Ch 160

With my assistance in the form of translation between the eager townsfolk and my brother, Phelan offered to draw five sketches the following afternoon, at the Keterhelm train station courtyard, from noon until two. He would draw names from a jar at eleven forty-five and begin promptly after the winners were selected.

The crowd was overjoyed, patting my brother on the back and praising his generosity with enthusiastic handshakes. Thank you, Artist, they said to him, grinning as they departed in different directions.

"You're certainly well-received," I said once we were no longer surrounded by two dozen people.

"Am I?"

"Quite clearly they are all enamored with you, the famous artist."

Phelan lifted a brow. "I don't believe a single one of them knows I have sold art all over the world."

"How are they familiar with you then, if not for all of the paintings you've sold and gallery shows?"

"Hilda," my brother answered.

"Hilda?"

"Naturally. She told one person that I drew portraits of her family, which led to her showing people, which led to them approaching me one at a time and now in large and impatient swarms typically a day or two after I arrive. They merely think of me as Hilda and Toke's grandson who knows how to hold a pencil and magically creates something on paper that resembles people. I'm absolutely certain they are far more impressed that I'm related to the Ostergaards than my name in an advertisement for a gallery show."

"Regardless, they're very impressed."

My brother smiled to himself, but proceeded to speak in his usual gruff tone. "It's completely unnecessary," he groused.

"Unnecessary?"

"Yes, their fanfare is a bit much. But of course I don't mind being told I am the greatest artist to ever live," he said, brushing off his sleeves.

"They tell you that?"

"I have no idea. Most of the time I cannot understand what they are saying, but in my mind that's precisely what they are repeating."

I shook my head as we walked into the hotel lobby, which was fairly crowded for a business that only had a handful of rooms, and made our way up the stairs and to our suites.

"Are you going to play for the people of Skyderhelm?" Phelan asked as I placed the bags of gifts onto my dresser. The second I placed the bag down, my brother picked it up and moved it further back.

"I haven't decided yet." I furrowed my brow. "Why did you move the bag?"

"It was too close to the edge. You do realize you are running out of opportunities to play before an audience that will adore you?"

"How was it too close to the edge?" I argued. "And there is no guarantee how the crowd will react."

Phelan rolled his eyes. "It was in danger of toppling forward and breaking everything you purchased. Are you honestly concerned that the rustic folk of a town with less than two hundred people will be disappointed in your music? That's absolute madness."

"It was fine the way it was. And it's not the music I worry about being well-received."

"Fine? No, it's better now, not simply fine. Why the reservation then, Kire?"

I lifted my mask and set it aside before wiping my face with my handkerchief. "Because I don't want to be the focal point of their attention."

"Well, you won't be the focal point," Phelan answered.

I turned my head to the side. "What will distract them? You?"

"I was going to suggest that while I create the sketches, you could play in the background. That way, while everyone sits around me in adoring fashion watching my every move, you'll be like a phonograph in the corner of the room."

I bristled at his words. "Phonograph indeed. Confounded contraptions."

Phelan chuckled to himself, satisfied by my response. "Quite honestly, I always wanted to hear you play while I drew," he said as he walked out of my suite and into his. "And I was rather hoping you would distract them from staring at me the entire time with your musical genius."

"You want me to distract them from you?" I skeptically questioned.

I moved the bag toward the edge of the dresser and it nearly toppled onto the floor. Thankfully I caught it before the contents clattered to the ground as my brother had warned, breaking the combs and bottle of perfume I had selected for Julia and Lisette.

"Is that not what I just said?" my brother grumbled. "Have you been speaking so much Danish that you've forgotten your French."

"You did, but I find it difficult to believe given your arrogance," I replied, exasperated by his quarrelsome nature.

"Arrogance? Arrogance indeed. Honestly, Kire, I dislike them hovering around me," my brother replied as I walked into his suite. "They're practically breathing down my neck the entire time."

"I would have thought you would feel the opposite way."

Lan turned to face me, a tray of cookies in hand. "Why?" he asked, holding the tray toward me. "Why would I desire a dozen strangers encroaching on my personal space?"

"Not the hovering part," I clarified. "But I thought you would desire the recognition. The famous artist and his younger brother, as you have said."

"Me?" he questioned, pointing at his chest.

"Yes, you." I took a bite of the cookie still warm from the oven and stifled a groan of pure pleasure. There were bits of dried cherries that added a tartness to the overall sweetness of sugar and chocolate. "I've lost count of how many times you've referred to me as your fortunate little musician brother."

"And are my words incorrect, Kire? Are you not fortunate to be related to me?"

