Chapter 14: The Definition of Love

Ciara Fascha Daestro was unknown to most people, and preferred it that way. She had been an odd child, to say the least; blind, mute, albino, and freakishly able to recreate any music she heard. Philippe had taken her in, made her feel at home when not even her parents consented to her presence. They were embarrassed to have created her, whereas Philippe had regarded her as a useful person, a friend. Acceptance was addicting, even when it meant training with every imaginable weapon, animal, and situation.

The ability to communicate, too, was like a drug. She had developed a code using a piano that she used to 'speak' with her employer and guardian. Each bit of ivory and wood was branded with a letter, a letter that she felt with the tips of her fingers- just another example of his love and care for her, despite his close-minded parents. She had long since memorized this code, and so had he, giving way to cacophonous and rapid conversation punctuated and expressed through dynamics and every human emotion she felt. Those exchanges could last for hours, distracting them from meals and sleep. Philippe was clumsier than she at the keys, but very clear, and best of all, understanding. It was his courtesy to her, to 'speak' her 'language' when she understood French perfectly well.

As a young teen and a child, they had often abandoned formal dinners or luncheons and walked the city's streets, and she would take in the sights, tastes, smells, sounds, and textures at the market; the best of friends, and she knew it was true. The feel of his hands always told her what he felt, along with other bodily signs. It had been especially embarrassing for him to start puberty and have her detecting sweat and the slight changes of scent (plus an elevated heart rate) whenever he spotted the girl he liked.

They took their lessons together, much to the tutor's distaste, and found their odd quirks- she was far more adept with numbers and architecture, while he excelled in law, essays, and literature. On the field, though, all was equal in their fights. Well, not in the practical sense- she always won.

Becoming young adults, they had had to separate their rooms even though they shared one as siblings often do. Yet they still played together, fighting for sport and for skill. It was a beautiful thing, for her, to have such life amongst nobles even if she was always hidden away because of Philippe's parents.

Over the years, the duke had given her affection, shelter, and clothing; he acknowledged her rights as if she were a normal girl and even treated her as more than a female to be looked down upon. He was brother, companion, and trainer to her. Every day and without fail, he sparred with her (even though she was a slight, thin thing) and drilled her with weapons. Together, they completed complex acrobatic routines and tested the range and accuracy of her senses of smell, touch, and hearing. Now, as she saw her friend less and less often and became lonely, she still tested herself. If one did not know better, she would appear to have perfect vision. Her debt to him was one impossible to be paid.

Now he was doing something important, he told her, but refused to tell exactly what, and became more and more shut away the more she asked him. Lately he had been cold and hard- she sensed it in his temperature and pulse- and he was not the warm, loving person she'd known before this important thing. Perhaps it was greed that stole away his innocent, playful personality. Perhaps it was the fact that he was royalty, supposed to be all grown up, and on the edge of war with the whole of Europe. Perhaps it was all these things combined.

Perhaps he had changed irreversibly… His mannerisms were different now, too. Before, he had not minded getting dirty with mud, sweat, grass, and the smell of horses. Now, he was always clean, and said it was out of courtesy, but she knew it was because he hid something terrible in both scent and moral.

Ciara plinked out two small, plaintive questions at her piano: Why is he different? Is he still my friend? She played the chords that corresponded to her mental cries, repeating them over and over as in a fugue. If he walked in now, he would not be able to understand her, as he had only relative pitch, not perfect pitch. The meaning of her notes would escape him unless he saw the keys and deciphered them one by one. Sometimes that was a problem- he could not tell the depth of her hurt and concern.

Slowly, the sequence grew in volume and length, and she added counts and measures to each phrase. It didn't sound like a song, but her musical speech was rarely ever pleasing to the ear. Everything blurred together and echoed as she pressed the rightmost and center pedals with her small, boot-clad feet. It was easier not to listen to the specific notes of her misery.

The quiet tap of another shoe at her door stopped her hands. She lifted the pedal and spelled out, I know you are there. What is wrong?

"All these years, and I still can't approach you without getting caught." Philippe's voice was tense, strained from holding back stress and anger. Why did he not play to her, as he normally did? "I need-"

He was cut off by loud, staccato playing as her hands flew over the keys. This time he recognized the sequence, for it was one he had heard for years. Understand me. Watch the keys. It was something she had said over and over again, but once in a while, he forgot. It was familiar, but different this time. She played it mournfully, like a sigh. Play for me.

