A/N Enjoyed writing this one, especially Tadhg, who popped up unexpectedly and wrote himself into the train ride.
Ch 141
The smell of breakfast and sound of train announcements from the conductor woke me late in the morning. The curtain separating the rest of the car from the sleeping quarters allowed in just enough bright light to rouse me from deep, comfortable sleep and I sat up, stretching my arms above my head.
I couldn't recall the last time I'd woke from a restful night of sleep–one without Bessie kicking me in the spine or Alex digging his heels into my ribs. Waking refreshed was how normal people must have woken from their beds.
"How long have you been awake?" I asked my brother once I drew back the curtain and found him seated in the main portion of the car, still dressed in his pajamas. His face was unshaven, the dark stubble threaded with streaks of silver.
Phelan glanced over his shoulder at me, newspaper held in front of him. "Since the breakfast cart was delivered. An hour, I would say?"
He nodded toward the cart near the door where silver domes covered two plates and a carafe of coffee and pot of tea were still steaming.
My stomach growled the moment I lifted the dome off the trays and found an array of different selections still piping hot.
"I've been eating like a hog about to be sent to market," Phelan commented as I filled a plate, poured my tea, and brought my breakfast to the empty chair beside his. There were two small trays affixed just below the window that served as tables, both of which my brother had pulled upright for our meals.
"Where are we?" I asked, nodding out the window. We passed over a large body of water flanked by buildings of varying heights all conjoined. Behind the newer buildings, an impressive stone citadel partially obscured by trees and moss peaked out as if it still stood watch for its citizens.
"Belgium," he answered, looking over the top of the newspaper. "Brussels was the last announcement. We are passing through Namur."
"Have you visited this city previously?"
"I have," Phelan said, sounding distracted as he continued to read the paper. "I taught a six-week class on water colors here a few years back. Financially it wasn't the best move on my part, but sometimes there are greater treasures than ones bank account."
We sat in silence, Phelan reading the paper while I gazed out the window as the city disappeared and the landscape turned to fields being harvested and herds of cattle and sheep popping up between crops.
My mind played with various melodies, the farmland and sunlight glinting off the wending stream providing unexpected seedlings of inspiration. I took bites of food and played the arrangements over and over in my mind, adding wind instruments, hearing the rumble of the percussion and the whine of the violins.
I thought of asking Antonio Le Blanc if I could add another composition to the nights I would conduct the orchestra and my heart stuttered. Given his frustration with me over the performances, I wasn't certain he would agree. After the exchange regarding Rachelle Debutee's solo, I worried I would return home from Denmark to a note from the theater manager that he had canceled the shows entirely or decided to have Adrian Agard conduct instead.
My heart pounded, the scenario invading my thoughts. You are no longer needed, Monsieur Kire, and I assure you, Rachelle Debutee will not ever perform a solo on our stage.
"What are you doing?" Phelan asked suddenly. The newspaper rustled as he folded it up and set it aside.
I blinked and inhaled sharply, the music still lingering as well as the cold words I had scripted for Le Blanc in my overly imaginative and unfortunately pessimistic mind.
Most of my breakfast had been consumed, but my tea was still full, the delicate cup vibrating against the saucer with the train's movement.
"Thinking," I answered, taking a sip of cold tea.
"Deep thoughts," Phelan said. "You've not said a word for almost an hour."
I turned my head. "I–I hadn't realized that much time had passed. I apologize if you said something and I ignored you."
Phelan grunted. "You've made a few sounds here and there. I assume your thoughts are musical in nature?"
"Composing, mostly," I admitted. "Not real composing, but more…"
"Pretend composing?" Phelan raised a brow.
I felt my cheeks flush. "I don't know how to explain it," I said, taking another sip of tea despite the undesirable temperature. The need to fidget outweighed my repulsion for cold tea.
Phelan looked me over and I realized I sat before him both without my mask and my hairpiece. I felt terribly exposed seated beside him, more uncomfortable than I ever would have imagined. I curled my hand against the edge of the armrest, the texture reminding me of the hood from the traveling fair.
"I'm not mocking you," Phelan said. "As someone with no musical talent whatsoever, I'm curious, not judgmental."
