107

We rounded the corner and neared the medical tent where two gendarmes stood with their backs to us. A blockade had been set up at the corner of the street to prevent bystanders from approaching the building, but there were only a handful of people gathered behind the barrier.

One physician and two women, who appeared to be mother and daughter, served as nurses. They made their way around the canvas tent and tended to the six individuals on cots; two children and four adults, all of whom appeared to be in grave physical condition. Three of the adults had visitors at their bedside to console and keep them company, but Claude and the two children were apparently alone.

I heard Claude's strained voice from the middle of the tent where he'd been placed on a narrow cot low to the ground. His words were slurred, his eyes still wide and fearful, and words frantic.

"Please, do not cut through my clothing," he begged. "I must return to work immediately, Mademoiselle, and I have no other trousers to wear. Mademoiselle, are you listening? Please, please, you do not understand."

His words seemed to make the nervous young woman more uncomfortable with each passing second, and eventually she stopped her attempts at cutting off his trousers above the knee where the nail was still embedded in his leg. Instead she draped a towel over the wound and made notations on a paper that she then tucked beneath Claude's pillow before she stood and wiped her hands with a towel already soiled in what appeared to be blood.

Once the nurse walked away, he noticed me standing at the front of the tent, but didn't appear to recognize me. He stared hopelessly, his swollen mouth moving wordlessly, his complexion ashen.

Phelan sat heavily in a wooden chair at the tent's entrance and grasped his head in both hands. Beside him was a table with various bandages, ointments, scissors and a small mirror.

"Claude is in desperate need of your assistance," Phelan said.

I watched him rummage through the supplies until he gathered the items he desired and gazed at his reflection in the round mirror and gave a disapproving shake of his head.

"So are you," I pointed out.

"I am perfectly capable of tending to myself, Kire. Sit with Claude and convince him that his well being is more important than ruined trousers."

I hesitated a moment, torn between my injured brother and the bewildered young artist with no friends or family to keep him company.

"Go," Phelan ordered. "I'll not have you fretting over me."

At last I sighed and made my way across the tent. "Claude," I said as I approached his bedside.

"Wh-what are you doing h-here?" he asked, his words jumbled. "You are so far from your lovely home, M-monsieur."

"I came to search for you," I answered.

His lips parted, his expression one of utter perplexion. "Why...why would you do that? It must be terribly late."

The nurse returned to Claude's cot with a stool in hand and placed it beside me. I thanked her and seated myself at Claude's left side before she hurried away, beckoned by her mother.

"I came because you are my friend and I was worried when I heard the roof collapse."

He laid his head back and stared at the tent ceiling through tear-flooded eyes. "The roof collapsed?"

"Yes, nine hours ago."

"I don't remember what happened. One moment I was helping Terese throw the refuse out the back door, the next moment I heard a crack like thunder and Terese disappeared in a cloud of soot. I thought for certain I would die," Claude said. He took a shuddering breath and wiped his right hand down his back of his hand was scraped up, but not nearly as damaged as the left. "And all I could think of was who would notice my absence? My landlord would, but not until my rent is due next Wednesday. Who else would realize I was gone?"

"I would have," I told him. "My entire family would have noticed immediately, Alex in particular. He asked this afternoon if you were coming over for supper."

He blankly stared at me as though my words didn't register. He lifted his head and looked down at his torn trousers and wounded leg, which was thankfully still obscured with the towel from the nurse.

"Madame Kire will be furious when she sees what I've done to the clothes she mended for me. All of her time wasted and for what?"

His concerns were quite upsetting, his focus misplaced on a trivial matter.

Finances had never been a concern to me, but I recalled how angry I had been when the gypsies had torn my shirt from my back and clubbed me into submission when my uncle died. It was not the pain that bothered me so much as how little I had that truly belonged to me and how upset I had been that the items in my possession-the clothing my uncle had given to me-were destroyed.

For months I had wondered why they simply hadn't asked me to remove my shirt; I would have obeyed without question to save what I had remaining from my uncle.

