René had promised to return within the hour, but the hour had come and gone and Giovanni was terrified. He shivered; despite the smoke that still hung in the air, it was freezing. Theresa stirred in his arms, and he looked down at her. He shifted, trying to make her more comfortable. She was in too much pain to stand up, and Giovanni was tempted to put her down. She seemed to grow heavier as each second passed, and Giovanni was afraid he'd drop her.
It was becoming painfully clear that René wasn't coming. Giovanni turned, looking down the road. He had sold his uncle's horse, and was now regretting it. The only way he could possibly get to Lyon involved walking, carrying Theresa in his arms. He sighed, then began walking down the road. What if René had been arrested? If Jean-Claude had caught him, he was probably dead.
"Giovanni!"
He turned, more than relieved when he saw René approaching. He was leading a mule, and as he came into view, Giovanni saw that the mule was pulling a hearse. The thin black structure seemed to wobble on its wheels, and for an instant, Giovanni did not want to place Theresa within it. René was opening the back of the hearse, talking to him and motioning for him to come forward with Theresa.
Giovanni stepped forward reluctantly, and René helped him lay Theresa in the back of the hearse. Giovanni climbed up, sitting beside her. René had thought to pack a few blankets in the hearse, and Giovanni now wrapped one around Theresa. "We should reach Lyon in a few days if we hurry," René said. He closed the door to the hearse before Giovanni could reply. Giovanni heard him moving about, then felt the hearse jolt forward.
Theresa groaned, and he groped for her in the darkness. "It's all right," he said, finding her hand, "we're going home."
"Where's René?" she asked, "I thought I heard his voice…"
"He's here," said Giovanni. "He's…driving the wagon…"
He fumbled through the darkness, his fingers brushing against a lantern. He lit it and set it down beside Theresa. Her face looked unnaturally pale and was shining with sweat. Giovanni felt fear rising up in his throat. What if she died despite their best efforts? What if the hearse reached Lyon with one corpse in it? How could he face his aunt and uncle? How could he tell them that he'd failed to keep Theresa safe? Giovanni lay down beside her, putting his arms around her, holding her close. She closed her eyes, and he could feel her breath against his neck. Perhaps sleeping would help her regain her strength. Perhaps if she slept, the wounds would heal faster. Giovanni held her, watching the candle flicker in the lantern, willing himself to stay awake.
~xXx~
Rosalie was hugging him, and he found that he was hugging her back. He had unintentionally lifted her up off the ground, and she was giggling into his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said, setting her back down, aware that he was blushing.
"It's fine," she said, smiling up at him.
Hans was calling him, shouting at him to help with the tents, but Heracles ignored him. He could pitch a tent any time, and there were plenty of other roustabouts. He did not get to see Rosalie often, and he was thrilled that she was happy to see him. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.
"No."
"Come on." She took hold of his hand, "I'll make you something."
"So long as it isn't potatoes."
Rosalie laughed, shaking her head at him. "No," she said.
"Heracles! This tent won't pitch itself!"
"Oh Hans, we have enough help." He heard Frieda's voice before she came waddling into view. "Let him see his sweetheart! It's been half a year!" Frieda nodded to him and Rosalie. "You have tonight off, Heracles," she said, "but you'd better be prepared to work extra tomorrow."
"Thank you, Frieda."
He followed Rosalie to her little house and watched as she cooked, sitting beside her and helping her peel vegetables. They talked as they ate, watching the sun sink below the horizon. The sky was streaked with red and gold, and the colors splashed across Rosalie's face. She seemed prettier than he'd remembered. She looked at him now, reaching into one of her pockets and producing a little bundle of papers.
"I still have your letters," she said, handing them to him.
"Did you like them?"
"Yes," she said. "Will you read one to me?"
"I thought Clopin read them to you."
"He did, but I want to hear your voice."
Heracles unfolded one of the letters, noticing that Rosalie moved closer to him as he did so. " 'Dearest Rosalie,' " he began, " 'the sun sets in Munich, and it looks the same as it does in Lyon, but I still wish you were here to share it with me…' " He glanced at her. She was staring at him, her head tilted up, her lips so close to his he could almost feel them. He let the letter fall from his hand and closed his eyes. He kissed her, momentarily surprised at how soft and warm her lips were. He slipped his arms around her waist, feeling the curve of her hip beneath his hand.