He sat next to her on the bench. She repeated herself: What is wrong? A pause. Play your answer. Please. He nodded slowly, but she felt his side tense by hers. He had not used this mode of communication for a week, and it made her anxious for their bond, and for him. He who was close to her was now closed to her.

I need you to do something for me.

It's part of the important thing, is it not?

It is. She sniffed cautiously, detecting something foreign and pungent.

You smell different. That is most definitely not your usual cologne. She paused again, then: Human feces, a sick human, at that. Not your style at all. It was her attempt to reestablish lost trust with an inside joke. He didn't laugh. Instead, as his hand reached for the keys, she held it with two fingers at his wrist. He was trying to lie. Her intent changed, although her face did not. Philippe. His name was a gentle pattern, ending in a soft C4 sharp. You are hiding from me.

All will be revealed in time. I only need you to bring someone to me. She tried to interject, but he seized her hands urgently in one of his and continued. Please, Ciara. I need him for this business. It is of monumental importance.

You promise to tell me everything when I catch him? The ending of the phrase clearly expressed her worry.

I promise. That was all the proof she needed, because she trusted him far more than she knew was healthy. The next notes were determined and purposeful. She would find out what her friend had been doing all this time.

Who do you need? I will bring him.

…

Ciara's skin prickled as the breeze picked up. She could hear the grass rustle around her. The birds were cooing and singing gently, and the sun was warm on the ground at the edges of the courtyard. She did not feel it on her skin, for she was carefully shaded at all times. The doctors told her different, but she knew that exposure shortened her lifespan. Therefore, for her comfort alone, Philippe, dear heart that he was, had ordered that the courtyard be shaded in its entirety.

They would be training today, in spite of all the monarchs' protests against their son fighting a girl with the sure shame of losing. She had been gifted with speed, stealth, flexibility beyond his, and an intimate knowledge of the human body and its weak points. However, today was not the day for these things.

Today would be a test of her strength, and for once, she was completely confident that she would not win. It was a simple exercise: draw a line and keep Philippe from crossing it without hitting, flipping, using a weapon, or pressing one of the weak points she knew existed on every human being. True, she could bring him to his knees with a bit of pressure to a very sensitive nerve in his arm, but it was a hobby of hers to perfect everything in her combat, including brute strength.

Today was a bet, as well. If he crossed the line, she was to go to a formal dinner with him, dance with him, and act as his lover for the entirety of the evening. Truth be told, she did not want to act the evening. She would not act the evening. She would be his lover for the evening, even if it killed her to know that it was all a lie.

She would know it in his heartbeat and in his scent, every time they went out to the parks or the market together and she held his arm, even if she needed no guide. His pulse would rise, and he smelled of some sweetness on his skin that she could not get enough of, even if she knew it was not for her. He was quiet then, and he slowed his walk, and she knew he was watching that someone- her, the girl he obviously loved. Then he would always take several deep breaths, and the sweet, musky smell would fade, and his pulse would return to normal. He would always ask her a question, then, always something about what she thought of him. He would be tense when he asked this, fighting not to betray something to her. Obviously he had talked to this girl, and wanted to know how to proceed. She always answered that he was her very best friend, or something along those lines.

And he would know that she was hiding something from him too, but he never acknowledged it. Perhaps his subconscious knew it, and he didn't. Sometimes Ciara hoped he would dream about her, and come to her in the night to speak the truth with her- but that was her dream, not his.

Besides, what did she know of love? Friendship was quite familiar to her, to laugh and talk together; when did that turn into a deeper feeling, into the mystery of love? How did one define love? Was it to derive intense happiness and want, or to be obsessed with the person? Was it to be overtaken and possessed by that strange, unconscious behavior that Philippe exhibited when he saw that girl she was so jealous of?

She sensed him coming, but dared not turn around. It was a warm day, and she knew he would be shirtless. He knew she couldn't see him, but that didn't matter, and he didn't know it. It was poisoning her, really, to keep him from what she knew, but it was the sweetest, most heartbreaking poison, and she was addicted because she did not want to ruin their long friendship with something as extreme as a gesture of love…but what was that, anyway?

"Daydreaming, Snow White? Not your style at all." She turned around and smiled in his direction. The use of her nickname was amusing to her. She was not a princess or the victim of an evil queen…and not at all kissable. She pointed at the ground in front of her, where she'd chalked the paving stones next to the water fountain. The line extended up the strange sculpture- tiers of stairs with rivulets falling into a moat- and all the way across the courtyard. "I see you've upped the stakes. If I win, you take a swim, correct?"

