Ch 27
"How long was he out?"
"He's been in and out for maybe an hour and half?"
"And it's been how long now since he was injured?"
"Three hours since he was struck, give or take twenty minutes, I would wager?"
"Three hours? You didn't think to call for me immediately? I'm the only family he has, Jean."
My head screamed in protest as I woke in a familiar bedroom. The spacious room smelled of cloves and the air was cool and refreshing. I groaned, hearing the muffled voices in the darkened room.
"Daroga?" I whispered.
"Phelan? Phelan, how are you feeling?" Jean asked as he rushed to my side and leaned over me.
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"He sounds like he's been drinking," Val said.
I hadn't immediately recognized Val's voice, although I supposed that him saying he was my only family was a good enough indication.
"He sounds like someone who has had his brain scrambled in his skull," Jean corrected my cousin.
"And what did he do this time?" Val asked.
"You needn't be accusatory, Joshua," Jean admonished.
Val scoffed. "You don't know him like I do."
"I know him better than you think."
"Where is the Daroga?" I demanded, growing impatient with their conversation.
Both Val and Jean went silent.
"Did you leave something behind at the university?" Jean asked me.
"His sanity," Val said under his breath.
"Phelan, my apologies, what are you looking for?" Jean asked, ignoring Val's snide remark.
"The Persian man," I said. "Where is he?"
"Back at the university?" Jean guessed. "Does he have something of yours?"
"No, no," I said. "I need to finish speaking with him."
"Regarding?" Jean asked.
I grasped the bed sheets in my fists and considered how I should properly answer. Given that I was suffering from a splitting headache and a severe case of impatience, I said what was on my mind.
"I believe he knows Erik," I said.
Again both Val and Jean fell silent, the only sound within the bedroom was my labored breathing. I pinched my eyes shut, my head still pounding to the point where I lacked the ability to concentrate.
"I beg your pardon?" Jean said.
"My brother," I explained. "I believe he knows my brother."
"He's mad," Val said firmly. "I'll have someone sent around straight away."
"No," Jean argued. "No, I am not doing that."
"He's not your responsibility," Val replied.
"He's not yours either," Jean said. "But given that this is my home and not yours, if you don't like my decision, you can leave."
"Stop, both of you," I pleaded.
"I had no intention of upsetting you," Jean said. "My apologies."
"What happened?" I asked, pressing my palm to my forehead in a failed attempt to stop the throbbing pain.
"You angered a professional boxer," Jean answered. "And a champion prizefighter at that."
"Of course he did," Val muttered.
I suspected Jean gave Val a pointed look as Val apologized under his breath.
"You were struck twice in the back of the head in the gymnasium, and then you were taken to the changing area, a physician came in between matches to see how you fared, you made quite the valiant effort to tumble off the table, and then I had you delivered here. I believe that's everything."
"I need to speak with the Daroga," I insisted.
"Quit writhing about," Jean warned. "You're too close to the edge and God knows you cannot sustain another bump to your head, thick as your skull seems to be."
"He should be in an asylum," Val said. "Strapped to the bed for his own safety."
"No," Jean said sharply. "He needs his rest, which he will receive here."
"He needs to be restrained," Val argued. "Can't you see that? He is a danger to himself."
Every muscle in my body tensed, my back arching at his words. I thought of how Val had sat on top of me, restraining me while his father took Erik from my arms. How I despised being held back, unable to move on my own accord. I would fight tooth and nail if strangers attempted to strap me to a bed.
"No, I will not allow it," Jean replied.
Jean's words came as a relief. My eyes slit open and he offered a reassuring smile in return.
"No asylum necessary," he vowed. "Right, Phelan?"
I nodded in return.
"What are you going to do with him?" Val asked, as if I were a lame horse who could either be placed in a pasture or shot and put out of its misery.
"Bring him tea, perhaps a meal, and then allow him to rest," Jean said.
"Is that what you intend?" Val asked.
I'd had enough of their conversation. I needed to find the Persian man and ask him additional questions about the convict that he had followed to Paris.
"I need to leave," I said.
My voice was barely recognizable to my own ears, hoarse and weak. I felt along the mattress, gauging how far I was from the edge as I struggled to sit upright.
"What are you doing?" Jean asked.
"Elvira–" I started to say, needing an excuse that had nothing to do with my brother.
"It's not even midnight," Jean said. "Your beloved, awful bird is asleep in her cage, isn't she?"
"I have class in the morning."
"Which is still ten hours away. You can stay put here until sunrise."
"I can't stay here," I said.
