I think there are about 10-15 chapters left of this story from what I have plotted out. :) I hope you've enjoyed that from Kire's stories Phelan came out (he was never supposed to be a character in the story for long) and then from Phelan came Bernard. And I really, really REALLY like writing Bernard alongside Phelan. I've already planned interactions between Erik and Bernard, so once this story is complete, it won't be the last of Montlaur.

Ch 50

The Bohemians greeted Celeste quite enthusiastically as she walked into the studio minutes before class started.

"Celeste! You are still here! Did you miss your train?" they teased.

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger and blushed as she explained the train was departing Thursday evening due to the unexpected snow storm.

"Then Thursday morning we shall give you a proper farewell," they assured her.

Celeste looked quizzically at them before she consulted me for an answer.

"Cake," I answered. "There shall be farewell cake. I have never known a group of people who consumed so much sugar as these eighteen individuals obsessed with sweets."

After several moments of students deciding what treats to bring for Thursday, I cleared my throat and stood, instructing everyone to take a seat and inventory their supplies as inevitably someone had neglected to bring brushes, pencils, or paints. I was quite certain that one day a student would walk in headless, having forgot to attach their brain to the rest of their body.

Ninety minutes later, my first year students had completed the underpaintings for self-portraits, all of which I had supervised as I walked through the studio, examining their work and answering questions.

"Tell us a story," they requested.

"Once upon a time there were eighteen first year students who asked their professor for a story. He could not think of one. The end."

They giggled at my lack of a story, collected their belongings, and filed out of the studio while I reminded them to grab their coats, hats and gloves before they stepped out into the unseasonably cold afternoon.

"You don't have to stay for the second class," I assured Celeste as she dutifully wiped down the stools.

"But what will I do instead?" Celeste fretted.

I opened my desk drawer and pulled out two of the museum passes I had to loan to students. "Here," I said as I handed them to her. "Take Bernard to the Louvre or d' Orsay," I suggested. "The passes are good at either museum."

She hugged the passes to her chest. "Bern will be thrilled beyond belief. Thank you, Professor!"

I highly doubted Bernard was capable of being thrilled beyond belief when it came to an enormous collection of art, but I was certain he would find the company favorable and enjoy an afternoon out of the hotel.

"I'll finish with the last stools and the empty easels before I leave," she offered.

I made no protest and began to arrange some of the paintings that had been left out to try onto the shelves in the back, allowing room for the next session of students who would fill the studio in an hour.

Celeste hummed to herself as she scrubbed droplets of paint from the stools, floor and easels. Humming turned into a whisper of a song and eventually her full voice.

"The theater patrons will miss hearing you sing on the steps," I said when she finished her song.

"There are quite a few performers," she said. "I doubt anyone would notice I am missing."

Her words saddened me that her leave, despite being a positive change for her, would go unnoticed. As far as I was concerned, the worst fate of all was disappearing with no one to remember the life of the missing. It was why I had continued to search for Erik, afraid that if I no longer thought of him it would be as if he had never been alive.

"Surely you must be familiar with some of the other individuals who play and sing before and after the shows," I said. "They will surely notice."

"Yes," she agreed. "Perhaps I should say my farewells to them. But I don't want to go into the theater district alone," she added swiftly. "There are certain people I would not like to see again."

"You will not be left unaccompanied," I assured her.

"I will miss the opera houses," Celeste said wistfully. "Especially the exterior of the Opera Populaire. It's such a regal building."

"Do you happen to know the other performer who plays outside of the Opera Populaire?" I asked suddenly.

"I'm not sure to whom you are referring," Celeste said as she took her rag to the sink and rinsed it out.

"The gentleman with the violin. Heavily cloaked," I said. "Possibly wearing a mask to hide his identity."

"The gentleman in a mask?" Celeste asked over her shoulder, eyes wide.

"Either a mask or black face paint."

Celeste thought for a moment. "No, it's a mask," she said quietly.

My heart stuttered. "Have you met him?" I asked.

Celeste wrung out the rag and carefully folded it. "I'm not sure," she said.

My brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but I don't quite understand what you mean."

Celeste pursed her lips and thought for a moment. "I've heard his voice," she answered. "But I'm not sure I can explain what happened. We never met face-to-face. Or should I say face to mask?"

"You've only seen him from a distance, I take it?"