I sat with my hands in fists and stared out the window for a long moment. Every few seconds I caught a glimpse of our reflections in the glass, me sitting forward and my brother casually leaning back with his legs crossed.
"I don't generally allow myself to become so entrenched in the thought of music that I spend nearly an hour in silence."
"You're a composer," Phelan pointed out. "And quite honestly, if you had no musical talent, you would be the most dull person I'd ever encountered. Thank goodness you have something of merit to make you interesting."
"Does your flattery have no end?" I dryly retorted.
My brother chuckled to himself and stood, taking his empty plates and cup of coffee with him. "More tea?" he asked.
I handed him my cup and thanked him.
"There should be someone here shortly for the plates," Phelan said over his shoulder. "Would you rather wait for hot water?"
No sooner had he finished speaking when someone said, "Knock, knock," in a very thick Irish accent.
Phelan and I exchanged looks before I stood and walked into the bunk area, closing the curtain behind me as I reached for my mask and hairpiece.
"Good morning!" Tadhg Bruno said the very second Phelan opened the door. "Oh. It is you."
I chuckled to myself as the Irishman went from exuberant to disappointed.
"And it is you," Phelan said, his tone matching our guest's.
"Violinist?" Tadhg called out. "Hello? Violinist?"
"You cannot walk in here. Excu–excuse me, but I said–" Phelan gave a growl of frustration. "Why don't you make yourself at home?"
"Violinist?" Tadhg called again.
I checked my reflection in the mirror and smoothed my hand over my head before drawing the curtain back.
"Oh!" Tadhg exclaimed. He was still in the same yellow trousers from the previous day, but rather than the matching overcoat, he had on a simple light green lawn shirt and a waistcoat that was yellow with green stripes. "You were sleeping?"
"No, I am awake," I said.
"Clearly," Phelan muttered.
"You play your violin? More Kire?"
His eagerness made me smile. "In a half hour," I offered.
The man could not have appeared more overjoyed by my words. He sucked in a breath, his hands fluttering with applause as he grinned back at me, his eyes creased at the edges.
"I shall return in a half hour?" he asked, snatching his pocket watch from his waistcoat. "Ten-twelve?"
I nodded.
He took a step forward, his ruddy complexion turning a deeper shade of red. "May I…?" He licked his lips and shook his head. "No, no, I shouldn't."
"I beg your pardon?"
Full cheeks nearly swallowed up his blue eyes when he smiled. "No, I can't ask it of you."
"Ask me what?"
"To play alongside you, the music of E.M Kire."
"You have your violin with you?"
He placed his right hand to his chest over his heart. "Always. It is part of me." He tapped his chest. "You understand, yes?"
I nodded, fully understanding the meaning behind his words, one musician to another.
"Bring your violin," I said.
He looked me over, his blue eyes searching my face. "Yes?"
"Yes, I insist," I agreed as I showed Tadhg to the door and ushered him out.
"No," Phelan said. "Absolutely not."
I glanced at my brother. "He has his violin."
"I understood that part."
"If anything, playing music will make the time pass faster."
Phelan shrugged. "Or considerably slower if he's no good."
I grunted. "I hadn't considered that."
Phelan looked me over and crossed his arms, appearing skeptical. "He has no idea that you are the composer, does he?"
"I don't believe so."
My brother grunted. "I suppose he will figure it out on his own."
oOo
Tadhg Bruno arrived at our train car precisely at ten-twelve, battered violin case in hand and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had notably thick arms with meaty hands and a dusting of copper-colored hair down to his wrists. He looked like a brute carrying a delicate instrument, and I had reservations about inviting him to play as I couldn't imagine someone with the build of a troll playing the violin.
And yet he grinned and waved, overjoyed to simply be invited into our train car and share an appreciation for music. He looked around the interior again, eyes wide with wonder, oblivious to Phelan standing with his arms crossed, staring skeptically at the two of us.
"Fiadh," he said, using the empty tray where breakfast was served to set the case down beside mine. He flipped open the latches and presented his violin as if he held out a newborn baby.
