CH 38

On my walk from Bloom's Art Shop back home, I mentally made a schedule for the afternoon and evening. Val played typically from eight until eleven, with breaks on the hour for fifteen minutes at a time.

Or at least he had in the past. I made it a point to walk past Strerois despite it being out of the way, and saw the details on a faded window card: Old Val, performing Wednesdays and Saturdays, six to nine.

The time frame had changed, but the nickname I had assigned him years earlier stayed the same. Val absolutely despised being called 'Old Val', but the tavern owner agreed with me that Joshua Kimmer was far too plain and no one would be interested in hearing him play piano. Old Val, on the other hand, sounded like an individual who would tickle the ivories, wink at the pretty women, and share stories with the patrons that left them clamoring for more.

Given that Val started playing earlier than I had originally thought, I decided to arrive fifteen minutes early to the show, which would allow ample time for us to speak, if he so desired. I would sit in the middle of the tavern and listen to him play for an hour, stay through his break, then depart and make my way to the university with a few minutes to spare before the boxing match.

Satisfied with my plans, I turned, intending to walk through the park and toward the Danish bakery and eventually home to grade written assignments, a task I despised.

When I was in my first year, Hugo had stressed the importance of studying the old masters, discussing their techniques, lives, and historical significance and having my class write reports on their works. It was boring and unnecessary, with time better spent drawing and painting over research, but per the university, it was part of the curriculum whether I liked it or not.

I was halfway home when someone thumped on the side of their carriage and a male voice imitating a woman caught my attention.

"What a fine looking gentleman out for a stroll."

With a sigh, I cursed under my breath. "Have you lost your mind?" I grumbled.

"If I have, it's beside your sense of humor," Hugo said, clearly amused by my reaction.

"Indeed."

"What are you doing?" he asked as the driver pulled the horses to the curb.

"Walking."

"You show-off," Hugo said, shaking his fist at me. "You and your two legs."

I tipped my hat to him. "A fine day to harass innocent people finishing errands," I said.

"Well, don't just blabber at me from the street. Hop in if you're done with your errands. I have cakes."

It was more the company than the sweets that led me to oblige. Hugo pushed the carriage door open with his crutch and sat back once I was seated.

"What are you doing all the way over on this side of town?" he asked.

"All the way on this side of town? I live three streets that way," I said, pointing in the opposite direction of where we were traveling.

"Ah, yes, I seem to have forgotten. Are you in a rush?" he asked me.

I shrugged. Grading papers could certainly wait another hour or two. "Are you returning home?"

"Heavens, no. Dorothea is driving me mad this afternoon. I had to get a bit of fresh air and clear my head while she finishes cleaning before her holiday. I intend to ride around for the next hour and stay out of her path. You're free to join me if you would like to entertain an old, lonely man."

"You are neither old or lonely, my friend," I said.

Hugo didn't argue. He regarded me in silence for a moment, brows furrowed.

"What is it?" I questioned, looking down at my shirt for crumbs.

"Nothing. You look…different."

I furrowed my brow as well. "As in different bad?"

"You should know by now that if I thought you looked terrible I would tell you as much."

"Different good, then?"
"I'm not certain what is different about you. More relaxed, perhaps?" Hugo answered.

I bristled at his observation. "Because I am typically tense?"

Hugo frowned at me. "If you could hear yourself speak, you would realize you answered your own question."

"Perhaps I appear more relaxed since I have been learning to meditate."

"Meditation?" Hugo handed me a paper bag filled with tiny cakes. "I must say, that could be highly beneficial for you."

"Thus far I have not been successful."

"When did you start meditating?"

"This morning."

Hugo's shoulders dropped and he snatched the bag of cakes from my grasp before I had taken one. "My God, how have you not mastered a new skill on the first try? I am ashamed of you, Phelan, so ashamed I will not share my cakes with you."

It was two sessions, but I didn't correct him, despite my growing frustration on the matter. "Apparently, one cannot fail at meditation."

"But you disagree?"

"It certainly didn't feel like success," I muttered.

Hugo held the open bag toward me. "Take one of the yellow ones," he said. "And then explain how meditation can feel successful."

I took a yellow tea cake from the bag and examined it briefly. "What's wrong with the yellow ones?" I asked.

"They're lemon," he said, making a sour face. "Cake should not come in lemon flavor. Now, back to meditation. Why are you under the impression you have failed?"

"Because I couldn't concentrate," I answered. "I couldn't stop thinking of…of everything."

"Of Erik, specifically?" Hugo questioned.

I couldn't look him in the eye. He knew me better than anyone else and quite possibly my own self. "I didn't want to stop thinking about him. Out of twenty minutes, I am certain I spent fifteen attempting to think of the present instead of the past."

"Then for five minutes you were able to allow the past to be the past?" When I nodded, Hugo smiled and offered me another cake, which I declined. "Five minutes certainly sounds like success to me."

"I struggled for fifteen–"

"And you found a way to achieve the goal set forth by…who was your instructor?"

"Bernard Montlaur."

Hugo blinked at me. "The boxer?"

I nodded, which somehow earned me a swat to the knee.

