33
Spring wore into summer, and summer began to grow warmer.
A letter arrived in care of the Opera, for Katrina. It was from Auntie, brief, inquiring politely after her health, and giving a vague report of life since the child had left. Enclosed with the note were three letters, unaddressed, and sealed with thick blue wax. They had been found by the young family who now owned Katrina's old home, Auntie said. They had been hidden under a baseboard, and only recently discovered when the husband began to renovate the bedroom. They had taken it to Auntie, hoping that she would know where they belonged, and she had in turn attempted to send them to Katrina.
Erik grudgingly allowed her to write a response to acknowledge the receipt of the items. If Helen hadn't been watching, he may not have.
"This is the wax Mama used," Katrina said a little wistfully, "I remember the smell. I wonder who they're for?"
Erik picked up one, and studied the paper closely. He hardly expected his sister to use disappearing ink, or some sort of hidden mark. He looked at the seal and then picked up the others. "One is for me. I think I know where the others are to go. Would you allow me to mail them, Katrina?"
She nodded, and stood on tiptoe to look at them. "How do you know it's for you?"
He showed her the differing seals. One was of twin trees, one of a bird, and one of an angel. "Our family used to do this instead of names. I know." Without a word, he addressed two of the envelopes with black ink instead of red, and was careful to print evenly. Katrina never saw them in the house afterwards, and guessed that he or Helen had mailed them.
Roberto took up a great deal of Katrina's time, and Helen made the laughing remark to Madame D'Arcy that the girl held the baby more than the mother did.
Helen and Marie spent every Wednesday together getting groceries and conducting business. Katrina would follow, little Roberto in her arms as they compared wares and discussed Marie's own upcoming delivery.
Katrina was now aware that her life did not follow the prescribed rituals of the world. She could see that other girls became brown in the summer sun, or went to school with lots of other females. They would often be out with families in the park during holidays, no one avoiding being seen.
Her eyes, as Andre had observed, fixed people until she understood. She would stand on the roof of the Opera with a telescope and watch the people below, or stand and study them from a doorway. In doing so, she slowly became aware that she preferred her world, small as it was, to the one everyone else knew. She could see that few of them held one color or sound in their soul very long. They shifted, and searched, beating against cages that weren't even there.
The ones that had direction were often aware of the frivolity around them and would bear secret sadness. The ones who went on staunchly, she learned to admire them for their strength. It was a power learned over time, not one to be born with, and the more precarious for that.
These Wednesday forays gave the illusion to others that they had a normal existence. Anyone who knew the sisters would greet them, inquire after their families, and give the false promise of an invitation to some event.
In another part of France, however, one Wednesday in particular was not so commonplace.
Stephan and Andre returned home to find Agard outside, wringing his hands in agitation. That alone would not have shocked them, but finding both Sophie and Jean weeping in the hall did. Andre excused himself and vanished.
"What has happened?" Stephan asked, fearing some dark nameless beast.
Jean pointed to the little table where a letter lay open. Stephan picked it up, read it twice, went white and staggered. He glanced back at the table, and picked up a second letter, opened it, and read that one as well. He held it out to his parents, and they shared it as their tears would allow.
Young Lefevre buried his face in his hands. "What have I done? Oh, merciful heaven, what have I done?"