"Nor can you leave," Jean replied. He turned up the lamps and stood at my bedside, his features strained with concern. "Please, Phelan, you can rest here a while longer and once you feel more like yourself, you can go wherever you prefer."
I swallowed and nodded. "An hour at most."
"You stay until sunrise and allow me to take care of you," he insisted. "Or you do not stay at all and Joshua takes you elsewhere."
There was a warning in his tone. I thought of what Hugo had said the previous evening, and although Jean's offer was not quite what my mentor had in mind, it was a bit of a compromise on my part to allow anyone to put themselves in charge of me. At last I relented and gave a single nod.
Val scoffed. "He needs to be somewhere safe from himself."
"He's safer here than anywhere else," Jean replied. "I'll make certain of it."
"Jean, if you would be so kind, I would like a word with my brother in private," Val requested.
"Cousin," I said under my breath. "I'm your cousin."
Jean inhaled. "As long as Phelan agrees, I would be more than happy to give you a moment alone. Phelan?"
"I agree," I reluctantly said.
Jean stepped back and exited the bedroom, closing the door behind him. A moment later, Val took his place at my bedside.
He remained eerily silent, preferring to simply stare at me rather than immediately reprimand me for the condition he had found me–which wasn't exclusively my doing.
I closed my eyes and sighed, bracing myself for whatever he would eventually say to me.
Val exhaled hard in disgust. "You know, Jean came pounding on my door earlier this evening saying I had to come with him immediately because you'd gotten yourself into a bit of trouble again," he said through his teeth.
Despite not looking at my cousin, I knew he stood with his hands on his hips scowling at me.
"You've frightened Elizabeth," he added. "If you'd seen her face when I rushed out of the house…"
My eyes remained shut, fists still clutching the sheets. Val knew damned well the only way in which he could use his daughter against me was by saying I had scared my beloved niece.
"I had to leave a house full of guests in the middle of a game to be here," he said when I didn't reply, as if he wanted me groveling on hands and knees for his sacrifice. "I'm certain all of my guests are talking about this right now. God knows what they think of the two of us. I'm sure they're saying 'Poor Joshua, he certainly has one fool of a brother.'" He scoffed again. "They'd be correct. You are truly impossible."
I was certain he thought I ignored him when in reality I allowed his words to seep into my pores and fill the crevices that had formed all of the cracks within me. Decades of embarrassing him, bringing shame to the surname we shared.
"This obsession of yours is not healthy. You know that, right?" Val continued. "And now you believe that some man you spoke with earlier knows Erik? You must have truly had your brain rattled if you think for a moment that this could be true. It's absolutely insane, even for you. For God's sake, think about what you have said. You need to come to terms with the idea that Erik is gone. You must accept that he is no longer alive. Do you hear me? Answer me, damn it, you snide little piece of–"
"I hear you."
I felt his words ripple through me, anger with an undercurrent of sadness.
"What do you have to say for yourself?" Valgarde impatiently questioned, like a father to an insolent child.
"Do you ever wonder what happened to Alak and Erik?" I asked, keeping my voice low and even. My eyes slit open and I stared up at him, noticing how crimson his complexion had turned in the midst of his rage. If I could do nothing else, I would refuse to give Val the satisfaction of knowing how much his words hurt.
Val's expression faltered. "What are you talking about?"
"Do you ever wonder why the letters stopped so abruptly? Or why neither of them arrived here as planned?"
Val had never been one to mask his emotions. The sorrow in his eyes was brief, but unmistakable. "Not really."
"No? Why not?"
"Because I assume they were both killed," he answered matter-of-factly. "Robbed and murdered by highwaymen some time after the last letter was received in early November. That would have put them somewhere between Rouen and Alizay from my estimates."
I stared unblinking at him, dismayed by his explanation. Not once had we discussed the most likely location where their travel had come to an end–not that I would have ever been prepared to entertain such a conversation. In my mind I assumed they'd become separated and Erik became disoriented with his location and ended up heading in the wrong direction alone. It was why I had returned to Conforeit, assuming he had made his way back after he'd been separated from Alak.
"If they were not both killed immediately, then Erik…" Val paused abruptly.
I held my breath, dreading what he would say next, but Val looked away first.
"What do you think happened to Erik?" I asked.
Val sniffed. "He was younger. Stronger than an aging fisherman, to be sure. He could have been of use to someone looking for–"
"A slave?"
My heart sank, unsure of what was the worse outcome: my brother becoming a convict in a foreign country or enslaved as a child. Perhaps they were related and Erik, in forced servitude, had become a wanted man.
