Chapter 33

Raoul de Chagny was nothing short of the perfect host to twenty guests in the magnificent back room of the Purple Whale. Two stone fireplaces illuminated and warmed the air while a table long enough to accommodate all of us with plenty of room for additional guests, overflowed with food, drinks, and laughter.

In one corner was a dessert table with lemonade, tea and coffee available while in the other was an alcove with a half-dozen leather chairs and a selection of cigars offered by a gentleman who stood so still I thought he was a painted wooden statue.

Raoul appeared quite at ease surrounded by my Bohemians. He engaged in conversation with every single person, sometimes switching to German, Italian and even English to speak in their native tongues. When they spoke, he was attentive, and when he replied, the people around him fell silent and listened.

As the clock struck ten, I stifled a yawn and downed the rest of my coffee, hoping to battle the desire to nod off for a moment longer. A third of my students had excused themselves as they had Friday morning classes while the rest separated into smaller groups and sat around chatting while they gorged themselves on desserts.

"I do sincerely hope this meal has made up for the unfortunate events at the Opera Populaire," Raoul said as he approached my seat in the corner of the room. He sat across from me with a whiskey in hand, passing Ink and a young woman named Marise. Three more students made their exit, waving as they departed for the evening.

"The food was as superb as I've been told from several sources," I replied. "You have been extraordinarily gracious this evening."

Raoul held out a half-filled bottle of whiskey, which I declined, then offered me a cigar, which I accepted. He settled into the leather chair closest to the fire.

"Upman," I said, reading the label. "Sophisticated," I guessed.

"Only the finest," Raoul said as he lit a match.

I wasn't much for cigars, but took the vicomte's word for it and silently enjoyed the aroma more than the flavor.

"I should have known he would be there," Raoul said under his breath. "That cowardly, dastardly villain of a man."

"The so-called ghost, yes?"

Raoul sniffed. "He resides within the opera house," he replied, puffing on his cigar. "At least that is what Nadir believes."

"The Persian? He has located the Phantom, then?"

"Not officially," Raoul said, keeping his voice low. "Monsieur Khan has seen our spector, but that is all he will reveal."

"That's a start," I replied.

"I will not be satisfied until we are at the end," he growled.

I raised a brow, but didn't reply, preferring instead to watch the host for the evening take a sip from his glass while the end of his cigar burned bright orange.

"You know what galls me?" Raoul asked suddenly. "No one seems to know precisely where the phantom stays–or if they do they are not willing to speak on the matter. He has allies from within."

"Allies? Are you certain?"

Raoul nodded. "Someone has been aiding him and I am positive his accomplice has been assisting the bastard for a great many years."

"Why would anyone aid the ghost?"

He stared into the glass of amber-colored liquid, his eyes narrowed. "I would suspect he has paid off people so they will do his bidding. For years he has received a very generous salary from the former theater manager, which has foolishly continued under new management. I am certain he has at least one extra pair of eyes and ears collecting information."

"Has the staff been questioned?"

"Thoroughly."

"Offered equal compensation for their allegiance?"

"Twice."

"And there are no leads?"

Raoul shook his head. "Regardless, his days are numbered, Monsieur Kimmer," he said. "Rest assured, his iron-fisted reign will come to an end at my hands."

I studied Raoul for a long moment. The golden-haired man seated before me didn't appear like someone who could make good on a threat. He sounded like a boy playing a make-believe game of gendarme and criminal, his promises little more than a finger pointed like a pistol with a harmless click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth in place of bullets.

"What do you intend to do?" I asked, placing the cigar on an ashtray in order to steeple my hands.

"Kill him," Raoul answered.

I raised a brow. "May I ask why?"

"He's dangerous," the vicomte answered. He gulped down the rest of his whiskey and slammed the glass onto the arm of the chair, which wasn't nearly as dramatic as I assumed he intended given how the leather muffled the sound.

"Forgive me for saying as much, but are you not equally dangerous vowing to take the life of a man masquerading as a ghost?"

The vicomte scowled at me. He took a long drag from his cigar and exhaled a puff of smoke. "The Opera Ghost has pushed me to my limits."

"Does your villain have a name?" I asked, taking up my own cigar again.

Raoul slumped in his chair. "I would not do him the decency of using his name if I knew it. He has the audacity to call himself an angel when he does the work of the devil."