"Fiadh?" I questioned, unfamiliar with the word.
"Her name."
"I'm afraid I have not named my violin," I said as I removed my instrument from the case.
Tadhg leaned to one side and turned his head, squinting at me. Immediately I reached for my mask and felt along my jawline, making certain it was not crooked and the scars were not visible.
"You are Nordic, yes? No! You are Scandinavian!"
"I–"
"What is your given name?"
I paused, lowering my hand to my lap. "My name is Erik."
Tadhg gasped, and I waited for him to inevitably connect the dots and realize I was the composer whose music he admired.
"Yes! You are clearly Scandinavian. I see it now. Your violin should have a Scandinavian name."
"My God," Phelan said under his breath.
I blinked at Tadhg. "I will consider it."
Tadhg nodded, appearing quite proud of himself for his suggestion. "What would you like to play first?" He gasped again. "The Knights Waltz?"
"From–"
"The Soldier and the Shell!"
"Yes, I know what it's from, but I'm not certain I know that one well enough to play it," I said.
"It is the most beautiful piece of music," he said, tucking his violin beneath his chin where he proceeded to play the first few bars of the selection.
He played better than I had expected, his passion for the composition and familiarity with my work evident as he closed his eyes and held the bow to the strings.
I had never heard my own music played by a single musician and I found myself mesmerized and appreciative of the opportunity. He was good; not good enough to play first chair, but he had an ear for the music. I noticed his hold of the bow was slightly off, his thumb too far down and pinky finger at an angle where it was in danger of slipping off the end. His fingers were closer together as was the Russian style, but it looked uncomfortable and I wondered if he'd had formal training.
Tadhg paused, nodding for me to finish the rest of the composition, which thankfully came back to me once I began to play. He joined me for the last two bars, smiling as we both played together.
"You are much better than me," he commented.
"More experienced, perhaps," I replied.
"No, you are a natural and the music comes to you with ease, like the flow of water in a stream. Your understanding of music cannot be taught. You were born blessed with this gift."
I looked away from him and ran my finger along the neck of my violin. I had never felt as though I'd been born with anything of merit and the compliment didn't fit how I felt inside.
"What else do you know?" I asked.
"Mauro and Jewel," he said. "Everything from Mauro and Jewel. It is my favorite."
I was beginning to think every one of my operas was his favorite.
"Did you see the opera recently in Paris?" I asked.
"Yes," he answered. "Twice."
My brows shot up. "Twice?"
Tadhg nodded readily. "I heard the composer was at one of the performances. I was in the same room as E.M Kire. Can you believe it?"
"Did you see the composer?" Phelan asked.
Tadhg shook his head. "I didn't need to see him."
"No? Why not? Surely you would wish to speak to the composer himself," Phelan said.
"No, I would not know what to say if we were face-to-face, aside from thank you for your music and even words of praise I fear would come out as nonsense and he would shake his head and dismiss me for disrupting his night. I would make a fool of myself in front of him."
He picked up his violin again and played a piece from the second act where Mauro removed his magical gloves and the forest nymphs danced around him. The tempo started with a slow lull, the ballet dancers swaying back and forth as if in a trance. As the tempo increased, Mauro and the ballet dancers moved with more urgency until at last Mauro collapsed and set fire to a tree, destroying part of the forest and Jewel's village.
"Do you know what I have played?"
"The Forest Burns." It was the first piece of music I'd written for that particular opera. The story had been built around an idea I'd had for weeks and finally managed to commit to paper.
Tadhg nodded. "Yes, exactly. This song is special."
I nodded in silence. Mauro and Jewel had been both the easiest and most difficult opera to write. The music had come to me in a matter of days, so swiftly and with such ease that I had struggled to keep up with the ideas waiting to be released.
I had written each note while surrounded by several newspapers, the contents of which celebrated Chrstine and the newest opening of her performance in various cities throughout Europe. She was touring city to city, sold out performances in every country aside from France, where she had not been seen on stage since the night of Don Juan Triumphant.
I read and re-read the articles, finished the overture and several scenes, then looked up and stared out my window to see Julia walking through her home.