She touched his face, cradling it in her hands. He let her run her hands along his face, neck, and shoulders, let her explore him. She tilted her head to the side, almost inviting him to kiss her neck, and he did, savoring the softness of her skin. He felt her grab his hands, guide them to her blouse, and he found himself fumbling with the buttons. They seemed too small, and she brushed his hands away, undoing the buttons with ease. He touched her gently, lightly, and he felt her pushing him. He lay down, letting her climb on top of him. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, wanted to whisper her name, but his voice seemed to catch in his throat. The moment seemed so beautiful in the silence; speaking would only spoil it.
"Get off of my mother, you pervert!"
He did not hear the footsteps and was not even fully aware of what exactly was happening until he felt Pierre kick him in the shoulder. Rosalie scrambled up, placing herself between him and Pierre; her once-graceful hands were slipping along the buttons on her blouse. "Pierre, stop it!" she shouted, her voice more irritated than embarrassed.
Heracles sat up, noticing Marie standing behind her brother. He barely noticed that Rosalie and Pierre had begun to argue; Marie was staring at him, something wild and frightened in her eyes. She stepped back, gripping her shawl. She had begun to cry. She turned and fled, and Heracles found himself scrambling after her, ignoring Rosalie and Pierre, who seemed oblivious to him anyway.
"Marie!" calling her name was futile, but he found himself doing it anyway. He caught up with her, grabbing her shoulder. She turned to him, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head, brushing his hand away from her shoulder. "Marie, I'm sorry you saw that…but…your mother and I…well…" She stared at him, continuing to shake her head. Her distress hadn't been caused by seeing him with Rosalie. Heracles wasn't sure if he felt relieved or not. Something was bothering Marie, and she was either unable or unwilling to tell him. "What's wrong, then?"
She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Heracles put his arms around her, and she did not pull away. She sobbed loudly and incoherently into his shoulder, making strange, guttural sounds. She was shaking, and he found himself holding her tighter, almost afraid she'd shatter. He held her, staring down at her, and he felt frightened. He wondered now if something had happened to Marie. Had someone hurt her? He found himself thinking of the Russian boy, and suddenly wished he had told Rosalie about what he'd seen.
"Marie," he said, tilting her chin, forcing her to look at his face. "Tell me what's wrong. I will make it right. Tell me."
She stepped out of his grip, wiping her eyes on the backs of her hands. She pointed to her stomach. "Are you hurt?" She shook her head, biting her lower lip in what was either frustration or embarrassment. She moved her arms now, miming rocking a baby, then pointed to her stomach again. "Oh God…you're pregnant?"
She could see the shock in his eyes and began to cry again, burying her face in her hands and turning away from him. "Damn it! Marie, no – I didn't mean…" He moved, standing in front of her and tilted her face up to his again. "Who is the father?" She moved her hands, doing something with her fingers that he couldn't understand. "Is – is it that Russian boy? The one missing two fingers?" She nodded, holding up her left hand, mimicking the boy's missing digits. Heracles sighed, "where is he?"
Marie stared at him, blinking. "The boy, where is he?" She pointed towards the caravans that marked the Russian Gypsies' camp. "Come on," said Heracles, taking her hand. She took a deep breath and led him into the camp, making her way towards a large caravan at its center.
~xXx~
"Infected? What do you mean, infected?"
Giovanni was panicking, and his terror would only spread to Theresa. René rubbed his forehead. He had treated her wounds as quickly as he could, but now she was shivering and gasping for breath, and the wound in her back had taken on a bluish color, like a bruise. "Calm down," said René. He glanced over at the woods. "I can go see if I can find some herbs for her. You stay here with her. I'll be back soon."
Giovanni nodded and climbed back up into the hearse. He handed René the lantern, and René turned towards the woods. He plunged into them, shoving through the thick underbrush, scanning the ground. He wasn't sure if he could find the proper herbs in the increasingly dim light, but he would not give up without trying. Theresa could very well be dying; he would not let her.