"Did you happen to get a look at him this evening? When he was in your opera box?"

"Sadly, no." Raoul licked his lips. "He wears a mask."

"A mask beneath his hood, it seems."

Raoul nodded. "In order to hide his identity, to be sure. The mark of a coward, if you ask me."

"Why not involve the inspector?" I asked. "Have this man brought to justice?"

Raoul snuffed out his cigar and rubbed his face. "May I ask, Monsieur Kimmer, are you married? Do you have children?"

I studied him again. "No, I am not married."

"Are you courting anyone special? A woman whom you cannot imagine your life without? Someone whose light brightens the darkness for you?"

He roams the darkness. My heart stuttered. I had chosen solitude. In that moment I regretted how alone I had been for as long as I could recall, distanced in the ways that mattered the most.

"I am wallowing in my own blindness," I dryly retorted, taking one last puff of my cigar before snuffing mine out as well.

Raoul stared at the fireplace mantel. "Then perhaps you cannot relate, but Christine is the love of my life. I would do anything for her."

"That is noble."

"I'm certain you have heard that she was abducted by this terrible creature of darkness."

"I've heard rumors, most of which seem erroneous."

"I wish that the three days she was held captive by this hideous entity were nothing more than rumors, but it is the truth. This man masquerading as a ghost, brought her into his lightless world and refused to release her."

I sat up straighter, thinking of what I would do to any man who would dare abduct my niece. "Was she harmed?"

Raoul hesitated. "Physically unharmed, but emotionally Christine has yet to recover."

"Surely your fiance is familiar with where this man resides if she was there for three days?"

Raoul refilled his glass, but didn't take a sip. "The entire ordeal was so devastating that Christine has very little recollection of what transpired between the moment he abducted her and her return to her dressing room." For a long moment he paused and chewed on his lower lip. "She doesn't even know his name or recall what he looks like other than…than a skull with flaming eyes."

I narrowed my eyes. "A skull?"

"No doubt another disguise, one of many."

"Why would he abduct Christine, do you think?" I asked.

Raoul met my eye. "Because…because he is enthralled with her voice."

I furrowed my brow. "Was she always this gifted vocally?"

Raoul appeared annoyed by my inquiry. "Not always," he vaguely answered.

"I suppose she has her tutor to thank for her improvement."

Raoul stared at me for a long and silent moment.

"I beg your pardon? Have I misspoken in some fashion?" I asked.

At last he sighed and shook his head. "The ghost believes he shares a connection with Christine, one that has fused his soul to hers."

Wordlessly I sat across from Raoul and awaited his elaboration. He reached for his glass, looked at the content, and returned it to the arm of the chair.

"Not that it would matter to him, but Christine and I were inseparable for a number of summers when my family would holiday in the little village where she and her father resided. Her father would play his violin and Christine and I would dance until we were exhausted, then eat cakes in the attic while reading mythical stories by candlelight to one another."

He smiled to himself, caught up in the memory of the past.

"One day, when my family was by the water, Christine and her father joined us. She was wearing a new scarf embroidered with flowers, and the wind swept it off her shoulders. I chased after it for what seemed like an eternity until the ocean water wetted the fabric and I was able to finally retrieve it. Out of breath and exhausted, I returned it to Christine like a valiant knight to a smitten young maiden. Truly, I will never forget the look on her face, the moment of pure adoration. I was eleven and very much in love with Christine Daae."

His eyes creased at the edges, the feelings he had for his fiance quite evident.

"That night, my mother kissed me on the forehead and said the Tale of the Red Scarf would be told at our wedding. It was then that I knew my affection for Christine was undeniable. We were destined to be together forever, fated sweethearts turned lovers eventually."

"You've been very fond of her for some time, it seems," I commented.

"For as long as I can remember." Raoul sat forward. He glowed with a combination of the firelight and his own internal warmth. "I would write to her all year while we were away and she would respond so sweetly until one day in the middle of winter, days after Christmas, she sent word that her father's illness had progressed. Quite frankly, I had no idea Monsieur Daae was sick, and so you can imagine my surprise when I read how she described in great detail that he crept closer and closer to death, how his breaths turned shallow and his flesh lost coloring."