I rolled my eyes. "Blessed beyond measure," I blandly responded.

"I wholeheartedly agree." Lan looked quite proud of himself as he clapped me on the back. "Now, I believe Monsieur Musician has a piano to tune."

oOo

The afternoon at the farm was spent preparing milk for deliveries in Keterhelm, Skyderhelm, and Onkerat, with a list of about sixty families receiving bottles of milk Thursday morning and more deliveries on Friday to the bakery, a cafe, and two separate restaurants with both milk and cheese.

The entire process of bottling, sorting, checking off a list, and invoicing was quite detailed, and as Toke gave instructions to me and my brother, I could scarcely believe he continued the full operation of the dairy with only his wife assisting.

"I have this covered, go and do whatever Hilda instructs," Lan assured me while Hilda stood in the doorway of the out kitchen and impatiently waited for me to return inside the house.

"Grandson," Hilda said, grinning up at me with her toothless smile. "You have tuned pianos previously?"

"I am knowledgeable," I answered.

She looked me up and down, then patted my arm. "Of course you are knowledgeable. You are my beloved Gyda's son, my musical one. Come with me, I will show you the piano."

I followed her down the short hall and into the first room on the left side that was empty aside from a chest of drawers, threadbare rug, upright piano, and bench.

Hilda drew back the curtains, bathing the room in light and swirls of dust moats. I looked around, noticing how the oval rug was faded where the slit in the curtains allowed light. The room appeared to have been emptied and sealed for quite some time, and I was certain it had once belonged to my mother and her sister or their younger brother.

I imagined a single bed shared by two sisters, the faded rug once vibrant, a rocking chair in the corner and yarn dolls resting against the pillows with a quilt that had been made by their mother. I imagined all of the comforts of a quiet farmhouse, the life I hoped my mother had known when she was a girl.

"May I?" I asked, gesturing toward the bench, realizing I'd been quiet for far too long.
"Of course, my dearest, of course."

Hilda stepped back as I seated myself and placed my fingers on the smooth, cool keys. Spine straight, I took a deep breath and remained still for a long moment, imagining those who had sat in the same spot, poised to play an instrument that had been forgotten.

I tapped middle C firmly several times and cringed at the sound it produced.

"How long has the piano been in here?" I asked over my shoulder.

"A very long time," she answered, clasping her hands.

"Who has tuned it in the past?" I asked.

Hilda frowned. "Your grandfather attempted," she answered, "but I am certain he made it worse because he doesn't know what he's doing."

I grunted, deciding not to tell her that I was not well-versed in tuning pianos either. In fact, the last one I had managed to tune took several days and an unfortunate amount of choice words before it was complete.

Hilda handed me a battered leather pouch containing a tuning hammer, screwdriver, cloth for dusting, and mutes.

I opened the cabinet and pursed my lips, thinking of the piano I'd found in a storage room behind the stage at the Opera House.

While most of the sets, costumes, and various odds and ends found themselves banished to the cellars, the piano was contained in a smaller room with many other cataloged items carefully stowed in labeled boxes on the shelves. I was certain at one point the room had been for rehearsals as the acoustics were lovely, but the space had been abandoned in favor of a larger room built onto the side of the theater, closer to the dormitories.

One side of the room housed wigs, makeup, and other items for the cast while the other side had violin pegs, strings for various instruments, drum heads, and cabinets filled with sheet music.

"Shall I step out?" Hilda asked as I wiped down the dusty keys.

"No, that isn't necessary," I answered, pushing my sleeves further up.

I thought about my first attempt at playing the forgotten Opera House piano. When I discovered it in the storage room, the piano unfortunately served as a table for old receipts. Several taps on the keys proved it was out of tune, and feeling quite sure of myself, I decided to try my hand at restoring the instrument to its former glory, certain it would be a simple task.

"You are a master," Hilda praised.

I grunted. "You are far too confident in me," I mumbled.

"I am your grandmother," she reminded me. "My Erik can do anything."

"You may have a different opinion in a half hour."

A half hour seemed like quite the lofty goal as it had taken me at least twelve hours over four nights to tune the piano at the Opera House. The first night, seemingly creating a disaster, I gave up and trudged back to my abode, frustrated that despite how easily music came to me, I could not for the life of me keep the notes from going flat no matter how I tightened or loosened the strings.

Once I had the cabinet open for my grandparents' old piano and peered inside–with Hilda looking over my shoulder no less–I felt the same overwhelming sensation that had gripped me long ago when I realized what the task entailed.

"Everyone in town would love to hear your play," she said. "My famous grandsons, the artist and the musician."