"What was that for?" I grumbled.

"You are maddening," Hugo groused.

"And you are an abusive wife."

"You know, Montlaur has a match tonight."

I nodded. "At the university. Seven-thirty. Do you wish to attend?"

A wide, uncontainable smile spread across Hugo's face. "Truly?" he asked. "Are you truly asking if I would like to attend Bernard Montlaur's match against Irish James? His first official boxing match in Paris in over twenty-seven months?"

"I am, however, I will first be listening to Val play at Sterois. If you would rather not–"

"An entire evening spent together?" Hugo asked, wriggling with excitement. "With my adoring wife, no less? And away from Dorothea? What time shall I be at your door?"

"Five-thirty?" I guessed.

"Splendid."

"You're able to get into the carriage yourself now?"

Hugo shifted his weight. "With a bit of effort and assistance, yes."

"You amaze me, my dear."

Hugo covered his mouth and giggled like a young woman flattered by her suitor. "I simply cannot wait for this evening."

oOo

Hugo and I rode around for a half hour before he had his driver stop in front of my building. Procrastinating a while longer, I crossed the street first, purchased a cup of coffee from the bakery, and sat for a while staring at nothing in particular.

The Danish children were tasked with cleaning the tables and the floor as it was nearly closing time when I arrived. They made a perfectly mopped square around my table and proceeded to whisper to one another while staring at me.

I was not fluent in Danish by any means, but I understood the amount of glares and mutters under breaths that they wanted me to finish my coffee and be on my way.

Eventually their mother shooed them into the back and apologized for her impatient children before she flipped the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed', signaling it was time for me to return home and grade the papers I had been avoiding.

The moment I crossed the street, Elizabeth came around the corner with a group of friends. She enthusiastically waved her arms the second she spotted me, like a puppy seeing its master, joyful at the prospect of a reunion.

"What are you doing, Uncle?" she asked when she trotted up.

"I will allow you one guess," I said, looking from her to my building, brows raised.

"May I visit with you? Only for a moment?" she pleaded.

"Where are your parents?"

"Mother is having lunch with friends and Father is at the barber," Elizabeth answered.

"What about your friends?"

"They're going to be dress shopping for at least an hour, right over there," Elizabeth said, pointing at the corner shop.

I inhaled. "You don't want to be with them?"

Elizabeth frowned at me. "We've been walking for hours," she complained. "Please, Uncle. Five minutes. Before my feet fall off."

I held the door open. "If your feet fall off, Elvira will eat them."

"She will not. Elvira loves me."

Elvira was mostly indifferent to Elizabeth. When Elizabeth had been much younger, Elvira would curiously look at the miniature human who never ceased speaking and attempt to imitate her words. Elizabeth, however, spoke far too fast for Elvira to truly pick up her speech, so the words came out as a series of indescernable vocalizations that sounded exactly like my niece.

"Hello, Elvira!" Elizabeth called out the moment the door opened.

Elvira screamed in response, a high-pitched sound that raised the hairs on my arms. It wasn't necessarily a bad reaction, but one that indicated excitement.

"You have four minutes remaining to rest your feet," I reminded Elizabeth.

Elizabeth flopped into the nearest chair and sighed. "You are the best uncle ever," she said.

"High praise considering I'm the only uncle you've met."

"You will always be my favorite uncle no matter what," Elizabeth said confidently.

I sat across from her and picked up my sketchbook.

"May I ask you something?" Elizabeth questioned. She didn't bother waiting for me to give permission. "Why is your right arm so much hairier than mine?"

"Because you're a girl and I'm not," I answered.

"It's like a beard, but on your arm. And not as thick. It's very wiry, like a terrier."

I made a face. "Perhaps during the full moon I turn into a werewolf."

"That would be quite impressive. I love dogs."

"Indeed."

"May I ask you something else?"

"Why am I under the impression you intend to ask for something quite expensive now that you've gotten your ridiculous question out of the way?"

Elizabeth gasped. "I am not asking for anything," she answered.

I grunted. "Truly?"

"Aside from seeing a play next weekend, which you needn't pay for tickets because Father already has season tickets, but he doesn't want to go because he says that particular theater has too many amateur actors and they're worse than children."

"I will consider it."

"If you don't want to go, I am asking Ori if he will go with me."

I lifted a brow and opened the sketchbook in my lap, dreading my inquiry. "Who is Ori?"

Elizabeth took a deep breath and proceeded to inform me of the most pertinent information in the mind of a girl her age. Ori had turned sixteen a few months back, his family was actually from Portugal, but his father was French and they owned a spaniel that was a champion hunter. His mother had hosted a tea party two weeks earlier, giving Carmen the opportunity to meet the family and possibly give her blessing for an engagement if the evening at the play went well enough where Ori found himself so swept up in romance that he intended to make Elizabeth his wife.

Ori had black hair, a mustache, spoke French, Portuguese and Spanish, had been all over the globe, including Finland–a detail that Elizabeth stressed for no reason in particular–and he had a wonderful sense of humor.

I was fairly certain she spoke for two minutes straight without taking a single breath.

