with Amelia's death. A seething rage blinded his vision, but drove him from the courthouse to his apartment.

When he reached his apartment he flung himself into the parlor and slammed his door shut. His tall form leaned against the door. He had to control his temper. Think, you fool. Why would Bernardo want to kill Georgia? Why did he hate the English? Rossignol berated himself for not investigating Bernardo further. How could he have left the most precious creature in the world in the care of someone planning to murder her? Wood splintered as Rossignol's fist smashed into a small table by his door. A feral scream crawled out of his throat and pierced his cold air of the apartment.

Did Bernardo know what he was? How did Bernardo know Frankenstein?

He left his flower in the care of another man. If anything happened to her he would never forgive himself.

Rossignol observed his apartment, taking a mental note of what belonged to him. Most of his possessions were on their way to Georgia's home in Geneva. Snatching his beloved copy of Paradise Lost, Rossignol ran to his room to dress and pack for his journey to Geneva.

The notes that Georgia and Sir John sent to him were tucked safely in his cloak. He counted his bank notes several times over, it was a delightful shock that the ball hadn't drained him. On the contrary, the bank notes, along with the rest of his property he sent to Georgia, still left him with a significant amount money. Georgia would live like a queen, he mused.

Rossignol pulled his cowl over his head and slung his bag over his shoulder. He reached for the knob of the door only to stop at the sound of rapid beating. He sighed and slowly opened the door, or tried to. Signora Pausini barged into his apartment as if it were hers and started in on him in a wave of Italian. His clever mind reeled; her speech was far too rapid for his mind to translate. Dropping his bag, Rossignol reached out to grasp her shoulders.

"Mi dispiace, Signora Pausini. Non capisco. Ricorda, parlo solo un po 'di italiano." (1)

She paused a moment, contemplating his words. Taking a deep breath, she spoke slower. "You should not go without saying goodbye. You are with warm Italians, not cold Frenchmen. That man was hanged, and they want Bernardo now. A mess! Ah!" She exclaimed as she dropped a bag at his feet. Bending over, she stooped to open the bag and pushed off his efforts to assist her.

Out of the bag she brought forth a beautiful cloak. It was made of thick, weather-sturdy material and was the perfect addition to his wardrobe. A dark hood was sewn in and was large enough to completely hide his face; also adorning the cloak were a series of pockets stitched on both the outside and inside. The cloak had the look and feel of something new, something gentlemanly. Signora Pausini insisted he take it.

"When did you make this, Signora Pausini?" He was shocked and touched. Since he earned his wealth, he had made diligent efforts in putting his money towards generosity, he never expected anything to be given to him in return. Tears slid down his concealed face, he would have to wipe them away later. "La ringrazio molto, Signora Pausini." (2)

She shook her head in agitation. When he took the cloak from her hands he was unable to stop her as she reached up and pulled his mask free. He instantly felt naked, the mortification made him blanch. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to run, not without knocking her over. He waited with heavy anticipation for her screams, but she only grinned at him with motherly affection.

"Tu sei brutto, ma avete un buon cuore. I tuoi amici ti amo. La signorina Daniels ti ama." (3)

"Did you call me ugly?" He asked incredulously. Amusement was his prevailing emotion. Rossignol found that he enjoyed her honesty. Signora Pausini then pulled forth a bundle of letters written in Georgia's hand and addressed to him. "Georg—" he inhaled the scent lingering on the letters. They smelled just like her.

"Biscotti per signorina Daniels," she added when she pulled a parcel from the bag, the last item, he hoped. "Signorina Daniels è troppo piccolo. Dille di mangiare." (4)

Signora Pausini put the parcel back into the bag and handed Rossignol the additional luggage. She smiled and returned his mask. Rossignol studied the cloak before untying the rag of a cover he was wearing. He kept the thick bundle of dark grey cloth wrapped around his neck. It was too familiar and comforting to relinquish. He felt safe in it. He cast a sorrowful glance at the old cloak he'd stitched together from various textiles he discovered along his journey. In a way the mantle reminded him of himself: a tattered mess put together from scraps of other people's lives and narratives. It was painful to leave behind and at the same time, he felt that the dense weight of his grief and anger would remain with it. Atlas finally set the world on its pedestal.