Her words were filled with pride.

"When I return to Paris, I shall tell everyone I've met the famous dairy farmers and cheese makers, Toke and Hilda Ostergaard."

Hilda squealed with delight. "All of the other grandmothers are jealous because they do not have talented grandchildren like me."

I smiled to myself. "Have you told them I intend to play?"

Hilda shrugged. "I may have mentioned you performed a private concert for your grandparents. People were very envious."

"I see."

"Do you have a piano at home?" Hilda asked as I tapped middle C with my left hand and identified which string needed tightening.

I shook my head. "I have two violins," I answered while continuing to play the same flat note. "I believe there is a grand piano in our summer home."
Behind the cabinet door, the piano was quite an intricate instrument. The amount of strings, pegs, and hammers was mind-boggling compared to a violin. I narrowed my eyes and concentrated on the note while gently turning the pin ever so slightly, fearing that with the distraction of Hilda beside me I was in danger of breaking something.

"Summer home? What is a summer home?" Hilda asked once I finished the first string.

"A separate residence in the countryside."

"That you only visit during the summer?" Hilda questioned.

"We could visit it whenever we desire," I answered. "But the countryside sounds most appealing in summer, I suppose."

"Who lives there when you are not visiting?"

"The staff remains all year."

"Hmmm, how strange," Hilda responded. "A summer house that has no family in the other seasons."

I fell silent for a moment, head turned to the right so that I could better hear the notes. I had read in a manual that it was often better to tune slightly above pitch in one motion, then slightly loosen. The conversation ended briefly while I continued through the octave, finding myself more comfortable with the process.

"Does everyone in Paris have a summer home?" Hilda asked.

"No, not everyone," I replied once the entire middle octave was in tune.

Hilda crossed her arms. "One home is enough for me," she stated.

"You could visit my family in either location," I offered. "If you and Toke desire to see Paris for yourself or wish to visit us elsewhere. You are always welcome."

"Who would tend to the farm? To the cows?" she wondered aloud.

"You know all of the families in Skyderhelm, Ketterhelm, and Onkerat," I pointed out. "Surely someone would be willing to work the farm for a week in the summer to allow you time away."

"Time away?" Hilda gasped as though it were the most alarming statement she'd ever heard in her life. "No, grandson, we cannot take time away from here."

"Why?" I asked, tuning the octaves to the temperament by ear. I continued striking the same keys over and over, feeling quite pleased as the notes became rich and full.

"We are farmers," Hilda said.

"You deserve to see more than a field and a kitchen," I said glancing at her. "Don't you?"

"This is my life. Why would I need more?"

I shrugged, feeling as though I'd been insatiable with my desires to see more than a cellar. "Would it not make you happy to see another part of the world?"

"The field and kitchen make me happy."

"What about seeing your great-grandchildren?" I asked as I sat upright to give my aching spine a moment of respite.

She paused and considered my words while I leaned forward and continued working on the piano, the higher treble section having three strings each needing careful attention.

"I would like to meet my great-grandson," Hilda stated.

"Great-grandsons," I corrected. "Marco, who is the oldest, and Alexandre who is the youngest. And of course your great-granddaughter, Lisette. If you visit next summer you will be able to meet the newest child as well."

Hilda reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder as I finished tuning and closed the cabinet. "My blessings," she said fondly. "My two grandsons were blessings enough, but to meet my great-grandchildren? There would be no greater joy."

I sat back and played a few notes, listening closely to make certain the piano was restored to its full glory. With a nod of approval, I twisted on the bench to face Hilda.

"Play your music," she insisted. "Please, for your grandmother, on the piano your mother learned music from her father."

I inhaled and sat up straighter, fingers poised against the keys and foot positioned above the pedals. The weight of emotion pressed down on me.

My mind wandered. There had been no connection in life between my mother and I, but still I waited in silence for some indication that she approved of my music or the place I took where she had once sat with her father–a seat I had never once considered taking.

Please, I silently pleaded, please give me a moment to show you…

My throat tightened. I wasn't certain what I wished to show my mother. I missed her; not the person she had been to me, but the person I had longed for her to be in my life, the gentle, feminine affection and maternal approval I'd not had, but desperately desired.

Instead of my own mother, I saw Madeline standing beside the piano, a young woman at the age of nineteen when we had first met, smiling at me in a way that had made my heart soar. I could see her gesturing for me to continue whether I was at the organ or standing with my violin in hand. She could listen to me play for hours, making up music on the spot as my hands attempted to keep up with my mind.