"You are not marrying Ori," I said once she finished.

Elizabeth scoffed. "I will if you do not attend the play with me."

"You've become far too cunning, my darling girl," I said with a chuckle. "I do believe I liked you far better when you were fifteen and not obsessed with boys."

"Will you draw me?" she asked, changing the subject.

"I am," I answered. "Sit still."

Elizabeth sat up like a proper young lady, hand folded in her lap. "We all have our interests, Uncle," she said, attempting to sound as proper as she appeared. "Father has music and card games, Mother has her social events, you have art and I have Ori."

"What happened to the other boy you wished to marry the last time I saw you?"

"Which one?"

I scoffed. "Which one indeed. You mentioned three different boys. Lionel? The one who thought you looked like a stork."

Elizabeth made a face. "Richard," she said with disdain. "He's like last week's hat, old and forgotten, collecting dust in the wardrobe."

"You've considered marrying far too many boys, Elizabeth Elaine," I said.

"Mother says far too many women fancy you. What does that mean, Uncle?"

"I have no idea," I muttered.

"Does it mean you have women that would like you to propose to them? Like Mademoiselle Guin? Mother said she is like a dog in season. What season is a dog supposed to be in?"

I paused from my drawing, gaze pinned on the sketchbook resting on my knee as I had no desire to meet her eye. "That is not an appropriate discussion," I said, "and I will not say another word on the matter."

"I will have to ask the other girls what that means when I return to dress shopping," she said. "I would think most dogs prefer spring and autumn."

"That is not appropriate to discuss with your friends, either."

"If it's not appropriate, why would Mother say it?" Elizabeth asked.

I looked up at my niece and frowned, dismayed by the flippant way Carmen spoke in front of her daughter.

"People say a lot of things," I said, focusing on the page in front of me once more. "Sometimes I'm not certain if they know why they utter words that are untruthful or hurtful."

"I didn't mean to upset you," Elizabeth said quietly.

"You may change your mind in a moment," I said as I turned the drawing around to show her.

Elizabeth's eyes widened the moment she looked at the sketch. "Why are there so many cats?"

I smiled back at her. "Because you are unmarried and have acquired a number of feline companions."

"Uncle," Elizabeth huffed. "You are cursing my future."

"Nonsense. You're allergic to cats, thus this is simply a fantasy that you stay unwed until you are at least thirty-five."

Elizabeth flipped through the sketchbook and paused. "Is this…is this Uncle Erik?" she asked, holding the book out for me to see.

Despite my endless adoration for Elizabeth and my love for Erik, I had not thought of my brother as 'Uncle Erik' when it came to my niece. It was still jolting to hear her refer to my brother by such a title.

"That's Erik when he was three," I said. "Drawn from memory."

Elizabeth studied the image for a long moment, smiling to herself at first before her expression settled into a frown. "Is that really what he looked like?"

I nodded, waiting for her to speak truthfully as someone of her age was accustomed to doing.

He's hideous. He's deformed. What an awful looking child. How could you ever want him back?

Elizabeth ran her index finger along Erik's cheek and temple where the flesh had been the thinnest, stretched in webs of skin. Beneath his left eye had always appeared raw, like the start of a bruise. His ear had not fully formed, which seemed ironic for someone who understood and appreciated music like no other.

Despite the ruinous appearance. I had never shied away from touching my brother's face as I never wanted him to feel like he was damaged or different. I wanted him to feel that he was worthy of affection, that he was perfect to me in every way that mattered.

"You have the same eyes," Elizabeth commented fondly, smiling again. "And the same high cheekbones."

"As do you," I replied.

Her smile broadened. "You should draw him with a cat too. Or a dog. I bet he loves dogs." Elizabeth handed the sketchbook back to me. "What was he like as an infant?"

I inhaled. "Insatiable."

"Was I insatiable as well?"

"No, you were the most content infant ever to be born," I answered. "You with your eyes as big as the moon once you learned to open them, soaking in the world around you, perfectly content on a blanket. You were very curious from the moment you were born."

"And Uncle Erik?"

"He would cry endlessly unless he was held," I replied. "I fashioned a blanket like a sling and carried him around to keep him from screaming."

"Why was he unhappy?" Elizabeth asked.

I felt my brother emotionally crawling onto my back, hands locked at my throat, legs wrapped around my hips, the full weight of him returned.

The true answer was probably because he was hungry and I wasn't proficient at feeding a newborn. Erik was skin and bones when Alak took the two of us, his constant wailing weakened by hunger.

"He didn't want to be alone," I said instead.

The true answer was that I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to spend hour after hour in my room, unable to ask my mother for food because she rarely answered when I spoke to her. Bjorn was mostly absent from what I recalled and the woman with the cart and horse who fed and tended to me hadn't visited in what felt like a lifetime. I wanted to be wrapped in warm, comforting arms, my hair stroked when I fought sleep and forehead kissed when I was frightened. I wanted a full belly and a bedroom warmed by a fire with soft blankets piled on the bed. I wanted to be close to someone, to feel wanted, needed…loved.

I shuddered, still wanting all of it and more.

"Uncle Phelan?" Elizabeth questioned. "Have I upset you?"

