I probably agonized over writing this chapter more than I should have. :/

Ch 114

I stole another kiss from my wife before she took a step back and smiled at me. "At this rate it will be nightfall before you retrieve your violin," she teased.

"What violin?" I questioned, drawing her to me again. "I don't believe I own a violin."

Julia shook her head and allowed me one final chaste kiss to her cheek. "Go, Monsieur Kire, your guests are waiting," she said, shooing me toward the door as she gathered her sewing supplies into a basket.

"Mother!" Lisette called from the kitchen. "Where is the sugar?"

"Why do you need sugar?"

"I am making coffee for my guests and it simply must be perfect."

Julia took a deep breath. "Perfect coffee coming up," she said to me before tending to our daughter.

I walked down the hall, the notes to the final movement fluttering through my mind. I moved my fingers against invisible piano keys, imagining how Rosalie would tie into the rest of my music. The melody would reflect what it felt like to learn of our child's existence: elation, terror, and joy all in one.

"I'm so pleased you decided to stay for the remainder of the day," Madeline commented as I passed the parlor door. It wasn't closed completely, but I doubted Madeline and Phelan saw me walk past.

"If you think I have made a decision based on Erik's preferences, you are mistaken," Phelan said, his voice sounding as though he were distracted.

I heard the muffled scrape of my desk drawers opening and closing followed by the flap of papers and clink of pencils tapping against one another as he gathered the art supplies he'd requested from Lisette.

"Understood," Madeline said.

Phelan grunted as I was halfway up the stairs. I found my violin on my desk where I had left it and the case occupied by Aria, who was curled up on the red velvet interior, basking in the midday sun.

"Honestly?" I muttered. "Napping in the case that houses a violin worth ten thousand francs?"

Aria opened her good eye, stretched, and licked her lips before returning to her nap.

"I suppose you are under the impression that you are worth more than this violin?"

She purred and turned onto her side, displaying her white underside as if she could interest me in a belly rub.

"You are intolerable," I told her before I took up my bow and exited the bedroom, leaving the cat precisely where I had found her.

"What was Erik like?" I heard Madeline ask as I started down the stairs. "I've always wondered what he was like when he was younger."

I paused on the third step, intrigued by her question and afraid my brother wouldn't speak if I walked into the room before he answered. As it was, Phelan remained silent for a long moment, which came as no surprise to me considering he had made it clear that he was taking the late train for Lisette's sake, not mine.

Phelan grunted. "You've known him since he was twelve, haven't you?"

"I have. And you have known him since birth."

"I would wager that I barely knew him at all, particularly compared to you, Madame. You appear to know Erik more intimately than anyone else. I should be asking you what he was like, not the other way around."

Madeline took a deep breath. I could picture the way she sat, her head tilted to the side and hands clasped in her lap, carefully selecting her words before she spoke.

"Erik was very timid," Madeline said. "It took quite a bit of candy to loosen his tongue."

Not simply timid, but terrified and untrusting after years of being physically and emotionally harmed by nearly everyone I had encountered. Thankfully she made no mention of how truly frightened I had been, nor how filthy and how horrific the conditions of the fair from which I had been freed. I was grateful that she allowed me a bit of dignity when describing the boy I had once been.

"I cannot imagine him being silent. He once told me everything," I overheard Phelan say, his words accompanied by the sound of a pencil rapidly scraping against paper. "Without a bit of prompting on my part."

"When you were children?"

"Yes," he answered somewhat absently. "In the middle of the night he would poke me between the eyes and tell me the bottom of his foot itched or he felt a tickle in his nose, as if these inconsequential details were crucial to our survival."

In my mind I could picture myself as a young child standing over my sleeping brother, silver moonlight glimmering through the bedroom window in the space we shared. How patient my brother had been to suffer through the likes of me tapping his forehead or tugging his sleeve.

"And you would tell him to go to sleep?" Madeline asked.