"Julia will be relieved you are alive," I assured him. "Whatever cannot be mended is easily replaced."

Claude's bottom lip quivered, his eyes wide again with the onset of panic. "I do not have the funds."

I inhaled. "Then we will see that you do."

"What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

"In the evening?"

I nodded.

"Please, Monsieur," he pleaded under his breath. "You do not need to stay with me. You should be home with your family writing your beautiful music, not here in this terrible place."

His words contradicted his tone and I met his eye as I sat forward, thinking of the many times I had attempted to push Madeline away, how I had not wanted to burden her with my misery despite having no desire to be alone.

"I will stay nonetheless," I said. "As I believe you would do for me if I were in your place."

For a moment he remained quiet, his chest heaving every few seconds with labored, uneven breaths and choked back sobs. Without looking at me, Claude reached out with his damaged left hand, swollen fingers splayed. He touched the back of my hand and tentatively grasped my knuckles, his flesh ice cold against mine.

I recognized the shame in his eyes as he stared at the tent's ceiling, the uncertainty of needing comfort but having no idea how to ask. Silently I did what Madeline had done for me repeatedly over the years: I placed my free hand lightly over his, reassuring him that he was not alone while at the same time mindful of the pressure applied to his swollen fingers. The fear etched into his face slowly diminished and the tears subsided. At last he released a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, his hand still resting between mine.

I took a deep breath and studied his pinched features, fearing somehow I would make the situation worse for Claude.

No one had ever sought me out as a source of comfort, not even Alexandre when he scraped his knee or bumped his head jumping off furniture. My son could have been playing on my bedroom floor and stubbed his toe and instead of running into my arms, he would have screamed for Meg to sweep him up and make an overly dramatic production of his minor injury, the finale always being a dozen kisses planted all over his face and the top of his head with great gusto.

There were many times I felt the pang of jealousy that my own son desired Meg's attention over mine, but I knew for certain I could not compete with her overzealous reactions.

Claude, however, needed no showmanship, and as we sat in silence, I wondered how Madeline had consistently known what I needed, whether it was a simple clasp of her hand over mine, a gentle smile, or merely her company with no words exchanged.

He looked frail in the cot, his sunken cheekbones covered in dust and stained with tracks from his tears, his collar bones protruding as if his flesh had been stretched over his frame.

"How is Terese?" he asked, his voice so low I barely heard his question.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the little girl tucked beneath a gray blanket. The man who had carried her to safety sat at her bedside and offered her water from a tin cup.

"All things considered, she looks remarkably well."

Almost instantly tears flowed from Claude's closed eyes. "Good, I am relieved."

The doctor tended to another patient, a man with what I assumed was his wife, but glanced at me and Claude and nodded, mouthing that he would be with us momentarily.

"Will I be able to return to work tomorrow?" Claude asked. His reddened eyes popped open and he lifted his head. He looked at the towel draped over his leg with much more alarm in his gaze as the white terrycloth blossomed a deep red where the nail tented the fabric.

"Tomorrow the factory will be closed," I told him.

Claude frowned. "Why does my leg hurt so much?"

"You are injured," I vaguely answered.

"Is my leg broken?" he asked.

"I don't believe so, but I am not a physician."

"It feels broken." Claude's eyes bulged. "Monsieur, what will I do if the factory is closed for weeks?" He attempted to straighten his left leg and immediately his face crumpled with the onset of fresh pain. He gripped my hand tighter and sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, his eyes wild and glassy.

"Try to remain still."

"What if I cannot stand? What if I am unable to work at all? What if… what if I am unable to pay my rent and lose my flat?" Panic set in and I was certain Claude would sit upright and attempt to leave his cot.

"For the time being, you must only think of healing."

"What good is healing if I lose my job and my flat?" he snapped.

"Claude, the factory is not the only position available."

"It is the only way I've been able to support myself."

"Yes, but, I have another consideration for you."