I inhaled sharply, the full weight of the past upon me once more. It felt heavier than before, as if iron bars twisted around my ribs and spine to hold Erik in place.

"No, of course not," I answered. "I'm merely thinking of how much effort it takes to care for a newborn."

"What did you think the first time you held me?" Elizabeth asked.

I had told her hundreds of times in the past what it felt like to hold her for the first time, how I had known instantly how much I loved her. Regardless of how many times she asked, I always answered, fondly recalling the moment she had come into my life.

"You had no eyes," I said. "Your face was one tiny little round ball consisting of your nose and lips, but your eyes were squeezed shut. And you were an alarming shade of red, but the physician said that was normal. You didn't look like a person at all. You were squishy and had silky hair that covered the top of your head."

Elizabeth smiled back at me.

"And the second I had you in my arms, you tried to punch me in the jaw with your little fist," I continued. "The most feisty of creatures, to be sure."

She grinned, nose wrinkled.

"And then you grasped my finger, moved your little lips, and opened those tightly closed eyes and looked at me for the first time, not even an hour old."

I could have sworn that in that first moment, my newborn niece stared up at me with recognition in her storm gray eyes, as if she peered up at me and found a face she had seen in a different lifetime, perhaps many lifetimes. She didn't utter a sound, but for a long and peaceful moment, I felt my heart swell with an unexpected pulse of adoration. It had happened before, many long years before Elizabeth was born, when I'd held another infant, the first one I had ever seen.

"I was a good baby then?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"The most perfect newborn to ever exist."

Almost a year before Elizabeth was born, I had held Marco for the first time and he had screamed and protested well before Florine insisted on placing him into my arms. No amount of rocking, bouncing, swaying, or soft words would settle him, and the longer I held him, the more I recalled Erik crying and Bjorn's stoked anger.

I was certain that I could hide Erik from our father to keep him safe, and I had placed my newborn brother, swaddled in blankets, beneath the bed when I heard Bjorn return home late in the night. He immediately told me to 'keep that damned baby quiet or else', and when I had failed to console Erik, Bjorn had dragged me out from under the bed and struck me repeatedly as hard as he could.

Most likely it was under a minute, but the beating felt as though it lasted hours. I recalled screaming and kicking, biting at his hands like a feral beast until at last he walked out and slammed the door, leaving me shaking as I gathered up the blankets and rested my head on Erik's body, finding comfort in holding him to me. When he was in my arms or on my lap, it was the only time I felt close to anyone at all, an unsated craving that was at last curbed.

But Marco had found no comfort in my arms, and the longer he cried to be handed back to Florine, I heard the echo of Bjorn's voice: Keep that damned baby quiet or else. I was well aware that I had inherited my father's appearance and penchant to brawl. I had no desire to discover if Marco's cries would draw out another undesirable trait, one that had not existed when I was an innocent boy of three.

I swore Marco sensed that there was something brewing inside of me, an insatiable anger that could rear its terrible, malicious head at any moment. I refused to allow it out, to give the beast I had inherited a taste of the daylight. Perhaps he recognized me from a different lifetime as well, one in which we had been enemies.

"If you had a daughter, what would her name be?" Elizabeth asked suddenly.

"Elizabeth Elaine."

"But that's my name."

"Is there a law that I am unaware of that states you are the sole owner of the name?"

Elizabeth gave an exasperated sigh. "No, but it would be confusing."

I nodded in agreement. "Indeed. And when I said Elizabeth Elaine is my absolute favorite, I'd always be telling the truth."

"Uncle Phe," Elizabeth said sternly. "You are not amusing."

Despite her desire to be seen as an adult, she was still quite easily annoyed by my juvenile tactics employed for the sole purpose of my own amusement. And even though she desperately attempted to appear annoyed, she still smiled.

"Or you are lacking a sense of humor."

She rolled her eyes at me. "It's definitely your humor."

"Well, then I suppose you should not suffer a moment longer in my company. Have your feet recovered?" I asked.

"As much as they will in these terrible shoes," she answered. "Oh, the trials us ladies go through for the sake of fashion."

"If you are attempting to be fashionable for the sake of boys, I highly doubt any young man has fancied a girl exclusively over her shoes."

"I wear these shoes because all of the other girls wear the same ones."

"Well, then stop being like everyone else."

Elizabeth sighed as if I were the one being terribly ridiculous. "Then I shall be an outcast, unwed at thirty and surrounded by cats, just as you have predicted."

"With feet that don't ache. And eyes probably sealed shut from the cat fur, which come to think of it is probably why you are unwed."

"You are not amusing, but I still love you with my whole heart." Elizabeth flung her arms around me. "I have missed you, Uncle. Mother and Father will not believe I saw you today."

"Especially since you aren't supposed to be here," I said under my breath.

Elizabeth's lips parted in horror. "What does that mean? I am not supposed to visit you? Why not?"

"Because you shouldn't be sitting with your dull uncle when you have plenty of friends waiting for you," I answered, kissing her on the cheek.

Elizabeth pursed her lips and searched my face for the truth. "I wish you and Papa were friends," she said with a sigh. "I wish the two of you were not so different."