It wasn't always skillful or beautiful; there were plenty of moments Madeline would grimace as the notes became sour or ill-fitted and I would pause, replay the piece with greater care, and earn a nod and a smile for finding my way back to the music. Her approval back then had been more than enough to sustain me, like a breath of refreshing air.

I wondered if my own mother would have done the same as Madeline, if she would have been encouraging despite my faults, if she would have listened for more than a bar or two before she lost interest.

With my own mother in mind, I focused my gaze on the keys and tapped middle C several times, then played a few notes, unsure of what I desired to play on the newly tuned piano.

My eyes softly closed. I saw the old house where my brother and I had been born, my view of the rocking chair where my mother spent her days being the space between the floor and the cellar door, a crack only big enough to fit my fingers through. Desperately I had wanted to reach for her, but I feared being reprimanded harshly for my desires.

Ear to the top stare, I would watch her, listening to her hum and sing a jumble of words to herself while she fidgeted with whatever she grasped in her hands. I never knew what she held, whether it was a wooden figurine or beads. Whatever she rolled between her fingers and gently caressed while she sang in Danish was more cherished than the little boy silently watching her, longing to be seated on her lap.

The music seeped through me, a melody that I had written on a day of endless clouds and soft rain that beaded on the windows and obscured my view of the back garden.

I had no recollection of what had transpired, but Madeline had been upset with me that day and didn't bother to pay her usual visits upstairs to my bedroom, leaving me quite alone in a house that at the time didn't feel like my home.

I thought of my own mother, whose face I had started to forget, whose voice I could no longer hear in my thoughts, and I strang together note after note, an expression of the hopelessness and mourning I felt in my constant state of loneliness.

The house had been still, holding its breath in anticipation of the melody forming in my thoughts. Meg had been out for the afternoon with Charles at the very start of their courtship and Madeline had been visiting with some of her former ballet friends. Alex had not yet been in my care, and my days were bland and gray, painfully long and excruciating to survive.

Feeling more alone by the minute, I played the music meant for a piano on my violin, a melody to my mother, a requiem to a relationship that had never been. My heart ached with each note, my chest tight with despair. When the song ended, when the silence that followed echoed the emptiness I felt inside for the woman who had birthed me, I wept, releasing the sorrow that had nearly drowned me since childhood.

Hilda sat beside me and placed her hand on the middle of my back, caressing my spine. She tilted her head to the side, resting her temple against my shoulder.

Neither one of us spoke for a long moment. I sat very still, eyes closed, committing the feel of her hand against my spine to memory, the scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body pressed to me.

She was the embodiment of maternal affection, gentle and soft. How I had spent a lifetime craving such a connection.

I had no recollection of being comforted in such a manner when I was a child, no fond memory of an arm wrapped around me or hand entwined with mine. It was my greatest unfulfilled want, a desire that ran so deeply within me that I couldn't bear the thought of my grandmother moving away from me.

Her presence calmed me, the sweet and gentle presence of my grandmother. How swiftly the rest of the world faded away while I sat beside her, cherishing each wordless moment.

"I miss her," Hilda whispered at last. "My Gyda. She would be proud of you and your brother."

I tensed ever so slightly, but enough for Hilda to take notice. She paused, her hand resting flat against my back.

"You don't think your mother would be proud?"

"I don't know what she would think."

"Mmm. When I ask your brother about Gyda, he says nothing. When I speak of Gyda to you, I feel your sadness. Tell me, grandson, did you love your mother?"

I bowed my head, overcome with more emotion than I had expected.

"I wanted very much to love her," I said quietly. "She was not present for me to have the opportunity."

The silence briefly returned.

"We tried," Hilda said to me. "We tried to make her better. The physician removed the bad blood from her, the poison making her sick. The priest came and prayed over her, telling the demons to release our girl. We sought the assistance of our God and the older, forgotten ones, but nothing cured my daughter."

I shivered at my grandmother's words, thinking of the many times I had been called a devil, a demon, and the son of a dark entity. No one had attempted to cure me, and despite the cruelty of their words, I had not felt I was truly the monster they claimed. I wondered if the same were true for my mother, if she had felt helpless with blood spilled from her veins, if the chants of prayers and rituals made her feel worse instead of better.

I thought of the words I had uttered to Julia before she became my wife: I am not evil. I was hurt, inside and out, alone and miserable, wanting companionship and acceptance while knowing what happened every time I had attempted to reach out.

"Gyda should not have bore children," Hilda said.

I winced at her words. Many times I had felt like a mistake, like a terrible burden forced upon my parents. To hear my own grandmother share that sentiment devastated me.