There were no words to describe what it was like to witness life leave a body. My own father's death had provided no closure, and as much as I had despised him, seeing his body still and soul vacating his eyes, I had wanted more from him.

"She was nestled beside him in bed when he passed and stayed with him for hours until the physician came to examine him and found he had stopped breathing," Raoul explained. "They took Christine from his side and…and that was all that she wrote. Her letter was sent unfinished and I never heard from her again."

"Never?" I asked, sitting forward as well.

Remorsefully he shook his head. "When we arrived in Sweden five months later, the little house where they lived had been sold and no one knew where Christine had been taken. By that time, my own mother had started to become quite ill. Shamefully, I began to forget my childhood love as our family's collective energy was focused on my mother's deteriorating health."

Despite the differences in our situations, I was far too familiar with what it was like to physically lose a loved one, the helplessness of wondering.

"How did you find Christine again?" I asked.

"Fate. I believed with every drop of blood in my veins that we were meant to be together." Again Raoul smiled to himself. "Last summer I returned to Paris to fulfill my parents' wishes of supporting the arts in their names, met with the new managers for the Opera Populaire, and as luck would have it, Christine was part of the ballet. There is no truer form of fate than what I experienced the day we were reunited. The moment we were introduced again it felt like no time had passed at all."

The hairs on my arms stood on end and I shivered, thinking of how greatly I wanted to find my brother. Fate had not been kind in that respect–at least not yet.

Raoul turned his head to the side. "You know precisely what I mean," he said, looking me over. "You've experienced something similar. I can see it in your eyes."

"It is something I wish to experience," I admitted.

"What is her name?" Raoul inquired, grinning at me.

"Not a she," I replied. "My brother, actually."

I wasn't sure why I answered honestly, but Raoul clasped his hands, abandoning his unfinished whiskey in favor of intimate conversation.

"Joshua, correct? I've met him on several occasions."

"No, that's my cousin and we've not had the pleasure of being apart from one another."

Raoul gave me a strange look.

"I have a younger brother who has been missing since he was three and I was seven."

Raoul's eyes widened. "The advertisement in the program," he said quietly. "Forgive me, but have I been saying your surname incorrectly this whole time? Kinner, is it?"

"No, it's Kimmer," I grumbled. "That damnable ad was printed wrong. I don't suppose there is anything you can do to correct the mistake before Friday's opening?"

Raoul shook his head. "I'm afraid not. However, I would suggest you bring the matter of your missing brother to the attention of Nadir Khan."

"I fully intend to speak with him once you've located your ghost."

"Monsieur Khan has quite the remarkable record when it comes to locating missing or wanted persons."

"So I have heard."

Raoul glanced around the room and I did the same, noting only two students remained and they were nearing the door. The vicomte stifled a yawn. "I am indebted to you for suggesting I speak with Monsieur Khan."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, and I will put in a word with him that you are searching for someone as well as a generous incentive to assist."

"That isn't necessary."

"Consider it a gift, Monsieur."

I grunted. "You have gifted me quite a generous amount already."

"Think nothing of it. I have enjoyed the company of you and your students this evening."

"That isn't what I meant."

Raoul eyed me. "Then I am afraid I don't understand."

"You purchased one of my paintings."

The vicomte stared thoughtfully at me for a long, silent moment. "You were always very kind to me at the bank. It is an honor to own a piece of your artwork."

"I believe everyone was cordial to you at the bank, not me exclusively."

"Everyone who was employed there was told beforehand that they had to be cordial. I have become quite adept at deciphering who is pleasant to my face because they want to be and because it is expected. You always allowed me to tell you about my riding lessons or the sweets at the bakery that my brother would never allow me to have. You didn't simply listen to me speak, you asked questions and commented. You treated me like I was someone worth listening to, not the spoiled brat of a wealthy account holder you had to suffer through. And you always managed to slip me a piece of candy after I complained that Philippe would not allow me to spoil my supper on sweets."

I had no coffee left in my cup or I would have taken a sip in order to avoid speaking. But since I had finished my beverage and couldn't bear the thought of ingesting alcohol, I looked him over.

"I imagined you were similar to my brother at that age," I said. "And he was…he was everything to me when we were younger. Being separated from him has taken a tremendous toll on me, more than I wish to admit. I welcomed hearing you speak so enthusiastically, just as I imagined he would have done."