Phelan chuckled. "Do you truly think he would have done as I requested? He would poke, pinch, and jostle me until I sat upright and listened to his rambling stories."

Like Alex, I thought. My own son would tug on my sleeve while I wrote music or edited a composition, desperate to tell me a story he swore was urgent. Most of the time he wished to tell me that he saw an ant carrying a crumb across the kitchen floor or that a carriage horse paused to urinate in the street when he walked with Meg down to the market, which he found terribly amusing. If he thought for a moment that I was distracted, he made certain to poke me in the chest until he had my undivided attention, at which time he started his story from the beginning.

"Then you stayed awake to humor your brother?"

"He would give me no other choice but to listen. We stayed awake until Alak stomped down the hall and demanded to know why we were awake. Each time we were caught, I took the blame for the midnight conversations."

"Would your uncle have been cruel to Erik if you said he was responsible for waking you?"

"No, never," Phelan was quick to say. He grunted and paused in his sketching to blow on the paper. "Alak favored Erik far more than he ever cared for me. In fact, I often assumed the only reason Alak took me with him was merely because I refused to relinquish Erik into his care."

Madeline made no immediate reply. I quietly walked down the remainder of the stairs and approached the parlor.

"May I ask how old were you when Erik was born?"

"Three and a half."

"You were very young when you became your brother's caretaker," she commented.

"Gyda suffered afflictions of her mind that made it impossible to care for herself, let alone a newborn and a toddler and Bjorn disliked everyone and everything unless it came from a bottle. There were no other options in providing for Erik short of tying him to a goat's teat."

"At the age of three you were caring for yourself and a newborn?"

"Three and a half," Phelan muttered. "And you needn't look at me with pity." The tip of the pencil scratched rapidly against the page, the sound urgent and angry.

"That wasn't my intention."

"No? If I may ask, what is your intention, Madame?"

"You may correct me if I am mistaken, but you mentioned how Erik would tell you everything when you were children."

"So I did."

"You told him everything as well, didn't you? Secrets you never spoke to anyone else."

It was Phelan's turn to withhold his answer. He impatiently tapped the pencil against the paper.

"You confided in him," Madeline continued. "And I would wager that as a child given such a hefty responsibility at a young age, those moments when the two of you were whispering in the middle of the night were the only times you felt as though someone cared for you in return."

"We were foolish, ignorant children swapping foolish, ignorant stories in the middle of the night. I assure you, Madame, there was nothing of significance spoken in the shadows."

"Regardless of the significance, you still had each other, someone you were able to trust."

Phelan inhaled. "I did," he admitted. "A long time ago…" His voice trailed away as he continued to sketch.

Madeline said nothing in return. She had used this same tactic countless times on me where she busied herself with mending a skirt or reading the newspaper while I grumbled to myself, vowing I would not divulge the reasons behind my frustrations. In many instances I dismissed her entirely, but she remained dutifully at my side, always saying that she was going to finish reading an article or complete a repair to her clothing and then she would leave.

I waited a full minute before I pushed the parlor door open and found Phelan with his head down and pencil rapidly shading in his drawing. He didn't bother looking up to acknowledge me and Madeline offered little more than a half-hearted smile.

I placed my violin on the table and shuffled through my music, which I had thankfully labeled and numbered in the top right corner as it appeared Alex had gone through the folder in search of blank paper and most likely dropped the contents in his haste. Some of the corners were bent, other sheets crumpled as though he had stuffed them into the folder once he didn't find what he was looking for.

"Trust," Phelan said under his breath. I barely heard him speak as I smoothed the pages and returned them to the correct order. "I met a physician four years ago at a party hosted by Jean-Martin Charcot at his home on Saint-Germain. You've heard of Charcot?" He glanced at Madeline.

"I've been to his home on a Thursday evening when the entire building was filled with both cigar smoke and music," she answered.

