I have the next few chapters completed and will hopefully not take so long to post them.

Chapter 58

The house was quiet when I returned home and found Bessie asleep directly in front of the back door. Loyal to a fault, I nearly tripped over her in the dark, which sent her scrambling out of the way with a yelp.

"Damned dog," I muttered once I righted myself. "Of all the places in the house, you choose to sleep in front of the door?"

She bellied up to me, tail wagging as she whined her apology and begged for forgiveness.

I looked at her and sighed, doubting anyone had taken her out since I had last been home. Everyone was perfectly capable of opening the back door and yet the task of caring for the dog was usually assigned to me.

"Come on then," I said as I marched toward the front door.

Bessie proudly trotted ahead of me, her tail held high like a flag pole and chin up as she made her way into the foyer. She spun in circles as I removed her leash from the hook, which made it nearly impossible to attach to her collar.

"Honestly?" I grumbled.

She immediately sat and began panting in delight of our pending excursion.

Once I had her leashed, we stepped onto the street in our usual routine of exuberant hound forgetting her manners in favor of dragging me toward the corner as though somehow the scents on this particular evening were far greater than they had been the previous night. She made quite a show until I tired of being pulled down the street.

"Bessie," I warned. "Enough."

One warning was all it took for her to trot obediently at my side where she occasionally glanced up in search of praise, which I doled out quite generously.

We kept a steady, comfortable pace for three streets, passing quiet, dark homes and hissing gas lamps until the residential neighborhood turned to storefronts and other businesses. A steady, cool breeze filled the night, and with not a soul on the streets aside from a stray cat or two, I removed my hat and lifted my mask to feel the air against my face.

In the colder months when everyone hid beneath hoods and scarves I dared to remove my mask and walk amongst strangers in the dark on a more frequent basis. On warmer nights such as this one, however, I kept the covering within my right hand at all times, but I enjoyed being without it in the dark. It had been years since I had dared to remove my mask in the summer despite the late hour in which I roamed the streets. Every few steps I glanced over my shoulder to make certain we were still alone and found the streets quite empty. At one point I spotted two young men half a street away whistling and singing some bawdy tune in loud, drunken voices. They were far too entertained by their own song to notice us far behind them. I wondered if they realized how fortunate they were that no one with nefarious intentions followed behind them.

In the back of my mind I was fully aware of our intended route so long as Bessie desired to walk as far as the park. She had a habit of using all of her energy in a few streets, then lagging behind at the most pathetic pace until she sat and refused to move until she was sufficiently rested. Given that she was full-grown, I could no longer carry her back as I had once done when she was a mere pup.

On this night, however, she dutifully strolled by my side, and as we passed along the outer edges of the park, she lifted her head from the cobblestones and sniffed at the air, then turned her head to the side and issued a questioning look.

"I'm aware," I replied.

We continued until the perfume store came into sight and I picked up the smell Bessie found least enjoyable. She looked at me again as though confirming we wished to approach the storefront that smelled heavily of floral scents and musks.

"I trust you can suffer through five minutes?"

Her answer was a heavy sigh as she awaited instructions.

Adjacent to the perfumery, the art gallery greeted us with a white sign containing read letters in the middle of the window that simply stated: Fyre, a New Exhibit by Phelan Kimmer.

There could not have been a more pretentious sign in all of Europe.

Now that Bessie and I stood on the curb across the street, I hesitated approaching the gallery window and considered returning home, but I felt the unmistakable pull of my curiosity. Five minutes, I reasoned, a long enough time to familiarize myself with his paintings before Julia and I attended the art show in the evening. I would feel more at ease if I knew what paintings would be on display.

Bessie lagged behind me as we proceeded to cross the street, which I fully expected. She came to a halt the moment we reached the curb and plopped down, offering a dramatic yawn in canine protest.

"You best rest yourself. I will not carry you home," I explained as I dropped her leash and allowed her to sprawl out next to a bench where she licked the cobblestones. With Bessie situated, I donned my mask and stepped toward the storefront glass.

Despite the gallery being closed for the evening, I peered through the window and noticed several paintings of various sizes hung on stark white walls.

I squinted and leaned against the glass window to view a canvas on the left. It was the closest one to the window and the largest painting I could see from outside the building. At first it looked like a shapeless, dark mass, but the longer I stared at it, I could make out what appeared to be a figure crouched down with its arms crossed over legs drawn up to its chest. The figure's face was turned to the side, but given the lightless interior and the dark colors, I found it impossible to discern features.

And yet there was no need to truly see the face. In the back of my mind, I could clearly see the desperation in the eyes that were not there.