Elizabeth had become far too observant of our interactions, aware that Val and I had rarely seen eye-to-eye.

I offered a tight smile in return. "I wish for the same things," I answered. "And perhaps one day it will be so."

"And I wish you had children so that I had cousins because it's terribly boring being the only child."

"You do have a cousin," I said.

Marco's name was on the tip of my tongue.

"Two, yes, on Mother's side of the family. Francisco and Maria don't count," Elizabeth huffed. "They never visit and Mother and Father have never traveled to Spain for me to spend time with them."

"Well, then you have Elvira."

"Whom I adore even if she doesn't feel the same," Elizabeth replied. "Uncle, I will not tell Mother and Father I came up to visit you and rest my feet."

"I will not have you keeping secrets from your mother and father. If they ask, you should be honest and if there are repercussions I will take it up with your father."

"You needn't do that," she said. "I will tell them I saw you on the street, invited you to come for card games tomorrow night, and you promised you would stop by because you miss your most favorite niece."

"My cunning girl," I said with a shake of my head. "You were far more tolerable when you were fifteen, that is for certain."

oOo

Once Hugo's carriage pulled up in front of Sterois, I was more than a little grateful for his company. Immediately I spotted Val outside of the tavern, smoking with two other gentlemen, none of whom paid any mind to me or Hugo.

I helped Hugo out, pleased by how much easier the task had become for him, and together we approached the door.

"Phelan?" Val questioned, stamping out his cigarette as he walked over. "What are you doing here?"

I was somewhat surprised Elizabeth, who was not a master of keeping secrets, hadn't immediately told Val she had seen me earlier in the day.

"What do you think he's doing here?" Hugo chimed in. "Listening to the very best music all of Paris has to offer on a Saturday night, that's what."

Val looked quite pleased with the compliment. "My apologies, Monsieur, but I do not believe we have met."

I fully expected Hugo to announce that he was my wife and cleared my throat before he could speak.

"Val, this is my friend and mentor Hugo Duarte and Hugo, my cousin Val."

"We've met previously," Hugo said.

"I apologize, I don't remember–"

"I had two legs then," Hugo said, offering his hand. "And fewer gray hairs."

"What a pleasant surprise to see both of you," Val said politely.

I'd known Val long enough to decipher the subtle changes in his voice or demeanor to tell he was annoyed. Given that we had barely exchanged words, I suspected Elizabeth had told her father that she had come up to rest her feet in my apartment, but he was not yet ready to reveal the cards he kept close to his chest.

"You don't mind, do you?" I asked. "If we stay for an hour."

Val looked away from me briefly. "No, not at all. Why would I mind if you came to hear me play? That's ridiculous of you to say."

Hugo's eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything to Val. "Phelan, I will find us good seats while you two catch up."

I nodded in agreement, reluctant to spend a moment more with Val seeing that he had already decided that our conversation was not about to be civil.

"I can't remember the last time you came to hear me play," Val said, lighting another cigarette. He offered me one as well, but I declined as I didn't care for the taste or lingering smell.

"Elizabeth was not quite three," I said, fully expecting he would leap at the opportunity to ask why his daughter had been to my home when he had expressed that he didn't want me speaking to her alone.

Val took a drag from his cigarette and eyed me. He grunted, but didn't verbally reply.

"It was for your birthday," I continued. "Everyone sang to you, there was a cake, and after Elizabeth ran herself out of her sugar-induced excitement, she collapsed on my lap in the back, covered in frosting and crumbs."

I could still recall the scent of strawberries and sugar on her waves of hair and full cheeks, the way she smiled when she dreamed and occasionally woke due to the raucous laughter, looked up at me, and promptly fell back asleep, squeezing me tighter once she realized she was safe.

"I believe you fell asleep as well," Val said. "Bored to death, no doubt."

I stared at him briefly, unsure of what to say or how to react. Rather than speak to him in the same manner, I took a breath, held it, and exhaled, curbing my desire for verbal combat.

"How have I upset you, Val?" I asked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We've been speaking for two minutes and already I feel as though I have offended you."

His jaw twitched when he looked at me, and he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Phelan, what happened earlier–"

"That was my fault," I said before he finished.

Val shook his head. "For God's sake, let me finish. Please."

I took a step back and nodded, awaiting the verbal thrashing I knew would follow.

Val took another drag and held it, his eyes narrowed as he looked past me. "I should have respected your wishes and walked out of the studio when you asked," he said, smoke slowly drifting past his lips.

I felt the tightness in my core slowly loosen as I realized he spoke of my self-portrait and not Elizabeth coming up to my apartment earlier in the day.

"After much consideration, I realize that it was terribly rude of me to intrude upon a space that I may be somewhat private to you as an artist," Val continued. He shifted his weight and added, "Please do not take this as an insult because it isn't meant as one, but from what I have seen, your art has vastly improved in the last few years."

"That is kind of you to say."

"It's well deserved," Val said. "All of those hours you spent hunched over with a sketchbook in your lap has definitely paid off. I was quite impressed when I saw your work at the gallery–"

"You attended the show?"

