"It's a fantastic sword! You've really outdone yourself this time!"
Hearing Master Arnaud being praised for something he himself had forged made Jean-Claude furious, but he had learned to swallow his anger long ago, and he did so now. He would not be staying with Arnaud for much longer anyway; he was only thirteen, but he was tall for his age, and working as a blacksmith had built up the muscles in his arms and legs. He certainly didn't look like he was thirteen, and he would use this to his advantage. It wasn't as though the army would care much about his age anyway; they would be looking for another soldier, and he would gladly serve as one.
Big as Jean-Claude was, Arnaud was bigger and stronger. The first time Arnaud had touched him, he'd been ten and hadn't been aware of what exactly was going on; Arnaud had given him wine, and the wine had made him sleepy. Arnaud's groping had only become more frequent, and it filled Jean-Claude with anger and discomfort. If Katarina had not run away, if his mother had not gone mad, if his father had not died, he would not be subjected to the pain and humiliation that Arnaud routinely caused him.
"If you want to eat tonight, you'd best get in here!"
Jean-Claude clenched his teeth, but obediently entered the house. He sat down at the table, eating the food that Arnaud had prepared. He was aware of Arnaud watching him and did his best to ignore him. "They were quite impressed with the sword you forged, boy."
"Thank you, Master Arnaud."
"You're far more talented than I had thought," continued Arnaud, pouring a glass of wine and sliding it across the table to Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude stared at it, then lifted it and drank. Lately it took a great deal of wine to make him sleepy, but it made Arnaud's hands easier to ignore. "Just think, you were once a skinny little scholar!" Jean-Claude finished the wine and let Arnaud pour him more. "I like to think I'm making a real man out of you."
Jean-Claude thanked him mechanically. This was how the conversation always went, as though it was scripted, and Jean-Claude had learned the consequences of deviating from the pattern, just as he'd learned the consequences of disobeying Arnaud. Nothing – not even Arnaud's hands – was quite as painful as the feeling of hot metal burning him. He'd accidentally burned himself dozens of times in the course of three years, building up rough calluses on his hands. When Arnaud did it on purpose, though, it was different.
He finished the wine and watched as Arnaud poured him more. He took the glass and drank, ignoring Arnaud's hand on his leg. It barely mattered to him. Tomorrow, he would join the army and be rid of Arnaud and his hands. He would become a soldier, quick and ruthless, and one day he'd come back to Arnaud, and the visit would not be a pleasant one.
~xXx~
He had never felt so happy in all his life. It felt as though his heart would burst from it all, and he half-feared that it would. Katarina – sweet, beautiful, wild-at-heart Katarina – had already agreed to marry him; getting her father's consent, however, had been an entirely different matter. Giovanni knew that he shouldn't have been so nervous about it. Katarina's father liked him well enough, as did her mother. They had both given their consent, and Katarina would marry him before the week was out.
"Well, what did they say?"
As promised, Pierre was waiting for him. Giovanni grinned. "They've said yes!"
"Fantastic!" Pierre clapped him on the back. "When's the wedding?"
"Sunday."
"See, I told you they'd say yes," said Pierre. "Her parents love you. I'll bet they didn't ask for a big dowry."
"They told me they didn't want one."
"That's lucky."
Giovanni shrugged. "I think I should provide one anyway, you know? I mean, it's a custom."
"Only if her parents ask for it," said Pierre. "Besides, I'm sure you can think of other things to spend your hard-earned money on."
"That's true enough."
Money wasn't something that he particularly cared about, at least not right now. Thinking about Katarina's parents suddenly made Giovanni realize just how little money he actually had. He had used most of his earnings to build a small house for him and Katarina. It was incredibly generous of Katarina's parents to allow him to marry her without paying a bride price; it was almost unheard of for a girl's parents to refuse the dowry. He knew that his uncle would demand one when it came time for his cousins, Theresa and Martine, to marry.
Giovanni pushed the thoughts aside. Katarina was going to marry him on Sunday. He thought about her now, ignoring Pierre's chatter and imagining Katarina standing before him in white. She would be so beautiful; she would probably wear flowers in her hair. She would become his, and he hers, and the thought made him wish that the days would fly by.
~xXx~
Katarina's happiness was Esmerelda's happiness, and Esmerelda's happiness was his. Esmerelda was examining the white tablecloth; it would undoubtedly be turned into a wedding dress for Katarina now. Phoebus didn't care much about losing the tablecloth. Giovanni was a good man. It was clear that he loved Katarina very much, and that was all that really mattered to Phoebus.
Phoebus had always secretly hoped for a son, but found that he was more than content with Katarina. She tended to act more like a boy anyway, which had puzzled him at first. She was sixteen now, far too old to be running like a child, but she continued to do so anyway. It was as though she simply couldn't stand still. Giovanni was forever running after her; he was finally able to overtake her, but he rarely did. He really was the perfect match for her.
Perhaps having children would divert some of her energy. It felt strange to imagine her swollen with pregnancy or even holding a baby; Phoebus had never seen Esmerelda that way either, and this stung him. Still, the past was far too depressing to think about. On Sunday, Katarina would be married. Phoebus would be the one to give her away. He would join her hand with Giovanni's, and he would watch as they danced. He had only recently begun to hope that he could dance at her wedding. It would be difficult with one leg, of course, but miracles had happened before, and perhaps one would occur again.