Over the years when I composed, I made a point of never allowing myself to integrate either of my parents or their hatred into my music. The sadness that poured from me was the grief I felt in losing my uncle and myriad other instances of being shunned throughout my life, but I did not spare a single note on my mother or father.

The more widely accepted my work became, the more grateful I became in separating my adult life from my childhood as I had no desire to share my success with them. If they would not claim me, then I would not claim them either.

But through the gallery window, there was no mistaking the direct influence of the past in my brother's artwork. I wondered if he explained to critics and fellow artists where he drew his inspiration and how his colleagues reacted to his paintings if they knew what had transpired years ago.

In the shadows of the gallery, I saw my shameful past life on display for all of Paris. It angered me that Phelan shared these images with the public and yet he had so easily walked away from me the previous night. Five damned minutes, I said to myself. All I desired was five damned minutes of his time, preferably alone, and yet he denied me a single moment.

Aggravated, I turned, Bessie's name on the tip of my tongue, only to find the place where she had decided was suitable for resting now vacant. I stared for a long moment at the empty space, unable to comprehend her inexplicable absence when I had merely turned away for a moment.

"Bessie?" I called. I looked beneath the bench, which was quite clearly empty, and in the doorway of the perfume shop as well as the adjacent cobbler shop, both of which did not contain a dog.

"No," I said under my breath as I took a step toward the street, then turned and headed toward the alley. Casual concern swiftly turned into outright panic.

Despite her keen nose, Bessie had never been prone to running off. Late at night I was able to unhook her leash and allow her to sniff around the park without fear of her bolting. The worst she had ever done was roll in offensive odors and run back to me, delighted in her finds.

"Bessie?" I called again as I reached the alley with its stench of refuse. I fully expected to find her rooting around like a pig through the trash, but there was not even a stray cat to be found.

We were a good thirty minute walk from home, which was too great a distance for her to find her way back unassisted. If someone else were to find her, someone with unkind intentions… I could not bear the thought of someone doing harm to such a good-natured creature.

"Bessie!" I yelled. "Come here at once."

Alex would never forgive me if I lost the dog he had brought home as a gift and Lisette would be heartbroken that the loyal hound who slept by her bed was missing. I glanced one last time at the gallery window, cursing myself for foolishly allowing Bessie out of my sight, and saw the reflection of a man across the street in a long overcoat, top hat, and gloves which he casually slapped against the open palm of his right hand.

I whipped around, fully intending to ask the stranger if he had seen a basset hound, and found Bessie happily trotting with her leash dragging behind her as she followed her new friend.

It wasn't until the man was halfway across the street that I realized who Bessie had approached. Immediately I stopped and felt my breath catch in my throat.

"You are either late for the show or terribly early," Phelan said as he looked from Bessie to me. He seemed annoyed, however, that appeared to be his usual state.

Ignoring him, I stepped on the dog's leather leash to prevent her from taking off and crouched down to grab the handle.

Bessie looked up at Phelan, tongue lolling from the side of her mouth as though wishing for a treat or praise, neither of which she received.

"Come here at once," I said through my teeth as I gave the leash a firm tug in order to garner her attention. Bessie paid no mind to my tone and took two steps before she sat in front of me.

"You lost your dog," Phelan commented.

"She was hardly lost."

"I do believe being unable to find your missing pet is the very definition of lost."

"She's never wandered before," I muttered.

"Ah, well, then tonight must be the exception as she has been following me for the last ten minutes. I do hope I don't acquire fleas from your mongrel."

My jaw clenched. "I assure you, my son's dog is no flea-bitten mutt," I said through my teeth.

"Your son's dog. Of course." He glanced from me to Bessie and placed his gloves in his pocket. "She must be quite the refined canine to prance about the streets at one in the morning to take in a bit of artwork."

"I know nothing about her taste in art."

"How unfortunate," Phelan blandly replied.

"Indeed." Irritated, I tipped my hat, gripped the leash tighter in my left hand, and turned to walk home.

Halfway across the street I paused, feeling somewhat surprised and disappointed in the lack of true conversation, and glanced over my shoulder. Phelan remained in front of the gallery with his arms crossed.

"No critique for the artist? What a shame," Phelan said without turning to face me.

More than likely he saw my reflection in the glass as I paused and looked back at him. I wondered if he expected as much from me and gleaned great satisfaction knowing I could not leave without one last look.

"I have no critique of your work as I cannot see much given that the interior is as dark as the streets. All I see are shadows," I answered.

I expected a snide remark on my brother's behalf, however, he pulled keys from his overcoat pocket and twirled the iron ring around his finger. Without a word, he walked toward the entrance and unlocked the door, leaving it open behind him before he strolled toward the back and out of my sight.