"That is not to say I am not grateful for you and your brother, but she was not well enough for such responsibility," she added as if she knew my concerns. "I wish I could have been there to care for my daughter and her boys. I wish I could have been your grandmother, the one you and Phelan needed when you were younger, especially your brother. He carries much grief, it seems. Much responsibility."

I reached behind my back and squeezed my grandmother's frail, wrinkled hand.

"We are fortunate to know you now," I said.

"Because your brother is a strong-willed man and would not take 'no' for an answer."

"What happened when he first came to your farm?" I asked.

"Grandfather threatened to shoot him," Hilda answered.

"Why?"

Hilda sat up straighter and clasped her hands. "Your brother came onto our farm after dusk. Grandfather told him to leave because it was late, but your brother refused. They could not understand one another, but they yelled terribly for quite some time. Grandfather fetched his rifle, and your brother asked him…" She paused, turning her head toward the door where she briefly listened for footsteps. "He asked about Kong Toke. When he stepped closer and we had a better look at your brother, I thought for certain Grandfather would shoot him in the chest. He looked like–"

"Our father," I said before she finished speaking.

Hilda eyed me with great sadness. She solemnly nodded. "Yes, like the man who took my Gyda from Skyderhelm."

"Did our father live here?" I asked. "In the vicinity?"

She shook her head. "No, he did not live here."

"But he had family here."

Hilda gave me a strange look. "Not in Skyderhelm."

"In Onkerat," I replied. "A woman named Myrna–"

"No," she said sharply. "I do not know of a woman named Myrna."

"You said you knew everyone."

"I do not know of her."

I slowly nodded. "I see. Apologies."

Hilda patted my arm. "Now, what is my grandson going to practice so that he may play for the people of Skyderhelm?"

"I haven't decided yet on whether or not I will–"

"Practice," she said sternly. "Practice your music, my beloved. This piano has been sleeping in here for far too long. It need to be woken up with your song."

oOo

Phelan and I departed the farm earlier than we had previous days, deciding first to stop by the telegram booth to collect our correspondences before we returned to the hotel to relax until our meeting with Bodil.

"Should we invite her into our suite?" I asked as we walked briskly down the country road.

"So that she can scrutinize us? Or rob us blind?"

I furrowed my brow. "I doubt either will occur."

"Why would we invite her into our suites?"

"For privacy and comfort," I replied. "I thought we could order a meal and enjoy supper together."

Phelan glared at me. "You can invite her into your suite if you prefer. I will not be hosting this evening."

I decided against arguing with my brother as we were a distance from the town and I had no desire to bicker with him on our walk back with no escape from the conversation.

"Perhaps we should invite her to watch you sketch tomorrow?" I suggested. "As long as today goes well."

"Why on earth would she want to sit through two hours of watching me draw?"

"Because as we have established previously, you are a famous painter."

Phelan scoffed at my comment. "She doesn't know that."

I sighed, annoyed by his obstinance. "Mere hours ago, you told our sister you are a painter of great renown," I reminded him. "You could show her your celebrated skill."

"Sister indeed," he said under his breath. "Half-sister, if there is any relation at all."

I furrowed my brow. "How could you question our relation to her?"

"We met Bodil for five minutes. I'm hardly willing to claim her as family."

"She resembles you greatly," I pointed out. "Both in appearance and personality."

Lan looked terribly offended by my observation. "Personality?" he scoffed. "Clearly a jest on your part that has fallen flat."

"You have the same eyes," I said. "We all have the same height. Build–"

"Nonsense. Height, perhaps, but build?" He flexed his bicep. "She looks like…" He paused, clearing his throat.

"Our niece, actually," he answered at last. "Elizabeth has always been tall and thin, like a girl made out of sticks. But I imagine that tall and slender are not exclusive to our family."

"The woman with the cart. Myrna, you said? That is our grandmother, isn't it?"

Lan looked past me, his expression pensive. "It could be," he answered quietly. "I hope not."

"You seem to have fond recollections of this woman. Why would you not desire her to be family?"

"Because if she is truly our grandmother, then she raised two boys who became men I don't care for and who never cared for me either. I have always hoped she was a distant neighbor or something similar. If she is family, then…then she failed at being my grandmother."

Neither of us spoke until we reached the train station at which time I collected our telegrams while my brother seemed disinterested once he saw the lemonade stand was closed for the day. He chose to wait outside for me, saying over his shoulder he wished to enjoy the breeze and fresh air.

"I understand you are not interested in our father's side of the family–" I said once we reached our rooms.

"Are you interested?" Phelan snapped as he slammed the door shut behind him.