"Yes, but he spoke to me." She took a deep breath and straightened her spine. "It was as though I could hear him, plain as day, right before me, but he was across the street."

"A magic trick?"

"Something of the sort."

"Meant to frighten you?"

"No, I don't believe it wasn't meant to be frightful," she said. "But it was still a bit unsettling."

"What did he say, if I may ask?"

Celeste giggled to herself. She did a full body wiggle, cleared her throat, and stood bolt upright. With a bob of her head, she proceeded to imitate a deep male voice. "Good evening, Mademoiselle. May the pockets of the patrons be deep tonight." She took another breath and resumed speaking in her natural voice. "Nothing terrible, but when a masked man speaks in your ear from clear across the street, it makes you shiver."

"I suppose it would be startling," I agreed.

"He has tipped his hat to me on several occasions, but typically he keeps his distance from everyone," Celeste said. "The mask…I don't believe he wants others to see the mask."

"Understandable as he seems to want to keep his identity a secret."

"A very good secret at that," Celeste agreed.

"He is an interesting fellow, to be sure."

"Quite," she agreed.

"He left his earnings behind the night I saw him," I said.

"Which you gave to me?" she asked.

I nodded. "I assume he must be a well compensated musician to abandon such a large sum of money."

"Or a madman."

I grunted. "I am certain he is a musician of great renown masquerading as an unknown street performer."

"Quite curious," Celeste replied.

"Quite curious indeed," I said, amused by her words. "He reminds me of…"

Truthfully he didn't remind me of anyone at all, but my brother's name was on the tip of my tongue, which I disliked. My brother most certainly didn't turn into a trickster frightening young girls with his voice-throwing antics suited for traveling fairs and other lesser forms of entertainment. He was a serious and accomplished musician of the utmost respect, one who would have acted accordingly.

"He reminds me of a former student," I lied. "If I may ask, how often do you see the masked violinist?"

"Not often. I've seen him perhaps a handful of times since I started singing on the steps," she guessed. "I call him the Mysterious Monsieur E."

My breath stilled. "What does E stand for?"

"Ebony," she answered. "Like the color of his mask and his cloak. He appears no different than night itself, roaming about as he does in the darkness."

My lips parted as the old gypsy woman's voice rasped through my thoughts. He roams the dark.

I swallowed. What if it's...

No. No, this was not Erik. I would have known from the moment I saw the violinist that he was my brother. I would have known him anywhere, sensing the bond we had enjoyed as children.

"If we should happen upon E again, I would like to tell him I am an admirer of his performances."

"I'm not certain where he comes from," Celeste said. "Most nights I see him, he simply appears on the steps, plays for a while, and then he vanishes like a ghost. He is quite the musical magician."

Her words put my mind at ease. Erik had never been one to sneak about. Everything about him was loud.

"There are two new shows that opened in the last week or so," I mentioned. "One is a ballet next to the Opera Populaire at The Jade Imperial Palace."

"Coppelia," Celeste blurted out. "I've seen it a million times."

I lifted a brow. "A million?"

"My parents were in it, so I was at the performances six days a week when it was in Austria for two months and another six weeks when it was in Munich," she said. "My mother played a minor role, but my father played Franz."

"Was it a million good performances or a million bad?"

"Good," she said. "However, I think my sense of humor has matured since the last time I saw it."

"That is quite unfortunate for you, however, thankfully my sense of humor is that of an adolescent. I believe I will attend and ask my niece to accompany me."

"Oh. I see. I thought…never mind what I thought."

I briefly met her eye, guessing she wished to be invited, but was too shy to ask outright. "Unless you would like to attend as well?"

"I don't want to impose if you are bringing your niece."

"I shall consult Elizabeth," I said, imagining my beloved niece would be overjoyed to have someone to speak to on every topic that was foreign to me but second-nature to girls thirteen to sixteen years of age.

"What about Bern?" Celeste asked.

Hell no I ain't attending no ballet, I could hear Bernard grumble in the back of my mind.

"The invitation is extended to Bernard as well if you think he would like to see a ballet. If you want to consult him, I shall purchase tickets tomorrow after class."

"Bern will love it!" Celeste exclaimed.

I couldn't imagine how difficult it would be for Bernard to feign interest in an afternoon at the art museum one day and an evening at the ballet the next. The thought, however, made me smile to myself. He was well on his way to becoming the most cultured boxer on earth, befriending an artist and sheltering a little songbird.