Claude eyed me with curiosity and skepticism, but before I could explain, a man in a tailored suit and slicked back black hair briskly walked into the tent with two gendarmes behind him. He glanced around the tent, his expression far more annoyed than concerned for the wounded.

He clapped his hands together and cleared his throat, scanning the room but meeting no one's eye. "For those of you who do not know me, I am Gleb Frizzari. On behalf of my father, Guillermo Frizzari, I have the sincere regret to announce that the factory is in ruins and our business will no longer operate in Paris effective immediately."

The tent filled with worried murmurs and a woman softly began to weep as she sat beside a young man.

"My father has generously paid for your medical treatment until ten this evening at which time the physician, his wife and daughter are excused from their duties."

"It is nine forty-five and we've just pulled two more from the building," one of the men who had helped recover Claude and the little girl Terese said. "You must surely realize that is not enough time to treat the wounded."

The young man in the tailored suit bowed his head and nodded, feigning grave concern as he studied his polished leather shoes. "It is unfortunate that the survivors were not uncovered earlier in the day as my family had hoped. It seems there were not enough volunteers."

"You sent everyone away," another man argued. "What did you expect us to do?"

"We sent volunteers away for their safety, of course, given the compromised integrity of the building. I wish I could do more, I sincerely do, but our hands are unfortunately tied."

"You could continue to pay for the physician's services," Fayette said. "Everyone in Paris knows your shoes sell for a small fortune throughout Europe."

"As I said, our business is no longer operating. The funds are simply not available now that we are not producing goods."

The tent once again filled with various muttered curses directed at the owner's son, who failed to appear the least bit apologetic. I glanced at my brother, who had slouched in his seat and kept his freshly bandaged head down. I couldn't tell if he was disinterested in the announcement or in a great deal of pain.

"Gleb, what are we to do?" Claude asked. His hand slipped from mine as he propped himself up on his elbows and grit his teeth through the obvious fresh onset of pain. "How are we to survive? Surely your father is able to offer additional assistance after all we have done for your family over the years."

The young man pursed his lips. "I will pray for you, as will my father and my mother. Through your strength and perseverance in the wake of his tragedy, I have no doubt you will find the means to rise above these challenges."

"Save your prayers and condescending words," Fayette shouted.

The owner's son stepped forward. "Please, Monsieur-"

"Don't treat me like a stranger, Gleb. You know damned well who I am." Fayette nodded toward two of the men who had helped recover victims. "You know Bruno and Frederick. And do you know who this little boy is? Anri's son. He worked for you, did you know that? After his father passed, he started to work for you and now you leave him like this? Crippled for life from your dilapidated building?"

The owner's son stood in silence, his eyes narrowed and mouth forming a thin, straight line.

Fayette climbed to his feet, his posture emphasizing his anger. "Have you forgotten where you came from? You and your father should be ashamed of yourselves abandoning these people at a time like this, you miserable son of a-"

Both of the gendarmes stepped forward and motioned Faytte toward the tent's entrance. They grabbed him by his massive arms, but he shook loose and approached the owner's son, who shriveled before the brawny young man.

"You will answer for this, one way or another, either in the days to come or before God when you take your last breath. I certainly hope whenever the time comes, I am there to witness it," Fayette said through his teeth. He spit on the man's shoes before he stormed out of the tent.

The room fell silent as the physician, his wife and their daughter swiftly made their last rounds through the tent, quietly apologizing to the people in their limited care. The owner's son turned on his heel and walked out, not bothering to spare another glance at the desperate faces pleading for him to reconsider. As if tethered to him, the gendarmes followed in his wake.

Phelan climbed to his feet once the gendarmes filed out after the owner's son and I left Claude's side to meet my brother halfway across the tent. He placed his hands on his hips and sighed heavily in frustration.

"Of course Lavigne and Toussaint are guarding that little weasel's pathetic life," he muttered.

"The gendarmes?" I questioned, turning to fully face him. "You know them?"