Raoul's eyes were a bit glassy when he smiled sympathetically. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure than helping you find your brother."

"I appreciate your assistance more than you know. I wish you the best in locating your phantom so that I can hopefully employ Monsieur Khan."

"I am certain this ghost will at last pay for his misdeeds with his life," Raoul said coldly. "If the moment presents itself, I will shoot him myself, directly in the heart, and discover his true identity for myself. He cannot hide behind a mask forever."

A man approached where we sat and cleared his throat. "Vicomte de Chagny," he said. "Mademoiselle Daae is awake."

"Good," Raoul answered.

The man bent at the waist and whispered loud enough for me to clearly hear him speak, "She is asking about the angel."

Raoul's expression immediately hardened. "Forgive me, Monsieur Kimmer, but I must make haste," he said as he stood. "My fiance has asked for my company."

I stood as he stood and we shook hands.

"I will speak to you soon," he said over his shoulder.

oOo

It was eleven-thirty when one of Raoul's carriages dropped me off in front of my building. I managed to drag myself up the stairs and into my apartment where Elvira squawked once in greeting and then flew to the top of her cage and stared at me until I placed her into her bed and draped a blanket over the enclosure.

Somehow I managed to toss my clothes aside, wash my face, clean my teeth and stumble into bed without dressing. I wrapped my unclothed self into a blanket and had no recollection of falling asleep.

I woke at four, turned over, and promptly fell asleep again until six when my mind stirred despite my body's desire to continue sleeping.

Elvira greeted me with her usual chirps and flew herself to her perch where she began a series of vocalizations that imitated several phrases and sounds until I served her breakfast and presented it to her.

"If your meal is to your liking, I am in desperate need of a strong cup of coffee," I said as I went about my morning routine and grabbed my keys from the table by the front door.

"Behave yourself," Elvira said, imitating my voice and stern tone.

"Never."

I walked briskly down the street to my favorite cafe, spotting Abigail almost immediately. She was seated outside and rifled through a large bag with a round, wooden handle that she had set on the tabletop.

"I didn't think you were going to be here," she said without looking up.

I came to an abrupt pause several feet from the table, brow furrowed. "How did you know it was me?"

"The way that you walk."

"Truly? What is wrong with the way I walk?"

Abigail nodded and pulled out a catalog. "Nothing is wrong. You merely walk faster than at least ninety percent of people I've ever met."

Her words made me feel more self-conscious than they should have. At last she looked up at me and smiled. "Coffee?"

The single word had barely left her lips when Mona appeared with a cup in one hand and carafe in the other.

"Professor! Good morning!"

"Regular for me," I said to Mona, recalling how I had felt drinking her blend of espresso and dark roast.

My former student appeared slightly disappointed in my request, but left the coffee cup and turned on her heel where she grabbed a different carafe from the counter and returned outside.

Once my cup was filled to the brim and pleasantries exchanged, Mona made her rounds to other tables, leaving Abigail and I alone in silence.

Dozens of people strolled past us on the sidewalks, none of them appearing to be in a hurry to reach their destination. I observed them carefully, wondering where they were headed. When I looked across the table, I found Abigail with her pencil in hand, but her moss green eyes studying me.

"Erik," she said.

"Or sixty francs."

Abigail continued to look me over in terribly scrutinizing fashion. "I've raised my price to eighty."

I reached into my trouser pocket, peered inside my wallet, and whistled. "I have forty-three francs to my name."

"Pity. I suppose you should start talking then."

I sat back and took a breath, noticing the morning newspaper partially beneath her bag. "I haven't the slightest idea of where to begin," I said.

"Say whatever you wish." Abigail turned back to the catalog on the table and flipped to the next page.

She scribbled something onto the paper and circled a depiction of a dress. In silence I removed the newspaper and unfolded it, my attention captured by the headline:

OPERA GHOST STRIKES AGAIN! REIGN OF TERROR CONTINUES AT OPERA POPULAIRE

Immediately I folded the paper in half and set it aside once more, having no desire to read about the phantom who would be condemned to death if Raoul de Chagny had any say in the matter.

"Erik would be thirty-three now," I said.