Val pursed his lips. "I wish they had boarded the train as originally intended, but as you know, my father feared how people would react if they saw Erik. I don't know what happened while they were traveling, but no matter how they met their dismal fate, I would like to think that my father protected Erik until he realized that there was no escape, and then he asked for Erik to meet his fate first so that he would not have to suffer another moment of fear. And I will always believe that wherever they were, they took their last breaths together." He inhaled. "That was the type of person my father was, Phelan. He would have done anything for the three us."
I could tell the idea brought Val comfort, but Alak had never done anything for me, and it was both strange and fascinating to hear Val speak of someone whom we had both known, whose home we had shared, in a completely different manner than I would have described the man who had put himself in charge of caring for three boys only to spend most of his days incoherantly drunk.
"Alak was never like that to me," I said under my breath.
The reprieve from Val's constant annoyance with me swiftly ended. His eyes hardened, his lips turning thin. "Because you would not allow it," he snapped. "You would sit hunched over your damned drawings, never saying a word to either of us."
"Is that what happened?"
Val's eyes narrowed. "Yes, that's precisely what happened."
"That's not what I remember."
"Well, that's how I remember it."
"Do you remember what you received as a gift on your tenth birthday," I asked.
"Shoes, I think," he answered.
"Do you remember what I received for my tenth birthday?"
Val's jaw twitched. "Paper, pencils, I have no idea." He looked me over. "Why do you ask?"
"Did you purchase the gift for me?" I asked.
Val scoffed. "That was almost thirty years ago. I have no idea who purchased your–" He paused abruptly and cleared his throat. There was a hint of realization in his gaze as he considered my inquiry, and I was certain he recalled that there had been no celebration for me. "Your gift. It was definitely pencils now that I think about it."
My heart sank. He knew damned well the day had passed without acknowledgement. "Was it?"
Val swiftly nodded. "Yes. Regular pencils, not the colored ones. I still don't understand why you are asking."
"Because I don't remember receiving anything at all."
Val shifted his weight and placed his hands into his pockets, his gaze settling on some distant point far from me. I held my breath, waiting for him to nod and apologize, to say that he knew they'd neglected to say a word to me.
"Well, perhaps it's because you received a bump to the head and you're not thinking clearly," he muttered.
"Yes, which was my fault as you said."
Val took a step back, but didn't immediately reply. He looked increasingly uncomfortable.
"Look, Phelan, I don't want to blame you for what happened this evening," he said, "but you have a way of inviting trouble."
"You didn't have to leave your party on my behalf," I said to him. "I know how important your gatherings are to you and Carmen."
"This isn't about the damned party," he snapped. "This is about you and your delusions. If you cannot accept that Erik has been gone for a very long time, then I honestly believe you need to be institutionalized. Not forever," he added as if somehow that would make me agree with him. "Just until you are yourself again."
I searched his face for a long moment. "Who was I?" I asked. "And when was the last time I was that person?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"An honest one, Val."
Val turned and walked toward the door. "For your sake, I certainly hope you are able to be someone better than you've been," he said over his shoulder.
oOo
Once Valgarde excused himself, Jean returned to my bedroom with chamomile tea and a sandwich that satisfied my rumbling stomach. He sat in a chair beside me like an attentive nurse, hands folded and wide-eyed gaze filled with concern.
"I have laudanum if you need something to ease the pain," he offered. "Or I could send for a doctor if you need a stronger remedy."
"The worst of it has passed, I think."
"Good. You took quite the hard blow to the back of your head. I was halfway across the gymnasium, but I swear I heard bones crack."
"Probably shattered his fist," I said under my breath. "A foolish move on his part."
"So says the man who was knocked out," Jean said.
I picked apart the meal he had delivered to my bedroom, separating the bread from the meat and the uneven slices of cheese until everything was disassembled.
"I had no idea you attended boxing matches," I commented as I ate the bread first.
"This was the first one," he said with a shrug. "I heard the main event was going to be one of the best matches ever seen. I suppose I'll read about it tomorrow."
"My apologies for ruining your evening."
"You know, there is this thing about friendship where you'd drop anything for your mates," Jean replied. "I am still displeased with you for what happened Friday night outside of the theater with Edmund Redamacker, but that doesn't change the fact that we've been friends for a decade."
"Redamacker?"
I knew the name. The Redamackers owned a dozen high-end restaurants in Paris as well as their own vineyards and overpriced wine. One of their establishments was the Glass Frog, where I had taken Elizabeth to celebrate her birthday.
Jean nodded. "Yes, that's the man whose skull you intended to smash into the street."