He nodded. "Unfortunately our paths have crossed multiple times. They are friends of my enemy," he said under his breath. "Thankfully distracted by the situation and unaware of my presence."

"You should leave before they return."

Phelan scanned the tent before meeting my eye again. "A suggestion I will not consider. If they wish to arrest me, then I suppose it is true no good deed goes unpunished."

"Lan," I said sternly.

"Kire, my brother said, mimicking my tone.

Before I could argue with him, the physician walked up beside us. "Are you in need of care, Monsieur?" he asked as he squinted at my brother's bandaged head.

"My injuries are not mortal in nature," Phelan answered. "Spend what little time you have on those who are in greater need."

The doctor briskly walked away and approached the young girl, who appeared to be asleep for the time being. He tucked the blanket up to her chin, then turned to the next cot, checking the pulse of a man who did not respond. With a frown, the doctor draped the body with a sheet and proceeded to Claude, who covered his face with his good hand and wept quietly.

"What in the hell are we supposed to do now?" Phelan asked, keeping his voice low and back to Claude.

My hands clenched and I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek. "I don't know, but I cannot leave Claude here and there is no way he will be able to walk anywhere on his own."

Phelan looked around the tent. "Half of these people will be dead before sunrise," he muttered with a shake of his head. "I don't suppose you know a physician who would tend to Claude?"

I blinked at him. "I...I do, actually."

Phelan's eyes widened and he cocked his head to the side. "Truly?"

"A surgeon," I answered. I had no idea if Dr. Kamil Khan still performed surgeries, but decided not to dwell on the details. He was the only person I knew who could be of assistance to Claude and the last of the people clinging to life in the tent.

"Would this surgeon come out this time of night?"

I inhaled. "I suppose we shall find out."

OoO

Phelan took my seat beside Claude and volunteered to keep him company while I paid a visit to Dr. Khan and the physician still on duty removed the nail.

I looked the two of them over, concerned with leaving my brother behind considering he knew two of the gendarmes who had been in the tent a moment earlier and worried Claude's condition would worsen in my absence or that the nail removal would prove problematic. With each passing moment, Claude seemed more disoriented and I had no idea if it was from loss of blood, the amount of trauma he had endured, or a combination of both.

"Claude," I heard Phelan say as I started to leave. "We have known one another for several years now, have we not? How is it I am now just hearing you have a younger sister?"

Claude furrowed his brow and blinked. "Monsieur Kimmer? Is that you?"

"The one and thankfully only."

"You look different."

"Yes, I suppose I do with this confounded bandage wrapped ridiculously around my head."

'You had a beard, didn't you?"

Phelan nodded. "I look younger, don't I?"

"Not really."

Phelan frowned and looked down his nose at Claude. "I seem to recall you being far more polite."

"You look less inclined to a surly disposition without the beard, Monsieur Kimmer."

"First of all, I must insist that you call me Phelan as hearing you call me Monsieur Kimmer makes me feel terribly old, which I am not. Secondly, given the extent of the injury to my head, I must also insist that you tell me about your sister so that I will stay awake and alert."

"Yes, Monsieur-"

"You are breaking my first rule, Claude," Phelan said with a shake of his head. He looked up at me and smirked, then nodded for me to leave at once.

oOo

The last words Kamil had spoken to me were on the morning of Julia's appointment following her miscarriage at which time he had stated that he hoped our paths would cross again. I highly doubted he expected a late-night request following the collapse of a factory roof would lead me to his doorstep, but I hoped he would be true to his word.

I was a half a street west from the factory when my pace slowed and I realized I knew the location of his office, but not his residence and knew for certain he didn't live in his place of business.

"Damn it," I muttered.

"Are you returning home, Monsieur?"

I turned at the sound of Paulo Fayette's voice and saw him approach from across the street, a flask gripped in his massive hand.

"Not immediately," I answered.

He offered me a drink, which I declined.

"Where is Frizzari and his gendarmes?"