My Jewel, I thought to myself as she carried her daughter on her hip and set her into her chair for supper. I would watch Julia smooth Lisette's hair back from her face and kiss her forehead and the longing I felt deepened the despair I had carried for so long.
We had already been intimate at the time I wrote the opera, but I had not dared to kiss Julia or allow her to kiss me. Mauro had his gloves, I had my mask, and both of us had been lonely, resigned to our fates.
"What makes it special?" my brother asked.
Tadhg pulled a thin chain with an oval locket dangling from the end from his waistcoat pocket and cradled it in his palm. The copper chain was missing most of the thin layer of gold, the locket green in spots, but the Irishman proudly showed me the engraved design of two roses; one in full bloom, the other a smaller bud.
"My wife Maeve and our daughter Brigit," he said, kissing the locket. "I played The Forest Burns for my sweetheart every evening after supper. She would laugh and dance around the room, saying that the baby danced as well. The night I did not play it for her, the pains started and the waters broke open."
"Is your family traveling with you?" I asked.
Tadhg gave a solemn shake of his head. "Only me."
I looked away from him and stared out the window, thinking of what Julia would be doing at that moment. Sitting outside with Meg, I hoped, both of them with the twins on their laps, enjoying their morning in the garden.
"Do you have a family?" Tadhg asked me.
"My wife and our two children," I said. "Soon to be three."
"Congratulations," he said jovially. "We play a song of celebration?"
"The Soldier's Homecoming?" I asked.
"Yes! Yes, that is my favorite."
"You have a lot of favorites," Phelan commented. He pulled up a wooden chair that was tucked between the luggage rack and the door leading into the next train car and seated himself beside me.
"You are his brother, yes?" Tadhg questioned.
"I am." He nodded at me. "Phelan Kimmer."
Tadhg's jaw dropped. "The famous artist?"
The Irishman's reaction clearly pleased my brother. "Well, I wouldn't say–"
"Your brother is famous, Mr. Erik Kimmer," Tadhg enthusiastically said.
Phelan eyed me with a look of satisfaction. "Yes, I suppose I am your famous brother."
"The Brothers Kimmer," Tadhg said. "Twins? No! Not twins." He pointed at me. "You are older?"
"Younger," I corrected.
"Mr. Bruno, I like you better with each passing minute," Phelan said.
Tadhg proceeded to play the first few notes of The Soldier's Homecoming. "May I ask what is your favorite Kire composition, Mr. Phelan Kimmer?"
Phelan furrowed his brow. "I suppose… The Way Home."
I twisted in my seat to face him. "From The Soldier and the Shell?" I asked. It was a short, folk-inspired song, the melody of which was woven through most of the opera. "Truly?"
"Do you want me to pick something else?" my brother groused.
"No, I simply wouldn't think that would be your favorite," I answered.
"What would you have thought?"
I shrugged and plucked the strings of my violin. "The Hunter and the Huntress."
"Both very different, but equally favorites of mine," Tadhg said under his breath as if he didn't wish to disrupt our conversation.
"I don't know what that song is from."
"The Fox Pursues," Tadhg and I said in unison. "The ballet from the third act," I finished saying alone.
Tadhg cleared his throat and gestured for me to play the song, which I did in its entirety. Phelan sat with his arms crossed listening while our new friend sat grinning beside me, bobbing his head and tapping his foot along with the melody.
"It is good, but I still prefer my original selection," Phelan said.
"Will you play The Way Home?" Tadhg asked. "The original version?"
I stared at him for a moment, impressed by his knowledge. A year after The Fox Pursues had been released for sale, I wrote to the publisher with a change to three of the songs and asked for the music to be updated. They had sent me a bill for one hundred and seventy-six francs–apparently charging me one franc per note for the revisions I'd desired.
"How did you become so familiar with…" My work lingered on the tip of my tongue. "The music you enjoy so much?"
He slipped back into the habit of speaking rapidly, his accent making it nearly impossible for me to understand him. I caught a word here and there: Royal Opera House, Grandmother, London flat, favorite– and gathered he had lived in or visited family living in England, most likely a wealthy grandmother, and became enamored with music in general.