"Ah, of course you are familiar with these gatherings. The famous Madame Giry was probably among his first guests."

Madeline offered the slightest of shrugs. "Given that you're a well-known artist, I'm not surprised you are familiar with him as well."

Since neither of them acknowledged I had walked into my parlor to play my music in my home, I took a seat at my desk and read through my compositions while listening to the two of them speak.

"A friend of mine had attended several of his hysteria shows and became an acquaintance, and in turn he invited me to a handful of the gatherings as he thought perhaps the atmosphere would be of interest to me, which it did not. But then Charcot had expressed a desire to purchase one of my paintings and our mutual friend convinced me to accompany him."

Madeline sniffed. "Monsieur Charcot is a very interesting man, but the home was a bit crowded for my taste."

"It certainly wasn't the same atmosphere as Salon de Vive," Phelan chuckled.

"I would hope not," Madeline responded, feigning horror at his mention of the seedy establishment my brother favored in his youth and she had avoided.

I'd heard of Charcot's love of music and the arts and his incorporation of music with his studies of agraphia and aphasia as well as lectures that pertained to conditions in musicians and composers. I knew Madeline was acquainted with the physician as she received invitations to attend various events he hosted. She had also made mention of the physician attending the opening of one of my operas, but that was the extent of my familiarity with him.

"I met one of Charcot's students from Vienna at a gathering," Phelan continued "He was quite uncouth in inquiring about the burn to my arm."

"I wasn't aware you had burned yourself," Madeline said.

I glanced up and saw Phelan extend his arm toward Madeline and spread his fingers, allowing her a better look at the scars. "This was not self-inflicted, if that's what you are implying. Bjorn did this to me a few weeks after Erik was born."

Madeline's expression darkened. "Your father did that on purpose?" My brother nodded and Madeline placed her hand over her heart. "How horrible."

Phelan shrugged. "Horrible or fascinating, depending on your views, I suppose. This man found the scar and its origin interesting, but given Jean-Martin's rule of no medical discussions on music night, the gentleman asked that we step outside as he was quite curious to learn more about Bjorn and particularly Gyda, whom he was certain suffered from hysteria as well as a handful of other afflictions. He asked if I would sketch a rough drawing of her as he wished to see the structure of her face, as well as a depiction of the brother I mentioned who had been born disfigured."

My heart stuttered. I found myself staring at him, alarmed that some student in Vienna had a drawing of me from childhood, one that could have been transferred into a textbook without my knowledge or consent.

"I refused both," Phelan said. He met my eye briefly before he folded the paper he worked on in half and began a new drawing on the blank portion. "Eventually he asked if I would come to Vienna for a week in order to complete a more in-depth study and I said I would think about it, but I assume he knew I had no interest in being a part of his research. A month later he sent me a letter in which he offered his observations."

Madeline and I both sat in silence as Phelan continued to sketch.

"'The subject has survived an astounding amount of childhood trauma, resulting in a lack of trust, thereby resulting in reclusive tendencies,'" Phelan said under his breath. The strokes of the pencil against paper slowed. "He suggested that I attempt to build a foundation of trust by solidifying relationships rather than choosing solitude. I disagreed and discarded his letter. It sounded like utter nonsense to me, but…"

Phelan picked up the drawing and narrowed his eyes, examining the faint lines before he sharpened rounded edges and darkened the light strokes.

"After some time I convinced myself that it certainly couldn't hurt. The friend who had invited me to Charcot's home asked if I would be interested in attending his mother's birthday party and I accepted, which delighted him as I typically declined. Then he asked me to another social event, and another, and suddenly wherever he went, I found myself there as well. People began to expect the two of us attending together."

Madeline folded her hands. "So then it wasn't nonsense after all."