His tone caught me off-guard. Despite how frequently he sounded annoyed, I had come to realize it was his manner of speaking and not necessarily a reflection of how he felt. However, the way his expression hardened was precisely how he had looked the moment we had met in our cousin's courtyard months earlier, when he had stared at me with unwarranted malice.

Phelan caught himself too late and took a step back. With one hand on his hip, he ran his hand over his hair.

"Erik, I apologize for my temper. It's just that Bodil was not very pleasant," he said as he turned away. "One interaction was enough for me."

"How can you say that?"

"I am saying how I feel. Would you prefer that I lie to you?"

"You do realize you were slightly less abrasive toward Bodil today than you were toward me when we were introduced only months ago?"

Phelan's posture stiffened, but he remained silent and with his back toward me. From the corner of my eye I caught sight of his expression from the mirror on the wall in front of him and noted the remorse.

"Why?" I asked. "Why did you react so strongly when we were introduced?"

My brother was quiet for a long moment and I wasn't certain he would offer an explanation for his behavior.

He started to look over his shoulder, but reconsidered. "Because I knew immediately that I was mistaken," he said, his voice kept low.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Ever since you went missing, I imagined what it would be like when we saw one another again," he explained. "What I thought would happen and what transpired were two different things."

My lips parted despite having no real response prepared.

"I'm not blaming you," Phelan said before I could speak. He wiped his hand over his face and sniffed while I remained silent. "Once Val sent me word that he had met you, I was of course beyond elated. I wrote to him immediately and asked a hundred questions, none of which he bothered to answer. Instead he told me that he had given you the letters from Alak to help piece together the past. The contents of which, as you know, I was never mentioned."

I looked away, understanding bits and pieces of what he had said to me over the first few times we had seen one another, the anguish that he could not hide after decades of feeling responsible for my disappearance.

We were from the same place, but I had no recollection of him.

I was supposed to be dead, but he had taken it upon himself to keep me alive.

"I'd come into town the previous night, well before I had any intention of visiting with Val," he continued. "I stepped off the train, deposited my belongings at the hotel, and immediately visited a friend of mine."

Jean Moreau was the only friend he'd consistently mentioned, but I knew that was not whom Phelan spoke of as they were no longer on civil terms.

"An artist friend?" I guessed.

"Hugo is more than a mere artist friend. He's been my mentor…father…wife," he said, chuckling to himself.

"Wife?"

He smiled to himself. "A long standing and terrible jest between myself and Hugo. I've known him forever and our friendship is such that we may as well be an old married couple, bickering one moment while always having a deep understanding for one another.

"Hugo wasn't expecting me at the time, although I suppose no one was expecting me as I wasn't scheduled to attend the opening of my own show, but once I was seated in his parlor, he stayed awake until nearly dawn, indulging me as he typically does."

"You must have had a lot to say to him."

Phelan shrugged. "I always do, but in this instance I told him about you."

"Me?"

"Of course. He was quite pleased that we were finally meeting," Lan said. "Truly and sincerely elated that you had been found, after all the years I'd been searching, saw you, thought you were dead, and then suddenly caught word you were resurrected. He was the only person who believed we would meet again, even after the newspaper said you were deceased. God knows why, but he was an optimist."

My brother spoke with fondness that I was certain had less to do with me and more to do with his long-time friend. I was glad he had someone in his life that meant a great deal to him, someone with whom he had been able to speak to while we were apart.

"What did you tell him?" I asked.

Lan finally turned to face me. "I told him that I was overjoyed," he answered. "And completely overwhelmed. I told him that I had rehearsed what I would say to you over the duration of the train ride and that I had written down what I thought would happen when we were reunited. And after I shared my list with him, he ripped it up."

My mouth dropped open. "He what?"

Phelan grunted. "He told me that I was being ridiculous and overthinking far too many details and that I needed to simply allow the conversation to happen rather than forcing it in one direction or another."

I blinked at him, unsure of what to say.

"And then the following morning, with a mere two hours of sleep, I spotted you walking to Val's house," he said suddenly.

I stared at him. "Where?"

"You were outside of Dr. Khan's office, if I'm not mistaken, with your wife and your dog."

"Where were you?" I asked, my brow instantly furrowed, certain I had not taken notice of anyone observing me.

"Across the street with a coffee and a cigar one of my students gave me as a gift for my show opening."

I recalled he had smelled like pipe smoke when we had met, how the scent made me think more of my uncle and less of my father. I doubted he would have wanted to be compared to either.

"Why didn't you say something? Or walk across the street and introduce yourself?"