OoO

Shortly after my last class of the day exited the studio, I pulled out my sketchbook and proceeded to draw Erik by memory as I had done for over thirty years.

The light through the long windows on the second floor elongated the studio and warmed the space considerably, which usually meant my second year students had the windows open on sunny days to prevent all of us from boiling alive.

I appreciated the stream of air through the studio, the cool air on my face when I sat at my desk. Bathed in light, I stared at the blank page before me in the front of my sketchbook, the middle and last pages filled while the first twenty or so entries remained blank.

The full sunlight against the beige walls always reminded me of the beach and the water outside of Conforeit in Northern France and the empty stretch of sand where Erik desired to see from the first hint of dawn.

I hated the sand. From an early age I had disliked the texture against my skin and the way the granules remained between my toes and over every article of clothing. In the middle of the night I would feel sand against my scalp and the crease at the back of my knees and want to stand up and shake like a dog to remove it before the physical sensation threatened to drive me mad.

Erik, on the other hand, paid no heed to the smaller details and savored the freedom of being released like a little imp who resided in the woods. He liked to run across the flat expanse of space where the sand was firm and damp beneath his bare feet and the waves crept up, washing over his small feet. He loved to look across the water and toss rocks into the lap of waves, gleefully leaping up and down when he managed to skip a rock across the surface.

As much as I attempted to teach Erik how to throw the rocks so that they bounced against the surface several times, he refused to listen, preferring to hurtle them into the water in an arc that made them instantly sink. It didn't matter; we spent hours at the shoreline, selecting our rocks with great care as we splashed water on one another and hurtled clumps of seaweed and sand at each other.

Erik wanted to live there on the shoreline, he told me, in a little house overlooking the water, and he wanted me to live with him. Forever, he said, we would live together forever, just the two of us, throwing rocks into the sea.

I wondered if most children thought they would spend a lifetime with their siblings living together. The thought of marriage or female companionship had not crossed our minds. Seeing the constant physical fights and the harsh words exchanged between my own parents, I had not longed for sharing space with a woman, fearing all relationships of that nature were undesirable.

Not everyone is like that, I told myself as I advanced into my twenties and more acquaintances I knew settled into domestic lives. Husbands and wives do not scream at each other all evening. Decent men do not push their wives or strike them or their children out of drunken rage.

But still I didn't desire any form of commitment to another person, no vows of eternal affection or bond regardless of health or finances.

I started to draw Erik's portrait starting with the shape of his face and imagined the first conversation we would have together, him wanting to know every detail of my life starting with whether or not I was married.

No, I am not married. No, I am not courting anyone. No, I have never been in any sort of relationship despite being in my mid-thirties. Why? I suppose there was never an opportunity. What have I been doing all this time? I've been looking for you, Erik.

I imagined him staring back at me in horror, asking why I had not made the time for courtship and marriage, for children and the life of a family man. A normal, life, he would say. Why would you choose to be abnormal?

Surely I could have found opportunities to settle down, to be with a woman who would fill our home with joy and raise a family together. Surely I was not so preoccupied with searching for him that I neglected the rest of my life.

Yes, I would admit. Everything else fell to the wayside and I could imagine nothing else but finding you.

And then I imagined him staring at me, his eyes filled with grave concern before he said that he found me quite odd and my obsession off-putting. He was glad we had met. Perhaps we could see each other again. He would be sure to contact me. And then he would leave and I would be without him again.

The thought made me shiver. I had no idea what made my imaginary conversations with Erik often go awry. Perhaps I desired to brace myself for the worst possible outcome, for my need to see my brother again pinned against his indifference to me or outright concern that I was overwhelming and far too reliant on him.

Who would ever desire a union with someone like you? Someone so obsessed with the past? My God, you've spared some poor woman the heartache of being with a man who could never commit to her emotionally.

Even if Erik never said those words to me, even if it was not how he felt, it was the truth. If I didn't find my brother–and if he did not accept me–I would live out the rest of my days suspended within a state of endless grief.

"Phelan?"

Val's voice startled me, but after a long and miserable internal conversation, I was glad for his interruption.

"Val," I said, closing my sketchbook. I took a deep breath and turned away from him before I stood. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to ask if you'd…" he abruptly paused when I faced him, his expression immediately changing. "Your complexion is ashen. Are you unwell?"

"No, I am not under the weather."