Abigail briefly lifted her gaze, but said nothing in return. My stomach knotted, my heart twisting in my chest. I thought of the last time I'd seen my brother alive, his eyes blackened, hair greasy and obscuring his face. The image of him was forever etched in my thoughts, the unnatural stillness of a child who had always been perpetually in motion.

I regretted my obedience that day, the agonizing moments I had remained where Alak had commanded, helpless and at a distance from my terrified brother. I regretted not running toward Bjorn, striking him as hard as I could, and spiriting Erik to safety. I regretted leaving my brother to languish for years, beaten and starved by the monster who had sired both of us.

"He's a proper adult by now," I said under my breath. "More of an adult than me, I'm certain."

My words were meant as a jest, but Abigail didn't entertain myself-depreciation. She stirred milk into her cup of tea and waited for me to continue.

"I wonder constantly what he is like now," I said. "Married with a dozen children, perhaps, or a bachelor committed to his art."

"He's an artist?" she said at last. Finally I had said something of interest to pique her curiosity.

"Musician," I said. "Or at least I hope he is still fond of music."

I couldn't imagine my brother without a string of notes following his every move.

Abigail considered my words. "And you haven't seen Erik since you were seven?"

"I have not."

"May I ask what happened that led to your separation?"

Over the years I'd learned to keep my heartache to myself. Other than Hugo, I had come to understand that my fondness for Erik was abnormal and mourning to be kept private. Speaking of him at all felt strange, but recounting how he had gone missing was a complete abnormality.

"Why do you want to know?" I questioned, feeling annoyed by the conversation. "Truly, why the interest?"

Abigail exhaled. "Because Erik is clearly important to you. However, if you wish to keep your thoughts private, you are under no obligation to continue, financially or otherwise."

I nodded and took another sip of coffee. My cup was still very much full, but Mona practically waltzed past our table and refilled my beverage and left a muffin on the table.

"For my favorite professor," she said before she returned inside the cafe.

The silence at the table became uncomfortable. I thought of how easy it had been to sweep Abigail into my arms, how swiftly we tumbled onto her bed and enjoyed an afternoon together.

Fully dressed and in her company was far more difficult. I would have preferred exchanging kisses and caresses to words.

"Erik and I had been outside since sunrise," I said at last, forcing the words past my lips and the memories into my thoughts. "Wading in the creek, discovering animal bones in the woods, and chasing one another around as we did all summer, pretending we were different creatures. I was always the predator and he was always prey." I paused, noticing the look of disapproval Abigail issued. "He always wanted to be chased around. I don't know why, but I suppose because he was smaller and fit into tighter spaces where I couldn't easily reach him."

The days blended together, mixed with the pungent odor of our combined perspiration, the muddy water from the creek, the heady scent of the woods, and tangy berries we smashed with our bare hands.

"The sun was starting to set and we returned to our uncle's home, sufficiently bitten by every insect in the forest. Our uncle and cousin were out fishing for the day, leaving me and Erik to entertain ourselves. I made Erik a small meal to tide him over until supper and stretched out on the floor to draw something, but Erik wanted to return to the beach. He jumped on my back, the pencil tore through the paper, and I was furious with him."

Sometimes I was certain that I scolded him, my tone far harsher than it needed to be with a child who didn't understand what he had done wrong. Other times I convinced myself that I shot him a look of frustration and told him to wait five minutes. Whatever had truly happened almost thirty years earlier I would never know.

"He walked out of the house," I said, my heart racing as I relieved that terrible moment. I had no recollection of the door shutting or anything that would have indicated he had walked off. "He had never been able to tie his shoelaces, but somehow he had managed to put his shoes on, lace them up, and wander off. It could not have been more than ten minutes when our uncle and cousin returned and…"

Where is Erik? What do you mean you don't know? How long has he been gone? What were you doing? How could you not notice him missing?

The unbridled rage Alak displayed toward me still gave me goosebumps decades later. I could still see the red veins in his bloodshot eyes, the way his mouth was set when he grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me toward him, the stench of alcohol on his hot breath turning my stomach.

For three years I had felt safe in his home, but everything had changed that evening. My childhood–what little I had experienced–ended the moment Alak and Valgarde returned and discovered I had failed my little brother.

"All I knew was Erik was gone," I said under my breath.