She nodded.

"Well, shall we begin?" His entire person seemed focused on winning. Philippe knew he could not let her win. He was not going to the dance alone.

Thankfully, that night, he did not have to, because he won and took the strange-looking girl with him, in her elegant, gold and green gown- but he had to content himself with the fact that Ciara, his best friend, would do anything for him except love him.

…

Philippe and Ciara took the city in as they had so many times in the past. Now they were older, now they had kept their hearts guarded for nigh on a decade, he because he was to marry someone else, and she because he could not love her now, not when he was doing something so 'important'. "You know what to do?" he asked. She nodded her pixyish head of white hair and blinked at him with blind, iridescent red eyes.

"Then go." She obeyed and went as she was told. He took a moment to appreciate her figure through the form-fitting, black combat clothes he'd had fashioned for her. Then he turned around and walked the other way.

He didn't have time for an affair, especially when he could not marry her. Why not? He pushed the thought aside. She might have all the education, physical prowess, inborn cleverness, and talent for politics, but he could not have her. It was a rule more heavily placed on his family than anyone's. He was to marry one of noble blood, not an undocumented, abandoned orphan.

Besides, he had a prison to run, foreigners to interrogate, people to torture, and after that, a thorough bath to take. She had almost discovered him from the smell of dung at the edge of his boot during their conversation. He could not risk that. He would lose his best spy…and his best friend.

His feet took him to his office among the various shops, a legal office- with illegal papers in it. The irony of it made him smile. Something shifted and creaked inside, and he frowned. Those creatures need food, unfortunately. I had best check on them.

He unlocked the building and entered, then locked the door behind him. It did not do to let his guard slip. He made his way to the back and slid the bookshelf back against the corner, and it moved quite easily in the grooves he'd made in the floor. An eager, loud purring was heard. The beasts' master was come. Slowly, so as not to upset them, he retrieved a slab of preserved meat from a barrel in the corner of the dark secret office and set it down on the ground, watching as his pets devoured their meal. When they were done, he methodically checked the bolts in the wall. If they escaped, all of France would hunt them down.

He patted each on the head, feeling the healthy, glossed fur and much pride for his work in raising them. His twin panthers stretched and yawned in unison. In a way, he envied them. They were inseparable, never fought, and loved and protected one another, just as many human siblings did. They were unbiased, innocent, and he pitied them because they would not be for much longer if the worst happened and he had to set them on someone.

No…it should not come to that. Ciara will do her job. She always does. She is my friend. I can trust her to do what needs doing.

…

Ciara was not sure if listening to a chorus rehearsal and tuning a spare piano was part of her job. It was an amusement, for sure, but it had nothing to do with what Philippe had told her to do. She simply loved to listen to the music. It was therapy, and it took her mind off of her troubles (aka Philippe d'Orleans and his strange behavior).

A wire twanged against her fingers. She played the note again, tightened it, and tested it for the third time- just right. It was not just the sound that told her when an instrument was in good condition, it was the feel of the vibrations. Was this the way piano tuners tuned their instruments? Probably not, but for her, it worked, and it was stress relief.

"Erik, where are you taking me?" She whirled about. Two people, female and male…yes, these are the two I am to separate, by their voices and scents. She tucked herself into an empty cello case and carefully closed it, leaving only a crack so as not to muffle any conversation. The soprano voice spoke again as the door opened. "A piano? You have an organ in your home and you chose a back room for our lunch?" A laugh sounded from Christine, and Erik watched his beloved's throat move. Every part of her was beautiful, and she didn't know it or didn't care.

She loves him! Ciara's red eyes widened though they could not see. And he loves her…I can smell it. She wears rose and lavender perfume for him, and some expensive cosmetics. Love itself could have stabbed her in the eye and it would not have been any more real. So love makes you want to better yourself…

"It occurred to me yesterday that everything and everyone seems intent on interrupting us. I don't intend for that to happen this time, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it might," Erik replied, setting down a plate of food on the small table. "I also chose this room because…" A swishing sound and the sting of ash filled the air. This girl, Christine, gasped a happy breath.

"A fireplace! But where does the flue lead?"

"What do you think all those statues on the roof are for, and the thick stone columns all throughout the opera?" Both began to laugh. Love seems to make them happy, too. Or is it that they are friends and laugh together as I do- did- with Philippe? It was painful for 'Mlle. Daestro', as the duke had begun to call her in his professional moments or with guests of a political nature around. Where was that fine line between friendship and the romantic sort of love?