Phelan didn't look up when he spoke. "It appeared this student was onto something. I met my art broker, Theo Van Gogh, who put my paintings into gallery shows and managed to find wealthy folks who wanted commissioned pieces. It was mostly family portraits and the like, but it paid for my flat and food and frivolous luxuries few artists were able to afford, and I spent my days in mansions with marble floors and rich mahogany woodwork, painting balding men alongside their wives and beautiful daughters. I didn't love it, but I didn't necessarily hate the work nor the attention I received from the fairer subjects I painted."

"That sounds lovely."

"The beautiful women were definitely the highlight of the portrait painting sessions, particularly when they attended some of the more raucous gatherings in the evening where wine flowed freely and the lights were dimmed. It was as though the Salon de Vive came to me."

Madeline gave him quite the pointed look of disapproval.

"All in good fun, Madame," he assured her. "It was one of these gatherings where Jean met and fell in love with Brigit and asked her to be his wife. On the same evening they were married, he introduced me to his distant cousin Daphne Cotte, and with Jean's blessing, I proposed to and married Daphne a month and a half later."

Madeline raised a brow. "You didn't know each other very long before vows were exchanged."

"No, we did not, but I asked for her hand before her condition became evident."

"She was with child?"

"Four months along by the time we were married."

"It was honorable of you to marry her."

Phelan ceased drawing, the tip of the pencil lingering above the page as he worked his jaw in silence. "Honorable was not my intention. Daphne made me genuinely happier than I could have thought possible, and on the day of our wedding, Jean pulled me aside moments before the ceremony and told me after twenty years of knowing one another, he didn't consider me a friend; we were family. Brothers, he said. He stood at my side as my best man and it felt as though I finally had what I'd always desired."

He focused his attention back on the page resting on his knee. With the way he sat hunched over, his hair pulled back from his stubbled face and his gray eyes cast down, he appeared sullen and vulnerable.

"And then several months after Rose was born, Jean attended a party with several of our mutual friends one evening. He drank far too much wine and told everyone at the table that he was the father of Daphne's daughter and that he had introduced me to his cousin in order to save his relationship with Brigit and Daphne's reputation."

Madeline's eyes widened. "Did you confront him?"

"No," Phelan said.

"Why not?"

"Because he was my brother and closest friend. If he was Rose's father, what did it matter? She was conceived well before Daphne and I wed." He lowered his gaze and turned the paper sideways, his lips forming a deep, contemplative frown. "But a few days later one of my classes was canceled and I returned home hours earlier than usual to spend the afternoon with my wife and our child. I had not had the opportunity to remove my shoes in the foyer when I heard Jean and Daphne putting forth quite the enthusiastic effort to give Rose a sibling. After that, the child's paternity was undeniable, as was the ongoing relationship between my wife and the man who had called me his brother."

"You must have been devastated," Madeline said.

Phelan's jaw twitched. "Devastated does not begin to express how I felt." He rolled the pencil between his thumb and forefinger and kept his gaze trained on the paper. "Jean was the closest thing I'd had to a sibling since I'd moved to Paris. I trusted him, quite foolishly, at the suggestion of a student from Vienna, and the result was an insurmountable loss. Every time I saw Daphne pushing the baby stroller down the boulevard or spotted Jean leaving a cafe, I felt as though some invisible wound within me hemorrhaged day and night, a bleed so deep and endless that life itself became unbearable."

I lowered my gaze and swallowed, noting the rawness in his tone. He cleared his voice and took a breath before he continued speaking.

"I filed for divorce and spent two weeks living with Valgarde, who had been vehemently against the marriage in the first place and made certain I was aware of his feelings on the matter. Once I received an offer from the Free University about a position they had available, I left for Brussels and swore I would never step foot in Paris again. But…" Phelan looked up again, his slate gaze trained on me. I felt the sting of what he had endured, the pain I had so flippantly said was of little value in comparison to my own. "Val sent me a letter, the first one I had bothered to read in over six months as we were not on good terms when I moved out of his home. He had written the word 'Urgent' on the back in red ink."