"Our uncle searched for hours, calling my brother's name, but to no avail. Our uncle went back out at first light, heading toward the seashore while my cousin and I searched the woods, but we couldn't find Erik anywhere."

"You lived with your uncle?"

"For several years, yes," I answered.

"Your parents were…?"

"Alive," I said. "Our mother was not capable of properly caring for herself let alone two young children and our father was brutal. He was the reason we were unable to locate Erik."

Abigail's lips parted, brow furrowed in silent questioning.

"I saw my brother once after he disappeared," I continued. "He was no longer himself. Everything that made Erik Erik had been snuffed out in a matter of weeks. Our father had destroyed him."

No quick smile, no hearty laughter, no string of sentences leaving Erik's mouth, most of them questions. No tiny body pressed to mine day and night, no lips moving against my cheek, his filthy, sticky finger tangled in my hair or pressed into my forearms.

Good night, Lan. I love you, Lan. Lan, are you still awake? Did you hear me?

I heard you, Erik.

Do you love me, Lan?

No, Erik, not at all.

Say it. Say you love me.

No.

Why?

Because I am too tired to say another word.

Lan!

I dislike you very much.

I would kiss my brother's forehead then and he would snort with laughter, legs wrapped around my torso, keeping me immobilized in my own bed.

I regretted that I hadn't told Erik how much I loved him, how deeply I cared for him, how the very essence of who I was or would be was entangled in his being. The words of freely expressed affection were always quick to leave his lips, his embraces tight as a constricting snake. Surely my little brother knew when I carried him over rocks or shielded him from violent summer storms that I loved him more than anyone or anything in the world.

"And that was the last time you saw him alive?"

I solemnly nodded. The helplessness of that day was branded into me, the sinking feeling remained long after Alak and I left the beach. Alak had not said a word to me–or at least none that I could recall–but there were no words needed. He blamed me and I blamed myself.

"Our uncle saw him years later, after my cousin and I had moved here," I said. "The two of them traveled together, but neither one of them arrived in Paris as far as I know. The last time I know for certain Erik was alive when he was twelve." My heart stuttered. "It's been almost twenty-two years."

Twenty-two years filled with guilt and regret, of wondering what my brother would be like, what conversations we would have had over music, art, and women. Twenty-two years of emptiness, of keeping myself at an emotional distance from others because I couldn't bear losing someone else the way I'd lost my brother.

Abigail took my right hand and pulled it away from my left arm. All at once the burning sensation ended and I realized I had pressed all four of my fingers into the scar tissue, as hard as I could tolerate.

"You're hurting yourself," Abigail said. Her hand folded into mine and I started to pull away, but she shook her head and held on tighter. "Please, just sit with me."

I nodded despite feeling as though I were falling, tumbling backwards into nothing. Physical pain was all I could feel, all I could allow myself to feel. Pain was constant, thrumming through me day and night, drowning out everything else.

But through the pain I felt something distant yet familiar and realized that Abigail had begun stroking the back of my hand, her grasp tightening when she reached my fingertips. My right hand tingled, her touch warmer than it should have been against my flesh. ,

With the most gentle of smiles, Abigail continued massaging my hand until the warmth returned and the pins and needles subsided.

"I apologize–" I started to say, but she shook her head.

"Sit with me," she said. "If only for a moment longer."

It was an impossible request to simply sit at a table beside another person whose hand still rested upon mine. I wondered if Abigail regretted the intimacy shared with a man who was terribly broken, whose heart was so incapable of loving anyone.

I thought of a dozen different ways to excuse myself from the table, but the heaviness of grief told me to stay.

Sit with her, I could hear Hugo urging me.

The desire to return home and succumb to the numbness slowly faded. I started to reach for my coffee with my left hand when Abigail pulled away.

"You can have your hand back for a moment," she said, nodding at my coffee cup. "But then you return it to me for safe keeping."

Once I placed the cup on the saucer, Abigail reached for me and we sat hand-in-hand. There was something remarkably safe and warm about her fingers against mine, a comfort I hadn't felt in a very long time, one that was so foreign I almost didn't recognize the sensation of being cared for by another person.

Vulnerable, Hugo had said. Be vulnerable.

Why in the hell would I want to be vulnerable? I groused.

Because it's part of being human.

A terrible part of humanity, I grumbled in return.