"A hasty walk-through while on lunch," he admitted. "Not nearly long enough to appreciate everything fully, but you've come a long way from the little drawings on scraps of paper you used to do of Elizabeth and Carmen."

"They are two of my most favorite subjects."

"I would love to see more of your paintings," Val said. "The ones you are willing to share, that is. Although the one I saw on accident truly is a masterpiece, one you should be proud of displaying. It's so…raw, I suppose. Honest as well in ways I cannot fully describe. If you would choose to sell it…?"

I shook my head. "Not now," I replied. "Not yet, at least."

Not ever, I wanted to tell him. That part of me that was far too raw and painful would never be displayed in anyone's private residence or a museum or even an art gallery. Not for as long as I lived.

"If you should change your mind, I would write you a check immediately."

"You'll be first on my list," I replied.

Val took hold of my shoulder and gave an unexpected, firm squeeze. "I appreciate you coming tonight," he said. "It's been far too long. Perhaps after the show if you'd like to speak further…"

My heart stuttered. I had always stood in Val's shadow growing up, a position I had never dreaded as he was meant for such things and I was not. I had once looked up to him, to the confidence he possessed even when it wasn't warranted, to his eloquent words and fine penmanship when he wrote letters. I envied how people seemed to be drawn to him and the ease in conversation, how he had done nothing that was truly fascinating and yet kept his audience captivated.

As he hosted more gatherings, as his social circle grew and mine remained stagnant, the distance between us grew. He was charming, I was not. He was masterful at conversation, I preferred being alone. There was little ground for us to stand on together, and so we stood further and further apart.

"We have to leave at seven," I said. "But if you're playing Wednesday…"

The flash of disappointment in my cousin's eyes came as a relief. He wanted me to be there, to hear him play, to be part of the crowd. It was the first time in many years where I felt as though he considered me more than a burden.

"Wednesday it is," Val said.

"If I am not mistaken, it used to be Thursday, correct?"

Val scoffed. "Five years ago." He caught his tone too late and took a breath. "There were too many salon meetings on Thursdays, so we changed to Wednesdays for larger crowds. If you are available, I would love to see you in the crowd."

"I will do my best to attend."

"It's the day I take requests."

"Then I submit my request for Pretty Poppy."

Val gave me a strange look. "The folk song?"

"Indeed," I said before I turned and walked into the tavern, spotting Hugo toward the rear of the tavern at a candle-lit table. There were only a few tables filled, most likely due to the early hour of the evening, but everyone in attendance applauded when Val walked in and took his place on the piano bench.

"Play some good ones, Old Val!" a man across from us shouted.

"The good ones are my specialty," Val replied before he rolled up his sleeves and began playing a rousing melody to start the show.

Hugo leaned toward me halfway through the song and asked, "How did it go?"

"Well," I answered. "Very well, actually."

"Good," he said, smiling back at me.

Val played three songs, the crowd growing quite rapidly until nearly every seat was occupied. Waitresses filled drink orders and delivered food to the tables. As the crowd increased, so did the noise, with people clapping, stomping their feet and singing along.

"You all sound far better than me tonight," Val said between songs, which was met with cheers from the crowd.

Val had never been the strongest singer, but he was a decent musician and clearly enjoyed playing for the audience, all of whom responded well to his quips and knew when to shout along with my cousin.

He leaned back and grinned at the sea of people seated in front of him, his gaze briefly meeting mine. I could see why he drew such a sizable crowd in the middle of the week with his undeniable charisma, and as he brought out a woman from the crowd to sing with him, I found myself tapping my foot beneath the table.

"He's very good," Hugo said to me.

I nodded in agreement and sat back, enjoying the performance and company. The woman who had come up on stage fit his style perfectly and seemed to be quite popular with the crowd, and together the two of them electrified the crowd for another two songs.

Alak, Val and Erik had all shared a fondness and appreciation for music that went well beyond my ability or understanding. While I was perfectly content drawing at the dining room table, Alak would instruct Val and Erik at the upright piano on the other side of the small room that served as the parlor.

Val, being the oldest, typically played first, practicing whatever piece of music his father selected while Erik hovered over him, seated on his knees, body wriggling with anticipation of his turn to play. He was terribly impatient, looking over Val's shoulder, lips pursed as he hungrily read the music.

Val played beautifully, much to the delight of his father, but once he moved aside and Erik took his place, I stopped drawing and listened, hypnotized by my brother's ability to play the same melody as our cousin, but with more richness to the song as if his soul was rooted in the music.

Each note flowed through his fingers as he deftly played while sitting on his knees, tongue lodged on the inside of his cheek, head bobbing in time with the music. Because he wasn't tall enough to reach the pedals, Alak sat beside him and assisted, marveling at his young student's abilities while Val looked on, never saying much as Erik excelled with ease.

There was something quite gripping with the way Erik played. He had mastered playing within weeks of being placed in front of the instrument, his fingers always finding the correct keys. He could hear a song played once and have it memorized, not once consulting the sheet in front of him.

I marveled at his extraordinary abilities, at the God-given talent that no one would have expected from someone whose face was marred by horrific scars.