A moment later lights flickered on and the gallery came to life one shadowy painting at a time. Now that I could make out the figure in the one closest to me, I studied the elongated frame and neck. The face had no features and yet I could clearly see its desperate expression in my mind, virtually unchanged from my first glance through the window.

I looked away and saw Phelan bent over a phonograph in the back corner of the room near a table with a white tablecloth draped over it. On the table was a bottle of wine and rows of about a dozen empty wine glasses turned upside down. Through the open doorway I heard a familiar tune and cringed at how the damned phonograph distorted the melody. It sounded as though the orchestra was trapped in a tin can.

"Where did you obtain that?" I asked as I stood with one hand holding the door open while the overture for Mauro and Jewel played through the phonograph.

Phelan stood back and ignored my inquiry. He grabbed his glass of wine from the table and proceeded to walk around the gallery without looking in my direction.

"This-this music-"

"Yes, yes," Phelan impatiently growled out his response. "By the great E.M. Kire. What a distinct pleasure to hear his work accompanying mine."

"Such flattery," I said dryly.

"Precisely what the gallery owner and my broker desired. Perhaps now the two of them can convince you to purchase real art and not something that Gillis boy splattered onto a canvas and sold to you."

I glared at the back of his head but knew he was far too much of a coward to face me. "I would rather have a dozen of Claude's paintings in my home than a single one of yours." I slammed the door shut behind me and garnered my brother's full attention at last.

He raised a brow when he looked at me, but otherwise did not seemed surprised by my actions. "Is that your critique? I expected more from you."

In every direction there was a reminder of humiliation and pain. The faceless figure with its legs drawn up and hands linked together imitated a position I had taken up often as a child. The cellar steps depicted to my right were exaggerated. Instead of twelve narrow steps there were perhaps twenty uneven stairs of various widths leading to a door with a sliver of light visible at the bottom and a skeletal hand holding the door open.

"What would you have me say?" I asked.

"What do artists want to hear? Flattery? Perhaps." He shrugged and swirled his wine around the glass. "I favor the truth. I value honest critiques. Don't you? Say whatever you wish, Kire, I will not be offended."

"You pay homage to him," I observed. I risked another glance around the gallery and walked in the opposite direction of where Phelan stood with Bessie faithfully at my side. There was a painting on an inner, makeshift wall that depicted the outside of our parents' house either at sunrise or sunset, the sky fiery shades of reds, yellows and oranges. The house looked small and uneven, a run-down, dark shack lacking warmth. This had been my hell on earth, the first of many.

I swore I saw the headstone, my headstone, amongst the weeds at the rear of the house, but I did not draw near enough to examine the painting.

"Homage? Is that what you see?"

"Why?" I stepped around the edge of the makeshift wall and found Phelan with his back to me. He stood before a smaller painting, one of the few that had more than black, brown, and gray on the canvas. "Why do you paint these-these images? Do you wish to remember them?"

He grunted before he bothered to give a reply. Casually he examined his glass of wine before taking another sip. "You do not spare them a second thought?" he asked.

Annoyed by his lack of answering the questions I posed, I turned away and rolled my eyes.

"Is it easier that way?" he continued when I didn't reply. "You simply choose to look only at the future and the past slips away?"

I knew Phelan wished to bait me into a conversation I had no desire to engage in, and yet I faced him once more. "My decisions are my own," I answered firmly.

"As are mine."

"Clearly."

"You are fortunate indeed that these images do not creep into your thoughts late at night, little brother," he said nonchalantly. "Fortunate that you were taken away and did not look back. How very, very fortunate you are."

My jaw and both fists clenched. Heat rose up the back of my neck as I considered his condescending tone and the way in which he refused to look me in the eye. He knew damned well I was not fortunate, not in the least. My life from the time I was born had been different corners of hell with rarely any respite or escape from the physical and emotional torment.

"I returned," he said casually.

With thoughts racing through my head, I almost did not hear Phelan speak.

"I beg your pardon?"

He looked at me from over his shoulder. "I returned. Here." He nodded to the painting before him and gestured at the others surrounding him. "Home."

I suppressed a shudder and looked around the gallery. At no point had the place in which my parents lived ever been my home. It was more of a prison that I had constantly escaped and returned to out of fear of what else was in the world. Surely if my own parents were able to treat me so cruelly, then the rest of the world would show no mercy at all.

Out of all the questions I wished to ask, only one was voiced immediately. "Why?"

I did not expect a single answer. I considered elaborating in order to ask why in the hell Phelan ever considered it home. Why he would think of returning. Why he was telling me such a thing here, in an art gallery, in the middle of the night.

"Why did I return?" Phelan offered a humorless chuckle. "For you."