Fine, he said, exasperated by my disagreeable mood. Do whatever the hell you want. Be a stone fortress if that's what brings you joy.

Nothing brings me joy.

Nothing that you've tried, at least, he had muttered.

The longer Abigail and I sat together, the more I relaxed, allowing the silence to stretch on and my mind to wander. My hand remained cradled in Abigail's for safe keeping, as she had said.

"I saw my coat the other evening," she said. "Crossing the street in the theater district."

"The coat was off wandering by itself? Did you use enchanted fabric, Madame?"

Abigail looked down her nose at me and shook her head, refusing to laugh at my attempt at humor. "An American boy was quite proudly wearing it," she said.

"Ah, yes. Ink."

"Ink?"

"An unintentional nickname."

"We spoke briefly, but it was evident immediately that he is quite fond of you."

"He's a good student."

"And you are a good professor who cares deeply for his students."

I inhaled and took another sip of coffee, uncertain of how to respond to her compliment. Two young children across the street provided a temporary distraction from the conversation and I sat back, watching as a young woman took them by the hands and guided them across the bustling street.

"Clarence turns eight in August," Abigail said, placing her hand into mine. "He's had such a difficult time since his father was killed."

"How old was your son when…?" I couldn't bring myself to finish the rest of my sentence.

"He was not quite four when his father was murdered."

I suppressed a shiver. I couldn't recall if Abigail had told me that the elder Clarence had been shot in the back of the head, executed halfway across the city, or if I'd learned of his death from a different source. I was fairly certain I had met the tailor a handful of times as I had trousers lengthened at the shop when I was still employed by the bank. At the time, I had no regular business established with any one particular shop, and my recollection of the elder Clarence was murky at best. Abigail I didn't remember at all, but I'd never had a need to be interested in another man's wife.

"I cannot begin to imagine my little Clarence charged with caring for a three-year old child," Abigail said.

"I took care of Erik from the day he was born," I replied.

"You were three and caring for a newborn?"

"Three and a half."

Abigail searched my face. "That was unfair of the adults in your life to give you such a tremendous responsibility."

I shrugged. "I took it upon myself."

"How so?"

"Erik was abandoned on the back step of the house shortly after he was born," I explained. "He was still wet when I brought him back inside. He either had me to care for him or he had no one."

Abigail turned her head to the side. "I hope he was at least a docile infant."

I grunted. "He was inconsolable unless he was being held. Day and night I had him strapped to my chest with a blanket to keep him content."

I desperately wanted another sip of coffee, but had no desire to request my hand back from Abigail, finding that I enjoyed the comfort of intimacy that was innocent in nature.

"There was a goat farm down the road from where we lived," I said, recalling how far it had seemed in winter, with the barren trees and a leaning fence that separated the farm from the land my father had claimed as his own. "I would pack Erik with me, leave him swaddled in blankets against a tree a safe distance from the goat pen, milk a goat that wasn't ours, and feed my brother from one of the bottles I filled.

"I must have traveled to that farm hundreds of times and not once did the farmer discover me stealing his milk." I paused. "Or perhaps he caught me each time, but didn't have the heart to shoo away a toddler attempting to feed a newborn."

I had never considered what I would have done if I'd been chased away by a farmer with a rifle or pitchfork in hand, what I would have done or said if the man had seen the disfigured infant I carried with me day and night. Perhaps he would have killed us both–or chased us back to Bjorn for him to suffocate or drown Erik and beat me to death for straying far from his home.

The hairs on my arms stood on end. I wasn't certain that my life being spared had been a true blessing. There were plenty of days when it certainly didn't feel like I had been given a second chance to live a better life.

"Phelan," Abigail said gently, reaching for her cup of tea with her free hand.

I raised a brow, still very much tangled in the past, while attempting to focus on the warmth of her touch.

"Forgive that little boy," she said, squeezing my hand. "The one you keep blaming for your brother's disappearance."

I searched her face, my mouth dry and tongue useless. The boy I had been was restless, pacing back and forth within me, waiting for the opportunity to prove his worth.

"It was an accident," she said. "An unfortunate accident."

"It doesn't matter," I said.

She frowned at me, but didn't disagree or argue.

"The only thing that matters to me is finding my brother."

The boy I had been had yet to prove himself worthy of forgiveness.