Lan ran his thumb down his stubbled chin. "Because you were preoccupied with your wife," he answered. "And I didn't want our first conversation in thirty years to be an interruption on the street."

"Where did you want the conversation to take place?" I asked.

"Somewhere private," he answered, shifting his weight. Absently he made his way through the suite and decided on the settee while I followed his lead and sat in the plush chair across from him. "Something like this, actually. Have you ever been inside The Gold Medallion?"

"The hotel?" I asked.

"Corner of LaSalle and Mon du Lac, by that new sculpture that looks like a horse with a broken neck."

"I've seen the outside," I answered. It was by no means the largest hotel in Paris, but the service and dining were second to none from what I'd overheard. Many dignitaries and people of great importance stayed at the hotel, from what I had heard, and before I saw that Christine would be staying at the Wisteria for her performance back in April, I had fully expected for her to be at The Gold Medallion in one of their legendary plush accommodations.

"Their Grand Suite is on the top floor, with an outstanding view of the city and the park. And your house, actually, I believe would be visible."

"That is where you wished to meet?" I asked.

"I was staying in the suite, quite possibly the nicest place I've ever spent a night in my entire life. There was a piano in the middle of the room with this enormous bouquet of flowers and curtains with gold tassels…I thought the sophistication would suit you," Phelan explained. "Quite frankly, I thought you would be impressed."

"Impressed by the piano?"

"By the luxury of it all," he said with a shrug. "I imagined you seated at the piano, playing something from one of your operas while I drew your portrait. But once I spotted you, I refused to approach you on the street unexpectedly and intended to speak to Val first."

"Why would you want to speak to him first?"

"Because I wanted to ask if he would give you the address and request that you pay a visit to my hotel the following morning. I watched you walk off, finished my coffee in silence, and started toward Val's house a moment later when I spotted Bessie first. She had stopped to smell something, you pulled her away, and I realized you were most likely heading to Val's, which ultimately ruined my plan. I should have turned around and went back to my hotel room, but I couldn't bear a moment more of not seeing you for myself. I hoped to catch up to you before you knocked on the door, but–."

"Joshua was outside," I commented.

Lan nodded. "In the courtyard, yes. I stood there for a moment, but neither of you noticed me. When I finally approached, you glanced up, but didn't speak."

"You said I was in your seat."

"I don't recall what I said."

"I do."

Phelan's jaw twitched. He gave a single nod in response. "I may not remember what I said, but I recall very clearly how you first looked up at me, the terror in your eyes when you saw Bjorn. That was when I knew for certain."

Gooseflesh rose along my arms as I, too, recalled the moment of panic that had rattled through me when I gazed up at the stranger who had approached.

Without warning I saw the face that had haunted me, a visage that had been a prominent part of nightmares that plagued me from childhood well into my adult years.

"I wasn't afraid," I lied, having no intention of telling him how truly startled I had felt in that moment.

"You were," my brother said. "Because you saw the man who had confined you to a cellar and starved and beat you for years. You saw the devil himself when you looked up at me and…and that was what I dreaded more than anything."

I looked away first, unable to bear the remorse in Phelan's eyes.

"Before I left Hugo's home, I said to him, 'What if he doesn't know me?' And that damnable old fool assured me that there would be recognition in your eyes, that it might take a moment or two, but you'd know who I was. And then you didn't."

Phelan's tone gave every indication that he was still disappointed and deeply saddened by how we had first met, that the situation was beyond his control.

"That is why you were angry with me?"

"I wasn't angry with you," he insisted.

"It certainly felt like you were angry with me. Or perhaps simply disappointed that I was not what you expected."

He looked at me suddenly, his hardened eyes and features softening. "Erik, I was angry at everything and everyone for longer than I care to admit," he said. "Bjorn, Alak, Hugo, myself…I suppose you in a way, for making me believe you were dead for another nine years."

"And then you stormed off," I said under my breath. "And thought for certain you despised me."

Phelan made a face. He straightened his back and looked toward the door, and for a half moment I thought he might walk out to collect himself rather than continue the conversation.

"Yes, I did storm off," he admitted.

"Why?"

"Because I was embarrassed," Phelan answered. "Completely mortified when I realized no matter where we were introduced, I had no control over the situation. You would see Bjorn, not me as you had no idea I existed. It didn't matter if we were in an expensive hotel room or the corner of the street. You were the person I had dreamed of seeing again while to you I was a reminder of hell.

"It was devastating, Kire, and after I'd sufficiently destroyed all possibilities of any desirable reunion, I convinced myself that I'd wasted thirty years wanting someone back that knew nothing of me. What was possibly left for me to do besides thoroughly burn the only bridge I'd ever wanted to walk across because it no longer felt like my bridge?"