"The restauranter?"
"No. The owner's half-brother, thankfully. Eduard, the man with a dozen restaurants to his name, is not overly fond of Edmund, which works to your advantage, I suppose. His business partner threatened to cut ties if this incident managed to make its way into the newspapers."
I stared at Jean and waited for him to elaborate. Quite frankly I should not have been surprised by how swiftly information traveled through the upper echelon of Paris, but still found myself amazed that there were threats involved.
"I explained what caused the altercation and Eduard was displeased," Jean said.
'Displeased' hardly seemed like a strong enough reaction, but I didn't argue.
"When did this take place?" I asked.
"At the gallery last night," he answered. "Stefan said you left about a half hour before I arrived. Eduard and his business partner were there as a guest of Edgar De Gas, and I had hoped to introduce the two of you in order to smooth things over. But, as it turns out, once his business partner heard that Edmund was soliciting street whores, he almost pulled his half of funding."
My jaw clenched at Jean's unfair description of a child. Hunger and freezing to death made people desperate, and desperate people did what they needed to survive.
"Do you need the pillow adjusted?" Jean asked. "You look uncomfortable."
I glanced back at one of the dozen silk pillows he had fluffed and arranged behind me, creating a comfortable nest in the bed I had once slept in during the time we had lived together.
"No," I answered. "But I would ask you to refrain from calling a young girl with limited resources a whore."
"Fair enough." Jean looked across the room and I followed his gaze to a small sketch of him I'd hastily drawn the previous summer. It was not nearly good enough to display, but I was pleased he had kept it.
"You know your art has improved drastically over the last eighteen months," Jean said. "I'm not surprised you're receiving a lot of interest for your work." He smiled to himself. "And you deserve it, my friend, every bit of praise and interest from art collectors."
"That is kind of you," I replied.
"Do you really think that the Persian man knows your brother?" he asked suddenly, his gaze switching back to me.
I stared at my half-eaten meal and put the meat and cheese back onto the remaining pieces of bread, eating the sandwich the way it was meant to be consumed.
"I hope so," I answered, taking a bite.
Jean frowned at me. "That isn't what I asked."
"He said that he knew someone who looked like me," I replied.
Jean studied me, his dark eyes narrowed and filled with skepticism. "Did the two of you resemble one another?" he asked.
I took another bite of my sandwich and carefully selected my words. Jean had seen simple sketches I'd drawn of Erik, ones where I had depicted him precisely as I recalled, scars and all. As expected, he blanched at the images, clearly unprepared for how my toddler brother had looked the last time we had seen each other.
"We did," I finally answered. "I would think we still do."
Jean stared at me, his lips pursed.
"What?" I impatiently asked.
"You must understand, I am not trying to be cruel," he said.
"But?" I prompted.
Jean ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "Joshua has valid concerns, Phelan. It does seem quite improbable that a man from the Orient happens to be acquainted with your long-lost brother," he said gently.
"Erik could be anywhere," I said. "If there is a slight chance that this man knows my brother, it's worth pursuing. I don't expect you or Val would understand, but I hope you will at least respect my need to thoroughly investigate any such claims."
Thankfully Jean decided not to argue. He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "You know, before we left the gymnasium, Gerard asked if you wished to press charges against Montlaur." He tapped his fingertips together in an irritating fashion, no rhythm whatsoever to his movements. "I told Gerard if you did wish to proceed, I would contact him Monday afternoon to start the paperwork."
"He would serve time for assault, I assume?"
"Yes, unless you'd rather have him bake you a pie."
"Or he could teach me how to properly box."
Jean chuckled to himself until he noticed I was not speaking lightly. Immediately his eyebrows shot up into his receding hairline and his expression sobered.
"You cannot be serious," he said.
"Why not?"
He exhaled and shook his head. "Why on earth would you want to learn to box?"
I shrugged. "I enjoy learning new skills."
"Do you intend to take up prizefighting?"
"I learned how to create a vase two years ago in pottery class thanks to Monsieur Raitt," I pointed out. "As much as I enjoyed the process, it doesn't mean I intend to open a shop."
Jean ran his hand over his thinning hair. "I suppose teaching you how to box is probably a worse sentence than a day in jail and less expensive than paying a fine."
"You make a day spent with me sound so inviting," I dryly replied.
Jean grunted. "I suppose as long as you swear you won't punch me in the face, I'll ask Gerard if he can arrange something for you."
"If I haven't punched you yet, you're probably safe, but do try to stay on my good side."
Jean looked me over and smirked. "Phelan Kimmer: Paris' most dangerous painter."