"His gendarmes," Paulo groused. "I am assuming after they escorted me across the street they coddled him on his return to his garishly decorated home."

"Good," I said more to myself than Paulo. The further from the tent, the better as far as I was concerned.

"I wish I could stay longer, but my wife has been alone all day and I doubt she has eaten in my absence." He took a swig from his flask and frowned.

I recalled either Julia or Madeline mentioning that Madame Fayette had been ill, but if they had mentioned further details, I had no recollection of it.

"I should have returned home hours ago, but I couldn't leave those people trapped in the building like Frizzar's father ordered," Paulo continued without my prompting. He appeared to be slightly inebriated, his tongue loosened and demeanor mild.

"Why did he order the rescue ceased?"

Fayette shrugged. "We were told it was because it was too dark. If we had ignored his request, perhaps we could have gotten the last people out sooner. Now it appears we simply prolonged their suffering thanks to the owners."

'You did all that you could."

Fayette held his shoulders in a shrug and grimaced. "But it was not enough."

"Are you injured?" I asked.

He swiftly shook his head. "Sore, but my aching shoulders and back are of little concern compared to what those poor people endured. At least I know that tomorrow I will still be employed and able to provide for my family, but it is a great misfortune that I will still deliver anything to Guillermo Frizzari's residence."

I looked at him from the corner of my eye as he took another drink. "How many deliveries do you make in a week?"

"One hundred and six," he answered proudly and without a moment of hesitation. "Your home is my eighty-sixth stop for the week and the Lowrys' are eighty-seven."

"You have an excellent memory," I commented.

I didn't think it was possible, but he puffed out his already barrel-sized chest. "I deliver market goods to all of the best people in Paris and a few of the worst." He grinned as he spoke, amused by his own words.

"Do you perchance deliver to Dr. Khan?" I asked.

Paulo licked his lips. "Monsieur Kire, I should not say to whom I deliver, but," he looked around the vacant street and whispered, "He used to order a lot of almonds when there were more people living in his home."

I furrowed my brow. "Almonds?"

"Two bags a week for his uncle Nadir, who glazed them with honey from what I've heard. He was always a nice old fellow and very observant of the most minute details. There was one day I took a different cart, nearly identical to my usual one, aside from the spokes on the wheels. Would you believe he noticed that? He asked me if it was new and I was simply flabbergasted."

That sounded precisely like the Daroga I had known so long ago, the maddening head of the Persian Police who always carried a notebook and disapproving look, particularly when I was involved. He was keenly aware of the world and had a memory like no other man I'd met before or since.

"You know their family well, it seems," I commented.

Paulo shrugged. He tipped back the flask, which was apparently empty, and replaced the cap before shoving the container into his back pocket. "I enjoy conversations with all of my lovely clients, but I must admit I am very grateful to Dr. Khan."

I nodded, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Two years ago, I was told by another physician that I should make arrangements for my wife as she was gravely ill. Dr. Khan suggested she stop the blood letting sessions and instead instructed her to eat more liver and onions."

"And this treatment worked?" I asked.

Paulo readily nodded. "Smells terrible, but I am absolutely convinced he saved my wife when no one else could," he answered. "My darling Cecelia would not be here today if not for Dr. Kahn's liver and onions."

"He was a very well-known surgeon long ago," I said. "More skilled than he gave himself credit for."

"I had no idea he was a surgeon."

"Retired," I said. "More than twenty years ago."

Paulo's eyesbrows shot up. "Twenty years? You have known him for an exceptionally long time."

"We have not communicated in many years as our lives took us in...different directions. I unfortunately don't know his home address or I would knock on his door at this hour and seek his help in this grave matter."

Paulo's pace slowed. He scratched the back of his head and made a face. His cheeks were flushed from whatever he consumed out of the flask, his tongue pleasantly loosened. "Do you think he would be of assistance?"

"I do," I said, speaking with much more confidence than I felt.

Paulo nodded down the street and pursed his lips. "Are you familiar with Rue de Carou, Monsieur?"