"Big Mother Bruno," he said. "She took me and my sweetheart to see North Star on opening night in London. We knew nothing about the composer, but that night…the music was spectacular.
"I have a stack of music books at home in Dublin, all Kire," he said, gesturing with his hands to show how much of my music he had acquired. He chuckled to himself. "You know his music well, Mr. Erik Kimmer."
Phelan grunted. "Remarkable, isn't it?"
"Do you compose?" I asked Tadhg, ignoring my brother.
He inhaled sharply and shook his head. "No, I leave that to the professionals."
"You've never written anything at all?" I questioned.
He blushed when I continued questioning him, revealing that he had in fact composed his own music, but wasn't ready to share his work.
The train horn sounded and our momentum noticeably slowed. I returned my violin to the case and looked at Phelan. "Are we stopping?" I asked.
"We are reaching Cologne, where the train will remain for ninety minutes," my brother answered me in French as he stood and returned his chair to its place by the luggage racks. "An opportunity to stretch our legs and enjoy a change of scenery, if one so desires."
"Is this your destination?" Tadhg asked, making no attempt to hide his disappointment if our ways parted so swiftly.
"Denmark," I answered. "Keterhelm."
"Germany." He grinned back at me. "Hamburg. Three more stops."
"I'm stepping off the train to stretch my legs," Phelan said. "Kire?"
"Yes," Tadhg agreed. He returned his violin to its case and stood, offering to shake my hand. "More Kire when you return, Mr. Kimmer?"
Phelan grunted. "Erik? Are you coming?"
"Of course," I answered, my words meant for both of them.
"May I treat the Brothers Kimmer to a German beer?" Tadhg asked.
"That is not necessary," I replied.
"Chocolate?" he offered.
"That, I believe, is necessary."
oOo
Half the occupants of the train filed onto the platform and dispersed from the train station onto a wide street with a cathedral directly across from where we stood.
I was certain the traveling fair had passed through Cologne at least twice as the gypsies wandered through Europe, their tents erected on the outskirts of town.
I swore I recalled seeing the twin spires from the massive cathedral in the distance as the sun set and I peered out of the tent, longing to disappear from the fair, but I wasn't certain if it had been Cologne or one of the dozen of other cities that the gypsies had stopped in for short stints before they wore out their welcome with their tricks and thievery.
Nothing else about the city looked truly familiar to me as I was never permitted to leave the grounds and thirty years had passed since I had been forced to entertain others, but still I walked cautiously, half-expecting to stumble upon some decaying advertisement for their show.
"Where are we heading?" I asked Phelan as he briskly walked down the street and away from the cathedral and station.
"Toward the river. We have a good forty minutes before we should head back and the walk to and from the banks should take us about twenty minutes."
"And then what?"
"Then you'll see."
I spotted Tadhg walking toward the cathedral, his bright yellow overcoat and trousers highly visible compared to the rest of the people around him in darker colored clothing. He paused in front of the doors and admired the architecture for a moment before he walked inside and disappeared from my view.
"You should tell him," Phelan said. He had paused several feet ahead of me and stood with his arms crossed. "Before he thinks you're attempting to make a fool of him."
"That is not my intention."
"Intention or not, I still think you should tell him."
We walked in silence for a while, the sound of bells from passing boats along the Rhine drawing my attention. Sunlight glinted off the water, reflecting onto the bridge in ripples of light.
There were two dozen people or so seated on the berm, some with blankets and others relaxing on the expanse of grass overlooking the river. Younger children waved to the boats passing by while two older boys cast their fishing lines into the water.
No one noticed our approach as they enjoyed their picnics and leisurely afternoon. I looked across the river at the opposite bank dotted with bushes that had sprouted up from the sand and stones. A boat was moored on the bank, but no one was in sight.
Beyond the shoreline, I felt certain I knew precisely where the gypsies had set up camp decades earlier. The cathedral bells unexpectedly rang and the hairs on my arms stood on end, a rush of memories lapping up to the forefront of my mind.
I recalled the sound of church bells resonating across the city, how the tone was muffled by the crowd noise within the humid tent and Garouche bidding everyone welcome. They crowded around, a sea of unfamiliar, curious faces peering at me, the final attraction before they spilled into the night and into their cozy homes.