A merry, crackling fire was lit, and unlike a funeral pyre or a candle or the roaring, monstrous fires that Ciara was familiar with, this one seemed to laugh along with the two people who were not stuffed into instrument cases. Love makes the world better for them.

Ciara stayed in the cello case for the rest of the couple's lunch (it was large enough for her to fold herself into, with her flexibility), which seemed to take about an hour, as they seemed too busy talking or just gazing at one another to eat. Finally, when their plates were finished, the man, Erik, asked, "Christine, what is love? I have thought about this for many years, but having not received very much love, I cannot define it."

After a moment, there was the rustling of a dress and a startled gasp. "I know that to love is to want and need the object of love to be happy." Christine sighed and hoped that the fire had reddened her cheeks enough that there was no change in her skin tone. Inside the case, as uncomfortable as she was, the albino spy and assassin breathed out quietly, thoughtfully. Do I want to make Philippe happy? Yes, of course… I love him…true? True.

Erik asked a similar question to his listener's. "Do I make you happy?" There was a long pause, as if both could not believe what he had just asked. The spy heard the touch of soft fingertips on slightly rougher skin, on a shaven jaw.

Then: "You do, all the time and every day." The silence stretched longer for a minute or two, gripping Ciara with shadowy claws of suspense. What are they doing? Do all lovers stay in the same position like this for extended periods of time? Would that not be awkward? Finally, they moved again, quickly, this time, and… They have their mouths pressed together? Am I hearing things? Do lovers do this, too, because it feels nice? Now she knew why it drove her mad to be so near Philippe and his sweet smell and elevated heart rate. Now she knew that she was not crazy to be listening to his speech and breathing so carefully, and to the way he played what he thought for her to decipher.

She wanted to kiss him. Love is to need the other person to be happy, they said. Well said indeed. I must go and make Philippe happy, then. And then he will love me too.

…

Philippe waited at the grand piano (also branded with letters, as was every piano in the house) in his home for Ciara. He could wait for several days if need be, for she was prone to wandering or staying overnight at her favorite haunts in the marketplace, or some of the shadier taverns. It was practice for her, she said, because he was home late and often too tired to train with her anymore, but that seemed illogical. He knew that she could defeat most anyone in the whole of Europe with her bare hands.

I wonder…does she go to the tavern for a man-whore to take her to bed? He stopped and frowned. That shouldn't bother me. Yes, if she wants her needs sated, she can go anywhere she wants. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that if his friend was indeed going to such places for her needs, she should have come to him…so instead of shaking it, he ignored it.

The double doors opened, and he heard her footsteps over the marble floors. Automatically, he moved aside, clearing a space for her at the piano. Hello, Ciara.

Hello.

What did you find out? Ciara blinked several times as if she had forgotten on her way back, but soon regained clarity and made out a reply.

This man you wanted me to bring you… (here she let a note linger for quite some time as she gathered her thoughts) …he loves a woman. They will be hard to separate, if not impossible. You might try using the woman as bait.

Already have, Philippe pressed into the keys with frustration, and I must admit that it is harder to capture her. She is protected. He felt the albino's cool, pale hand on his shoulder and breathed deeply, as she had taught him. Thank you. At this point, he might have only been seeing what he wanted to see, but a red glow bloomed on her cheeks and she looked the other way to hide. Her expression did not change.

Why do you need to capture this man? Is he special in some way, for this important business? Then she hesitated. No, you don't have to answer that. I trust you. She felt him pause, tense next to her again in that way that made her so very anxious to make him relax again. What's wrong? He breathed deep again, and she felt his sigh against her cheek and savored it.

Nothing. Politics is a hassle, he quipped with his exaggerated dynamics and irregular tempo. Unlike you, no one is trusting in the political world.

Thank you. She trusted so well, yet what he did on a daily basis would destroy that trust if she ever found out. He had to keep her from ever knowing. She was playing again: You wore that hydrangea stuff again, didn't you? She wrinkled her thin nose. Are you trying to make me allergic to you and everything you touch?

He smiled and shoved her playfully, as when they were young. Of course not! I enjoy your company, and I wear 'that hydrangea stuff' so you are not repulsed by the sweat from debates with sticky politicians. A smile was planted on her lips, which were thin and white like the rest of her.

Whatever makes you happy.