This is why he survived, I remembered thinking. Because he is truly a blessing, a gift to the world that would otherwise be dismissed.

The thought made me smile to myself. I recalled how sometimes Erik would end the song and begin playing something different that he made up while sitting on the bench and Alak would laugh at my brother's cleverness and rub his back, praising the student who was better than Alak and Val combined.

Being such a sensitive child, Erik would beam each time Alak said a kind word to him, soaking in the affection our uncle gave him.

"You are a genius," Alak told Erik. he looked to Val then and motioned his son closer. "And you are quite remarkable as well, my son. How proud you make me."

Due to my lack of interest in learning to play, Alak would palm my head, tell me my drawing was the best one yet, then teeter toward the kitchen and grab a bottle from the shelf. While Erik and Val played piano together, Alak would drink until he could no longer stay awake, eventually passing out in his chair while Val, Erik and I cared for ourselves until it was time to retreat to our beds for the night.

The clanking of glasses hitting one another in a toast roused me from my thoughts. Suddenly I became more aware of the tavern filled with the smell of beers, hard liquors, and cigarette smoke. The stage where Val sat became hazy, the plumes of smoke wafting together in clouds that curtained the room.

The smell of liquor turned my stomach and made it difficult to inhale deeply. As Val neared his first break, I was reminded of why it had been so long since I'd last seen him play: it was a tavern, and for the first twelve years of my life, I'd lived with two men who were madly in love with the bottle.

The stench of alcohol had been so constant in my youth that once I moved to Paris and Val and I were without an adult who drank day and night, I forgot the pungency and the feelings associated with the actions of both Bjorn and Alak, how one man had been belligerent and cruel and the other neglectful and distant.

It had taken a brawl on the street to remind me of both my father and uncle, and a man twice my age attempting to strangle me during a fight. The man had smelled so strongly of liquor that the odor turned my stomach, and hours later, when I finally limped home, my neck ringed in bruises and head pounding, I'd vomited twice outside of the flat where I lived with Val, the smell of the man's whiskey-soaked clothing still on my flesh and my own garments.

I'd clawed my way out of my filthy, blood-stained clothes and tossed them into the refuse, crawled into the tub, and scrubbed myself raw, dry-heaving until my flesh was scraped from the brush and I was nearly blinded by my own panic to be rid of the overwhelming stenched.

After I had cleaned out the tub, wrapped myself in a towel, and sat on the cold wooden floor until dawn, my insides filled with dread, my mind racing with images of Bjorn holding my arm over the fire and Alak pinning me down with the weight of his body.

"Phelan," Hugo said, grasping my right wrist.

His voice jarred me from my thoughts and I sat up straighter, inhaling through my mouth.

"Is it time to leave?" I hoarsely asked, blinking away the blur of the past.

"Not quite yet, but there's a very pretty woman who has been staring at you for ten minutes," he said. "It would be a shame to leave now, without speaking to her."

I followed his gaze across the tavern and spotted Abigail seated beside a man I'd never seen before, the two of them deep in some delightful conversation. I couldn't hear her laugh over the crowd, but I could see her amused by whatever her companion said.

She was dressed in green and white, a favorable combination for her skin tone, and as I dared to look her over, she glanced at me, smiled, and leaned closer to the man seated next to her.

"Do you know her?" Hugo loudly whispered.

"I do," I answered. "And there is no need to keep staring."

Hugo rapidly tapped me on the arm. "You should say something. I bet she would be quite pleased."

"Hugo, she is with someone." I stood, feeling unsteady. "And I need fresh air."

Hugo looked me over. "Are you unwell?"

"No, I'm not unwell, I'm…"

There were no words that described how I felt that I cared to share.

"Walk past her table," he excitedly suggested.

"That is a terrible suggestion and you are absolutely feral this evening," I grumbled.

I glanced across the tavern in time to see Abigail still engaged in conversation with her male companion. She smiled at me again, her green eyes dazzling despite the low light, and I briskly walked toward the door and out of the building where the streets were not nearly as dark as I had expected.

The music was muffled outside through the closed door, the smell of liquor almost non-existent. I leaned against the building and took a deep, shuddering breath, filling my lungs with fresh air.

How Val could tolerate the ales, beers, and dark liquor seeped into the floorboards and drenched into the fabric curtains was beyond me.

Because he was inconvenienced by Alak, I reminded myself. Not sat on or struck or blamed. He and Erik both had known a different version of the man who was supposed to raise the three of us.

I inhaled sharply and turned away from the building, walking several paces down from the tavern and toward the corner.

Of course Val wasn't affected by the smell surrounding him. In some ways, the sweet, smokey scent of whiskey probably brought back fond memories of his father telling long, meandering stories that distracted him from motion sickness while out to sea.

"Phelan!" Abigail shouted. "Phelan, wait!"

I turned to see her trotting toward me, skirts held up so she didn't trip over the fabric.

"I thought that was you," she panted once she caught up to me. "Are you leaving?"

"No, I merely needed a moment away from the commotion."