Garouche had struck me seven times that evening, once for each toll of the bells, and I had lay motionless, praying for a miracle, for a savior that was still a country and five long months away. That night, the comfort of music had abandoned me. The bells tolled with misery and I had never despised the sound more than I had that evening.
"Kire?" Phelan said suddenly once the last of the twelve chimes signaled the hour. "Erik? Erik?"
"Will he be disappointed?" I said, more to myself than my brother. "If he discovers I am the person he admires?"
"The Irishman? Why would he be disappointed?" Phelan responded.
My gaze darted along the opposite bank, searching for a camp that no longer existed, for a band of wandering gypsies led by a silver-tongued man with his greasy hair and bushy beard, promising both horrors and wonders the likes of which no one had ever set eyes on before.
"I would prefer returning to the train," I said, feeling light-headed and breathless.
Phelan inhaled and followed my gaze. "What is it?"
I didn't answer, preferring to walk ahead of him, weaving past the people enjoying their picnics.
"Erik!" Phelan called out.
I slowed my pace and he came up beside me.
"There is nothing I wish to discuss," I said without meeting his eye.
He reluctantly nodded, and together we walked toward the train station, neither one of us speaking until we passed the cathedral.
"There is a shop that sells wooden figurines and other trinkets," he said, pointing past the train station. "I've purchased one for Hilda every time I've passed through Cologne. If you would care to join me…"
I nodded and followed him past the station to a small shop hidden in between larger storefronts. The entrance door was short and narrow, a passage seemingly built for children instead of adults, the interior dark and musty as if we walked into someone's cellar turned into a business selling gifts.
There were shelves of books with porcelain dolls across the top and tin soldiers a shelf below. Yet another shelf contained blown glass globes and figurines carved from wood, which Phelan approached while I looked around at the various items.
The building itself was long and narrow, with high ceilings and several unlit sconces that made it difficult to see anything across the room.
One by one Phelan picked up the tiny wooden pieces, squinted at the figurines, and placed them back onto the shelf. There must have been hundreds of them, all ranging in size from a thimble to the length of my hand.
I plucked one from the shelf, uncertain of what sort of animal it was supposed to depict as the legs were extraordinarily long and one didn't reach the ground. The neck was short and it had a mane and a long, slender tail.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Whatever you wish it to be." He held up another figurine that could have been an owl or a chicken.
"These are…" Terrible, I wanted to say. Carved by a blind man that has clearly no idea what animals look like in real life. "Different."
Phelan raised his eyebrows without looking at me. "I can't recall what I brought to her the last time I visited. This one?" He picked up what could have been a seal, then shook his head and plucked a different figure off the dusty shelf. "Or this, perhaps?"
I watched in silence as he picked up one after the next, examining them briefly. He blew the dust off or wiped the figures on his overcoat before looking at another one.
"This," he said, nodding in approval. "And this one as well in case I've already given her that one."
"A bear and an ox?" I asked.
"Ox? I thought it was a bear cub."
"It has horns," I pointed out.
"Have you ever seen a bear cub with your own eyes?" Phelan tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowed.
"I have not."
"Then I suppose you cannot confirm or deny whether or not it has horns."
I rolled my eyes. "I suppose you are correct."
"Of course I am," he mumbled.
I selected a figurine I thought was a cat that I intended to gift to Lisette, then another smaller one that was either a duckling or a dove, before we walked toward the back of the shop where a young woman with pale blond hair sat perched on a stool behind the counter, which was covered in a smattering of wood shavings. She smiled when she saw my brother and waved with enthusiasm, her carving knife still in her hand. The figurine she was working on was still very much a block of wood with several gauges taken out of it with her knife.
"Phelan! I didn't know you were passing through!"
"Gretchen, lovely to see you," he replied.
"This one," she said, holding up the horned bear cub. "It's my newest creature. I had hoped it would find its way into your possession."
"My brother believes it's an ox," Phelan said, nodding at me.
The young woman smiled. "An ox?" she said with a laugh, which I assumed by her laughter meant it was not an ox at all.