He was surprised when he found what he was looking for. He dropped to his knees, saying a quick prayer, thanking God, before ripping up handfuls of the herb. He wasn't sure how much he needed. The wound was relatively small. Too many herbs wouldn't be bad, would it? It wouldn't kill Theresa? No, more herbs would speed her recovery. He turned, staring out at the trees, momentarily disoriented. What direction had he come from? Where was the main road?
"Giovanni!" he shouted.
"René?" Giovanni's response was delayed, but he moved towards the sound of his voice. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"No," he yelled, "just lost. Keep talking!"
"I'm over here!"
René emerged onto the main road, breathing a sigh of relief before rushing towards the hearse. He climbed up into it. Theresa looked terrifyingly pale, and she was shuddering, gasping for breath. She stared at him, smiling faintly as she recognized him. She was still able to see him and know who he was, she was still able to smile at him, and this gave him endless amounts of hope. René pulled the blankets off of her, gently nudging her onto her stomach. "Hold her arms," he said.
Giovanni nodded, obediently gripping Theresa's arms and pinning them to the floor. René set the lantern down and drew his knife. He would have to reopen the wound, and it would hurt a great deal. It was still bleeding beneath the stitches, and the blood would need to be released. He undid the stitches as gently as he could, ignoring Theresa's wail of pain. He pressed the scraps of cloth he'd brought along to use as bandages to the wound. The blood seemed darker and thicker than normal. It oozed out of her slowly, and he mopped it up. The blood gradually became thinner, more normal, and he found himself sighing with relief.
"Will she be all right?"
René nodded. He took some of the herbs and began crushing them, grinding them between his fingers and pressing them into the wound. Theresa cried out again, and he felt her muscles tighten. She could still feel pain, could still respond to it; she just might live through this, and René found himself praying for her. "I have some brandy in that canteen," he said, nodding towards the rear of the hearse. Giovanni crawled across the floor, grabbing the pack and pulling out the canteen. He uncorked it and handed it to René. René splashed it into the wound, making Theresa scream even louder.
"The dying don't feel their pain," he said, glancing at Giovanni. "If she's screaming, it's because she isn't dying."
He managed to sew the wound shut. The pain had somehow brought strength back to Theresa, and she thrashed and cried. Giovanni had to hold her still, gripping her arms and apologizing to her over and over. René finally finished, wiping his bloody hands on his trousers. He stared down at Theresa, suddenly exhausted. He barely noticed when Giovanni climbed out of the back of the hearse and went to take the reins. He barely noticed when the hearse began to move. He draped the blanket over Theresa and leaned against the wall, holding the lantern in his lap to keep it from falling.
"René?"
"I'm here, Theresa."
She smiled at him. Her smile was faint, sleepy, but it was a smile nonetheless. She moved, shifting beneath the blankets, and her hand emerged, reaching for his. He took her hand. She felt soft and warm, and she squeezed his hand. She still had some strength left in her. René smiled at her, and in spite of everything, he felt something he could only identify as happiness. He was here with Theresa, he was holding her hand. She would live, and they would make it to Lyon.
~xXx~
Heracles was surprised to find the Russian boy outside of his caravan. He was with another man; they bore such a striking resemblance to each other, they could only be brothers. They appeared to be arguing, shouting at each other in Russian. The boy saw them approach, and pointed to Marie, saying something to his brother.
Marie stared up at him, biting her lip, her eyes desperate. It was not his place to tell the boy that she was pregnant. It was none of his affair, but if Marie was too afraid to do it, then Heracles would. He patted her shoulder and approached the boy. He stared at the boy, not knowing what to say. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Dmitri." The boy pointed to himself. "You are the strong man from the circus, da? Friend of Marie's?" He glanced at Marie, noticing that she was wringing her hands nervously. "Marie, what is wrong?"
Marie squirmed, letting her hands fall to her sides. She took a deep breath, then pointed to Dmitri. She mimed rocking a baby in her arms, then pointed to her stomach. Dmitri blinked, staring at her in shock. The man beside him said something in Russian. Marie went to him now, taking his hand and placing it on her stomach.
"You…you are to be having baby?" he said, "it – it is being my baby?" Marie nodded.