Warmth engulfed him as he fastened the cloak and secured Georgia's letters in his breast pocket. He threw both bags over his head and one shoulder. Signora Pausini's face contorted with grief he never knew he could instill.

She took a deep breath and lines of her older face creased as she spoke slowly. "You do not look like an angel, but you have brought hope and help to people. A true messenger of benevolence, Gabriel. Farewell," she then stepped aside so that he could leave behind his home of nine months.

Rossignol secured his mask and drew up his great hood. He bowed low to Signora Pausini, the gesture brought her to tears. Leaving Venice was difficult, much more than he ever anticipated. He could not compare it to the loss of the De Laceys, and certainly not to his leaving of Georgia, but still it hurt. In Venice he had made friends and a home. He earned money and made a name for himself, literally. Well, Gabriel was given to him by Signora Pausini. She was mistaken, she was the angel, not he. In this flooded Italian city, he had learned the true kindness of people and their eagerness to repay the favor. But these memories would be the beginning of a many more.

After a day of hard travel and switching horses Rossignol finally came to a cave. He unburdened his horse and set food out for the beast. The muscles in his legs groaned. He supposed that he could have stayed at an inn, but now that he was no longer around familiar faces, he feared what people might do when they beheld his form. His wealth could carry him far, but if he was spied and deemed the monster Frankenstein believed he was, all would be lost. But Rossignol decided it was neither productive nor healthy for him to dwell on such thoughts.

At the center of the cave he pulled several logs and dry leaves he concealed in one of his bags and began a small fire. At the beginning of his life he happened upon an abandoned fire and learned how to keep it going, but it had been a long time before he learned how to make it himself. In those days he was a sad combination of innocence, ignorance, and naivety.

Once he was comfortable upon the ground, using a bag as a pillow, he pulled Georgia's notes from his breast pocket. His touch was gentle, almost as if he was holding her and not her letters.

My beloved Rossignol,

Not a moment has gone by when I haven't thought of you. I'm only permitted to think of you when I'm am alone, though— I become rather flushed when you appear in my mind. We must be reunited, urgently. I miss the taste of your lips, they were my companions when you kept yourself hidden. Your lips are a lost melody taunting me. I know it is imprudent, but I need your lips upon my skin.

I need you; your smile, your laughter, your touch. I miss your voice whispering to me in the dead of night. I miss the taste of vanilla we shared in the shadows. I know I cannot hold on much longer. I need your hands on me, touching me, holding me. I know this is inappropriate, Sir John would be severely angry with me, but I must speak the thoughts burning my mind. I long to touch you and see the rest of you. I'm sure it frightens you, but please know that I love you. I long to make you happy, to love you so much you forget all the pain you've ever experienced. Do not delay, return to me, my darling.

With all my love,

Georgia

Rossignol brought the letter close to his face and breathed in her scent. After several deep, shaky breaths, he began to relax. He reread the letter until he was finally able to sleep. He would be up at first light and push his horse as hard as he could to reach Georgia. For her, he would not delay.

Italian translations

1) Mi dispiace, Signora Pausini. Non capisco. Ricorda, parlo solo un po 'di italiano.

English: I'm sorry, Mrs. Pausini. I do not understand. Remember, I only speak a little Italian .

2) La ringrazio molto, Signora Pausini.

English: Thank you very much, Mrs. Pausini.

3) Tu sei brutto, ma avete un buon cuore. I tuoi amici ti amo. La signorina Daniels ti ama.

English: You're ugly, but you have a good heart. Your friends love you. Miss Daniels loves you.

4) Biscotti per signorina Daniels." "Signorina Daniels è troppo piccolo. Dille di mangiare."

English: Biscuits for Miss Daniels." "Miss Daniels is too small. Tell her to eat."