~xXx~
"I found it in Russia, and it made me think of you."
Rosalie chuckled, taking the little wooden figure from Heracles. It was large and round, almost shapeless, and had a smiling face painted on it. "Why on earth would it remind you of me?"
"Well, open it up."
"It opens?" Rosalie twisted the little wooden figure in her hands, gasping as it snapped in two. The figure was hollow; a smaller, nearly identical figure was nestled within it.
"There's more." In total, there were six little wooden figures, all fitting perfectly inside of each other. Rosalie lined them up. The smallest one was so tiny! Its little painted face smiled up at her. "I thought you would like it."
"I do," she said, though she secretly thought that Marie would enjoy it far more. After all, it was clearly a toy. Marie was thirteen, far too old for toys and dolls, but she loved them anyway. She still slept clutching her doll each night. "Marie would love this."
"Oh. Well, I did get her one too." He handed her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. Rosalie took it from him, smiling. She liked Heracles well enough; she didn't see him terribly often. The circus had recently expanded its route. It moved through France, Italy, Germany, and now Russia too. He was away for months at a time. She supposed that he enjoyed it, that he loved traveling too much to abandon it for anyone or anything.
There were times, though, when it seemed as though he'd give it up all for her, and this bothered her. She was more than content to see him sporadically. She liked him only as a friend, of course, but sometimes wondered if she would find him more attractive if he was…different. He was tall and muscular, towering over everyone he came into contact with. He was strong too, able to lift great weights and carry them around as though they weighed nothing. His body reminded her too much of other men she'd encountered, men who were now dead but had harmed her in ways she'd never thought possible.
She rarely allowed herself to think of what had happened three years ago, but lately the soldiers had entered her dreams. She woke up gasping, their laughter echoing in her head. She didn't tell anyone, of course. Pierre and Marie did not need to know what had happened to her; as far as she knew, they were blissfully ignorant of it. Clopin knew about it, of course, as did Cassandra, but she didn't discuss it with them. She didn't want their pity.
"I'm glad that you like it," Heracles was saying. He touched her shoulder, and she brushed his hand away.
"It's beautiful," she said, forcing herself to ignore the hurt in his eyes. She tucked the little wooden figure into one of her pockets. "I – I've got work to do, though – "
"Of course!" she could tell that his smile was forced. "I'll see you later, though. We'll be staying in Lyon for the rest of the week."
"Are you coming to the wedding?"
"Oh, we wouldn't miss it for anything!" Heracles laughed now, "I still can't believe our little tomboy is getting married!"
It had been amusing and slightly embarrassing when Heracles and the rest of the circus had learned of Katarina's true identity. They'd understood, of course, the need for her disguise; she was fleeing a powerful, oppressive stepfather and had needed to remain concealed. Heracles had taken to calling her "little tomboy" and "Katarina-Carlo," names which made Katarina laugh despite herself.
Katarina had grown up to be relatively pretty. She was still much too tall and rail-thin, and she had kept her lovely blonde hair cut short. Rosalie had thought that she would look prettier if she let her hair grow out. It was very fine, though, and tangled easily; it was less of a hassle for Katarina to keep it closely cropped. It still framed her face nicely. Now she and Giovanni would be getting married.
~xXx~
He had memorized the more important passages from his father's journals, and he stood by the fire now, tossing them into the flames. He would not be able to take many material possessions with him when he joined the army. The journals were not terribly important anyway; his father's writing was factual and emotionless, and most of the entries consisted of a few sentences. Esmerelda and I were wed last night. Esmerelda has borne me a daughter. Esmerelda has borne me a son, now I am truly blessed. Katarina's willfulness must be dealt with; perhaps sending her to a nunnery will benefit her. Jean-Claude continues to excel in his studies. It seems that Katarina is not my child; Esmerelda has confessed to me that she made love to another before we were married and that Katarina is actually the daughter of Phoebus de Châteaupers.
The mysterious sampler, the one bearing the words "Katarina Phoebus" now made sense. This Phoebus de Châteaupers was dead, of course, executed for treason. Perhaps that was what had caused his sister to run away; perhaps she'd learned that her real father had been hanged and fled. Jean-Claude's father would not have wanted Katarina to share Phoebus's fate. He had raised her as his own, after all. Still, Katarina had probably run away to spite him.
Jean-Claude did not burn the sampler. He wasn't sure why exactly, but he tucked it into his rucksack, along with his mother's jewelry. The jewelry could always be sold. He doubted that his mother would still want it, even if she was alive. He had managed to convince himself that she was dead, that she had probably committed suicide in her madness. Surely she was dead; she would have come back for him if she was still living. She wouldn't have allowed him to become a blacksmith's apprentice, and she certainly would not have let Arnaud touch him.
Jean-Claude watched as the journals burned, turning to ashes in the fireplace. He turned and put on his coat; dawn was still a few hours away, and it was dark and cold. He left the house, moving through the darkened yard and into the streets. He did not turn and look back. With luck, Arnaud would never come looking for him.