I shuddered at his words and thought of the last scene performed of my first opera, the climactic moment when Christine would at last discover her true feelings for me. For months I had envisioned the look on her face when she realized we were fated lovers, the Angel of Music and his beloved prodigy.

The adoration I had painted was marred by her visage twisted in apathy. How swiftly the fairytale had unraveled, my hopes turned to dust before an audience of several hundred people looking on in stunned horror.

"I know how you felt–"

"No, you don't," Phelan argued.

"I do," I insisted. "You were there, Lan, you saw it alongside hundreds of other people the precise moment I realized Christine saw me as nothing more than a monster and there was no changing her mind."

Phelan frowned at me. "She was mistaken."

I studied him for a long moment. "Was it worth it?" I whispered. "All of those years spent wanting to find me?"

Phelan visibly swallowed. "If the brief time I spoke to you in the courtyard was all that we had, it would have been worth it."

"Would it?"

He looked away, then met my eye again. "Yes, because I realized you no longer needed me to look after you. Somehow you had managed to grow into a successful composer with a wife and a dog and I knew from what Val said that you had children and were content. I would have still longed for more, but seeing you were well with my own eyes was enough for me."

My brother had no idea that I had walked Julia to Dr. Khan's office following my wife's miscarriage or that we had postponed our honeymoon due to the loss of our child. Where he saw happiness there was still sadness and suffering.

"Where did you go?" I asked. "After you left our cousin's home?"

Lan thought for a moment, his gaze still averted. "I stopped at the bakery to see Elizabeth first as she tends to lighten my mood and then I went back to Hugo's home to tell him how our grand reunion had turned into a disaster."

"Because of me?"

"Because of you?" Phelan groused. "No, because of me. Hugo wholeheartedly–and quite enthusiastically–laid the full blame on me. And then because I didn't learn the first time around, I did the same damned thing when you and Julia came to supper. And then again at the art gallery when you lost Bessie. Every moment was out of my control."

I didn't want to consider the first few times we had met one another, the unnecessary tension that had lingered between us.

"I didn't lose Bessie," I argued, knowing full well it was an unnecessary point to argue.

Phelan briefly closed his eyes. "Misplaced, then? She followed me for twenty minutes while you searched for her."

"It was not even five minutes."

"Believe what you will," he said under his breath.

"We would have gotten on straight away if I'd known you are simply disagreeable for the sake of being disagreeable. A trait we undoubtedly share, brother."

Lan looked at me again, arms folded over his chest and eyes filled with bewilderment. "Why did you give me another chance?"

I started to shrug, but he shook his head. "No, honestly why did you do it? After I continued to be a belligerent bastard toward you the first three or four encounters, how could you have possibly wanted to see me again? For God's sake, if I were you, once would have been enough."

"Same as with Bodil?"

Phelan exhaled. "I walked into that inquiry," he said under his breath.

I didn't want to tell him it was how I was accustomed to being addressed by others, that malice was expected and a cordial greeting foreign. I knew little else save for rejection.

"I wanted a family," I answered. "And despite how we had first met, I still wanted to know you, or at least try."

"You'd already been introduced to Val and I've been told on more than one occasion that he is slightly more cordial than me."

"A barely discernible amount of politeness," I dryly retorted, hoping to lighten the mood.

"You are far more forgiving than I would have been," he said. "If I were you, I would have told you to go to hell."

I shrugged. "I'd already been there," I said under my breath. "And I had no desire to return."

In hindsight I realized Phelan's reaction was the product of agony he had kept to himself since he was a boy of seven, the responsibility and blame he had placed unfairly on himself.

"And besides you are Phelan Kimmer, renowned painter. How could I not want to know you and officially be named your little brother, struggling composer that I am?"

My brother offered a close-lipped smile at last. "I am indebted to you for your forgiveness, Kire."

"If I may ask, do you intend to treat our sister in a similar fashion?"

Lan sighed to himself and looked away without answering.

"I will meet Bodil in the lobby if you don't wish to see her again," I offered.

"No, if you intend to speak with her, I will be in attendance."

"Then you must swear to me you will be civil," I replied. "I have no desire to sit between the two of you and listen to bickering for the duration of the time we have together. If this is our only chance of knowing her, it will not be wasted."

"Erik–"

"Lan," I warned. "Give me your word."

He failed to meet my eye, but nodded reluctantly. "You have my word, Kire."

oooooooooo

Hugo appears in the story "Celeste" FYI