"This is my little brother, Erik Kire," Phelan said. "Erik, this is wood carving artist and my friend, Gretchen Ivers."
"I knew he was your brother the moment you both walked up together," Gretchen said. She looked at the two of us and I noticed her right eye seemed to be staring slightly off center, as if she looked over my left ear. It was peculiar the way she stared as if she didn't truly see me beside my brother. "I am glad to finally meet you, little brother Erik Kire, even if you do mistake mountain goats for oxen."
Phelan and I exchanged looks. Clearly the mountain goat had overindulged in grass to be the size of an ox.
"You make these figurines?" I asked, holding up the cat, which I assumed was probably meant to be a dog.
"Yes," she proudly answered. "Do you like them?"
Her smile was strained, yet filled with hope that I would praise her work, despite its obvious flaws.
"I believe my daughter will cherish this… creature."
"It's a cat," she said. "In case you couldn't tell."
"Of course," I replied.
Phelan nudged me in the side. "What else would it be? A bear cub?"
"You are both exactly how I imagined you'd be together," Gretchen commented. I wasn't certain that was a compliment.
"What do I owe you for your magnificent work, Gretchen?" Phelan asked as the young lady placed all four figurines into a small box and tied it with a lop-sided white ribbon. There was a slight tremor to her hands, barely noticeable but present nonetheless.
"They are my gift to you," she said.
"No, no," Phelan scolded. "I will compensate you properly, from one artist to another."
The young lady sighed. "Eight papiermark?"
"Sixteen," Phelan countered.
"I knew you would say that."
"Fine. Thirty-two then, if you think you know me so well," he replied, placing several bank notes on the counter.
Gretchen attempted to hand two of the bank notes back to my brother, but he cleared his throat and shook his head, his countenance stern. "I shall be gravely insulted if my money is no good within this fine establishment, Fraulein Ivers."
At last she conceded. "I hope Hilda likes the mountain goat and the bear," she said. She glanced at me. "And the cat and dove for your daughter is well-received. How old is she?"
"Nine," I answered.
"You create treasures, Gretchen," Phelan assured her. "For both young and old."
"You're the only one who seems to think so," she answered glumly.
My brother leaned toward her and met her eye. "Because I understand true art," he said. "You put your heart into your figurines and for those who look deeper into the creations, it is evident. For as long as I pass through Cologne, I shall continue to purchase your work."
She grinned back at him. "Always a pleasure seeing you," she said.
"Likewise," Phelan replied as she handed him the box. He reached into his pocket and placed a small square of paper containing a sketch onto the counter. The exchange was so swift that I didn't see what he had drawn for her, but whatever it was made the young woman grin.
"Next time, stop in here first," she said. "Not five minutes before your train departs again."
"Noted," Phelan said as I followed him out of the store and onto the street.
"How many figurines have you bought from that girl?" I asked.
Phelan thought for a moment. "Twenty, perhaps thirty at this point," he answered. "They used to be a little more…recognizable," he answered.
"She has become worse at carving? How?" I asked.
Phelan looked at me from the corner of his eye, clearly annoyed by my question. "Gretchen was struck on the side of the head with a bottle three years ago and lost sight in her right eye," he answered. "She survived the incident, but was left partially blinded and with a tremor, which I am certain you noticed."
"Who would do such a thing?"
"She's never told me. All I know is she does her best to continue the art she has enjoyed for much of her life. I suppose not everyone thinks she is talented, but…" He shrugged. "The poor thing is barely twenty years of age. Why make her feel worse than she already does?"
"Does she own the shop?" I asked.
"No, no, I believe it is a partnership between her grandfather and another member of the family living in Geneva. They allow her to sit there in the dark all day and fill the shelves with her little figurines. Better than picking rags, I suppose, but not ideal."
I spotted Tadhg ahead of us in the gathering queue waiting to board the train. He clutched a paper bag to his chest and a small parcel beneath his arm, which he fumbled with as he produced his ticket for the conductor. He nodded several times and offered the conductor something from the bag he carried, but the train employee declined and ushered him aboard.
"Tell him," Phelan said.