The other man said something in Russian, and Dmitri spun around, his eyes blazing with fury. He shouted at the man and leapt at him, knocking him over. Marie gasped, backing away, her hands in front of her face as if shielding blows meant for her. Heracles grabbed Dmitri, pulling him off of his older brother. "You apologize, Piotr!" screamed Dmitri, thrashing, struggling to break free of Heracles's grasp and attack his brother again. "She is not whore! She is good girl, and I am loving her very much!"
Dmitri's struggles ceased rather suddenly, and Heracles suddenly wondered if he'd hurt the boy. He let go of Dmitri, watching him warily. Dmitri glared at his brother, then turned to Marie. He approached her, reaching for her. She came to him slowly, with hesitation, and he put his arms around her. "I am to honoring you," he said, "I am to marry you, and to honoring you." She stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Come, I am to ask Pierre for permission."
Mentioning Pierre jolted Heracles's memory. He wondered if Rosalie was looking for him, or was she still arguing with Pierre? God, Pierre would hate him. He remembered the hate and anger in Pierre's eyes; he'd looked at him as though he was molesting his mother. The night, which had started so wonderfully, was quickly turning sour, and Heracles followed Marie and Dmitri back to Rosalie's house, praying it didn't get any worse.
~xXx~
"Pierre, you had no right – "
"I saw what he was doing to you, and I will kill him if he touches you again!" Pierre was shaking, his hands balled into fists. Rosalie glanced down at the knife in his belt. Even with it, he was no match for Heracles. Pierre was thin and still short for his age. Heracles could probably kill him with one blow if he wanted to. If she did take Heracles as a lover, it was none of Pierre's business. The very idea that he had any say in what she did behind closed doors was absurd; she was the parent, he was the child.
"I am a grown woman, Pierre," she said, "and if I choose to be with a man, it is my business and not yours."
"I saw – "
"I know what you saw!" she found herself shouting again, but she didn't care. Pierre was stubborn. His father had been stubborn, and she herself was stubborn to a certain extent. "Heracles was not hurting me. He is a good man, Pierre."
Pierre was shaking his head. "No, no…Mama…"
He had not called her 'Mama' in years, not since he was small, and she suddenly saw the tears in his eyes. She reached for him, and he nearly fell into her arms, pressing his face against her shoulder, as he'd done so many times when he was a child. "What's wrong, Pierre?" she said, rubbing his back, feeling panic rise within her.
"I don't want him to hurt you," he said, his voice thin and gasping. She could feel his fingers digging into her back and was painfully aware that he was missing the little finger on his left hand.
"He won't," she said, "he's a good man, and he won't – "
"I know what happened."
Rosalie felt her blood run cold. He couldn't possibly know. She'd kept it a secret, hadn't told anyone except Clopin, Cassandra, and Esmerelda. They knew better than to tell anyone. Surely they hadn't told Pierre; it was none of his business, none of his affair. She didn't want him to know; knowing would only hurt him. She'd wanted to spare him the pain, she'd wanted to protect him. She swallowed, shaking her head. "I – I'm not sure what you mean – "
"I overheard Clopin and Cassandra," he said, "after it happened. I know what those men did to you, and…I'm so sorry, Mama…I'm so sorry I didn't stop it…"
She shushed him, closing her eyes. Hearing him talk about, knowing that it was making him weep, was like a knife through her heart. "Pierre, you were only thirteen," she said, "they would have killed you."
"But I didn't help you – "
"Shhh…" She lifted his head up off of her shoulder, wiping his tears away with her thumbs. "You did," she said, "you kept your sister safe." She was surprised that she didn't feel the usual pain and terror that came with thinking of that night. The memories did not come flooding back to torment her. She was surprised that she felt so strong, so sure of herself. She wondered if it was Heracles's doing, or possibly Esmerelda's. "Knowing that you and your sister were safe kept me alive, Pierre."
"I will never let anyone hurt you."
"I know," she said, kissing his forehead, "but Heracles is not going to hurt me." Pierre nodded. "Does…does Marie know?"
He shook his head. "No. I didn't tell her."
"All right," she said, rubbing his shoulders. "I love you, Pierre, with all my heart."
"I love you, Mama."