Madeline looked from me to Phelan, her expression still troubled. "What did it say?" she warily asked.

"The very first line stated, 'I have found him,' written in the same red ink he had used on the back of the envelope." His gaze was still pinned on me and he offered a wan smile that hinted at his long-held affection.

"This was only a few months back then," Madeline said, following my brother's gaze.

"Yes," Phelan answered. "I had one class scheduled for Thursday morning, but canceled, much to the delight of my sixteen students anticipating a quiz. I boarded the earliest train I could and, as my damnable luck would have it, I ran into Jean Moreau the moment I walked out of Gare de Nord. He followed me down the length of the boulevard, requesting what he called a long overdue conversation to repair our fractured relationship, which I refused." He sniffed. "The very sight of him soured my mood."

"I don't blame you for denying him an audience."

"I did more than deny him an audience. The following day, when he attended my art show, I made certain to bloody his damnable nose before the end of the evening."

Madeline brushed her hands over her skirts and attempted to suppress a smile. "I can't say I condone physical violence, but I would not shed a tear for this scoundrel if I saw him injured. Serves him right."

Phelan shrugged. "I would do it again. Repeatedly. In fact, I regret that I did not do much worse to him."

Madeline raised a brow and briefly searched his face, which instantly resulted in Phelan's nostrils flaring and his scowl deepening. "I suppose you wish to analyze me, same as the student from Vienna?" he groused.

"There is no need for me to analyze you," Madeline answered. She reached for her cane and stood. Down the hall, I heard the muffled squeak of the service cart's wheels and the rattle of coffee cups, signaling Lisette approached. "I can see you quite clearly for who you are."

Phelan looked as though he couldn't decide if he should be insulted or simply curious regarding her statement. The hardness in his gray eyes diminished momentarily before he turned back to his finished drawing and traced along the outer edges of his work.

"Should I expect a full essay on all of my shortcomings?" he snidely remarked under his breath.

"Heavens no," Madeline said gently.

Phelan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "How utterly disappointing," he muttered.

Madeline took a step toward the door and paused, leaning heavily on her cane in a way I'd not seen her do in quite some time. She frowned at me, then looked at my brother, whose gaze was cast down at the drawing on his knee.

"Phelan," she said, garnering his attention. "You are not angry with Erik, are you?"

Phelan considered her words briefly and inhaled. "No, I am not."

My eyes narrowed. "You most certainly are."

Madeline cleared her throat and issued a pointed look in my direction.

Phelan glanced briefly at me, the look in his eyes filled with more melancholy than anger. The despair in his gaze reminded me far more of how I had felt over the years than it did of our father's rage.

"No," he said as he turned the paper over and signed the back of his sketch. "I am not angry with you, Erik."

His words brought me no sense of relief. In frustration I plucked the strings of my violin and turned the pegs, needing distraction from my brother's maddening, untruthful words. "Then why won't you give me an opportunity to rectify the situation?" I demanded. "If for no other reason then you do not wish to forgive me."

"I forgive you," he muttered.

"Lan," I growled, heat rising up the back of my neck at his lack of sincerity. "Phelan," I corrected myself before he did it for me.

"There is nothing for you to rectify," he answered without looking in my direction.

"Of course there is–"

"Why?"

"Because...because everything between us is different now."

Phelan grunted. "Everything between us has been different for nearly forty years."

I swallowed back the anger threatening to get the best of me. "Will you bloody my nose as well, same as Moreau?"

Phelan placed the pencil on the arm of his chair and looked over his sketch one last time before he sat back and acknowledged me. "Wounding as your words were, Erik, I am truly not angry with you and have no desire to do physical harm to you."

I started to shake my head, unwilling to believe his words, but Phelan gave a hard sigh in response.

"I am angry with myself," he stated.

I furrowed my brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I have misplaced my trust," he said, keeping his voice low. "I handed you the most damaging ammunition, and for that, I have a difficult time forgiving myself."