The pleasant smile I desired to see was replaced by a frown of concern. "You look…a little green," she said. "Are you unwell?"

"It's nothing," I answered dismissively.

Concern slowly turned into disappointment. "I suppose I'm glad to hear that it is nothing."

I looked away from her and stared across the street at the line of shops closed for the day. There was a salon for ladies, a cobbler, and a dentist who lived above his practice. Further down a store that sold dry goods and a small gallery that had opened in the fall.

"Are you enjoying the evening?" I asked.

Abigail forced a smile. "I am. The pianist is quite entertaining."

"I will relay your compliments to the performer."

"You know the musician?"

"Val is my cousin," I said.

Abigail blinked at me. "Ah, yes. 'Old Val' Kimmer. I should have known the two of you were related," she said.

I opened my mouth to speak, but had no reply that seemed interesting or suitable. Instead I looked across the street and shifted my weight.

Abigail stepped forward, her fingers grazing my right hand moments before I pressed my fingers into my left forearm.

"For safe-keeping," she whispered, her palm to mine.

Our hands folded together, gentle yet comforting, and suddenly I forgot what it was like to take a breath. I stood in silence beside her, staring at my fingers intertwined with hers.

"Your companion is probably worried about you," I said when I heard the music stop and the crowd applauded.

A spike of unexpected jealousy flitted through my thoughts at the very idea of Abigail with a male suitor for the evening. I had no claim to her, no proclamation that I would provide in any way or entertain the idea of courtship and yet I still found myself distressed by the idea of her out for the night with another man.

. "Your companion is probably worried as well considering how abruptly you exited."

"Hugo is an old friend. He will understand."

"And mine will understand as well," she answered. "He's probably bored to death in my company anyhow."

"The two of you seemed to be enjoying yourselves," I commented.

Abigail's thumb ran the length of mine. "We do enjoy speaking to each other on occasion," she admitted.

Another unbidden tremor of jealousy rattled through me and I briefly glanced at her, searching for something dangerously past the point of physical pleasure.

"He is fortunate to have you."

Abigail lifted a brow and chortled. "Have me?"

Immediately I regretted my words and started to pull away, mortified by the way my words were misconstrued. "I–I didn't mean in a crude sense."

Abigail's quick smile gave me pause. "I would certainly hope not. My companion is my brother, Howard."

"Your brother?" I exhaled a breath of relief.

"Yes, I told you he was visiting, didn't I?"

"Yes, of course," I lied, having no recollection of her telling me anything of the sort. "Forgive me, I am a bit unfocused this evening."

"Are you certain you're not unwell?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

Abigail looked me over, lips pursed.

"Actually…" I stared past her, inhaled slowly and held it briefly. At last I exhaled and shifted my weight. "My father and uncle were both…enamored with the bottle. It's not an illness, it's…it's a feeling, I suppose, a memory, a–"

"It's overwhelming," Abigail offered.

I blinked at her, finding the description quite fitting. Nodding once, I inhaled sharply.

"So you took the opportunity to clear your mind and I accosted you," she said lightly.

"There is no one else I would rather be accosted by than you," I replied.

Her hand remained in mine, her smile warm and gentle.

"Ah! There you are!"

The door slammed shut behind Val, which startled me as well as Abigail, who jumped back from me, releasing my hand.

"Forgive me for the interruption," Val said once he noticed Abigail.

"The talented musician can interrupt if he so desires," Abigail replied. "A pleasure hearing you play this evening."

Val appeared exceptionally pleased. "You are very kind, Mademoiselle…?"

"Madame Soward," she answered.

Val's lips parted. "The seamstress, yes? My wife spends half of my salary in your shop. What a pleasure to put a face to the name on the checks."

Abigail chuckled at my cousin's words. "Your business is very much appreciated, Monsieur Kimmer."

Val glanced at me before he regarded Abigail again. "I see you have met my cousin," he said. "Another customer?"

"He has been a frequent and loyal customer." Abigail offered a close-lipped smile in return. "But I consider your cousin more of a friend."

"Phelan is attending my show on Wednesday," Val said. "It would be an honor to see you in the audience as well."

"I appreciate the invitation, Monsieur Kimmer."

"Oh, and Phelan, Elizabeth said you would be coming by tomorrow evening," Val said. "I look forward to seeing you."

"You as well," I replied.

Val gave me one last nod before he turned to the woman waiting for him in the doorway, whom I recognized from the stage.

"I should return to my table," Abigail said once Val was gone. "You and your friend are more than welcome to sit with us."

I inhaled. "I'm afraid Hugo and I are leaving."

"So soon?"

"Boxing match at the university in twenty minutes."

Abigail eyed me. "You are leading quite the eventful life."

"Hardly," I answered, holding the door for her.

"A pleasure seeing you this evening, Phelan," Abigail said. "Enjoy the rest of your night."

We started to walk in different directions when I called her name and she turned.

"Would you be interested in cards tomorrow evening at Val's home?" I asked.

I had no idea what had made me feel so bold to extend such an invitation, but once the words were out of my mouth, I took a breath and held it, awaiting her reply.

Abigail's moss green eyes brightened. "I will consider your invitation."