"You turn bright red when you are ill. You appear more ashen when you are upset. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said swiftly, running my hand over my hair.

He continued to stare at me, evaluating my words. "Nothing?" he questioned.

"Nothing that needs to be addressed," I said.

Val crossed his arms. "Nothing that you feel comfortable sharing with me?"

I looked away from him. He sounded irritated with me, which was his most common reaction whenever we were together, and I had no desire to be questioned relentlessly.

"May I start over?" Val asked.

I blankly stared at him, fully expecting him to ask what in the hell was wrong with me.

He walked into the studio and closed the door behind him. "Phelan," he said. Pausing, he looked me over, and turned his head to the side. "You look as though you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Is there something you wish to discuss?"

My cynical thoughts threatened to dismiss Val's attempts at being a concerned older cousin.

"Your concern is appreciated, but not necessary."

Val did nothing to hide his disappointment. "Somewhere between our childhoods spent together and growing into adults, I lost your trust," he said. Or perhaps I should say I never had it."

I briefly looked at him before I turned my attention to the paintings along the wall, feeling like a mouse trapped in a closet with a cat blocking the only exit.

"I still remember the day my father brought you and Erik home," he said.

There was no fondness in his tone, no indication that my arrival into his life and into his home had been positive. He merely stated that he recalled the day Alak had carried Erik inside and me kicking and screaming behind him.

"Your arm was infected," Val continued. "I'd never seen anything like it before and it frightened me."

I had no recollection of the burn becoming infected. I remembered my arm being held over the fire, sinking my ruined flesh into the snow, and I knew that it hurt, but I had no memory of anything that followed.

"My apologies," I said under my breath.

Val walked the length of the studio and sat in the chair opposite mine without being invited.

"You were so combative," he said. "Beating against my father and screaming what I thought was utter nonsense."

"Danish," I said. The language my mother and father screamed at one another, the first words I'd learned being threats of violence, of beating the demons from my mother's troubled mind.

"Yes, I know. It took a few weeks for you to understand French."

"I understood you," I said. "I just…"

"You didn't trust me," Val said.

"I didn't trust anyone," I replied. "I wasn't exactly exposed to many people who were kind to me. Why would I expect two strangers to be different?"

Val's eyes were filled with more remorse than irritation. "I don't remember ever harming you," he said. "If I did, Phelan…if I did strike you in anger or raise my voice, I apologize for my actions."

"You held me down," I answered, feeling the swell of agitation.

Val's eyes widened. "When? Why?"

"When we first arrived. Alak had Erik and he wouldn't give him back to me. I thought your father would kill him and then murder me next, especially when he instructed you to restrain me and you did."

Val was quiet for a long moment. At last he nodded slowly, his gaze flitting back and forth. "I remember that. My father was worried that you would pull Erik from his grasp and Erik would end up falling on the floor and hitting his head."

I wanted to say that I would not have dropped my infant brother. I would have never allowed anything to happen to him, but despite wanting to keep Erik safe, ultimately I had put him in harms' way.

"Surely you didn't think my actions were malicious in nature?"

I glanced at Val. "I didn't know what to think. An unfamiliar man came into our home, Gyda began screaming and then the stranger tore Erik from my arms and proceeded to leave with him.

"He took you as well," Val said.

"I followed Alak out of the house. He didn't take me, Val, he merely couldn't stop me from following him."

"That was not how he told the story."

"You think I am completely mad or a liar?" I asked. "Or both?"

Val didn't reply immediately. "I think you were very young, frightened, and struggled to process the situation as it was happening and because of the stress you were under, your recollection is a bit different from what my father said happened."

"A very diplomatic way of saying I am incorrect."

"If you say that my father was prepared to leave you behind, I will find it very difficult to accept, but I will believe you."

"He was a drunk," I stated. "He was never in his right mind."

"No, he wasn't a drunk," Val argued. "He drank, perhaps a bit heavily at times, but my father was not a drunk."

"He drank every single day."

Val swallowed. "It wasn't every day," he said quietly.

"It took the two of you two hours to navigate what should have been a thirty minute walk back to the house, Val. He couldn't walk by himself. You had to carry him back because he could barely stand and then when you returned, he passed out and you made our supper."

"Yes, but…why do you say he was a drunk? He was never cruel to us."

"He was neglectful–"

"No, he was not."

"Why do you ask for my opinion if you already disagree with me?" I said, my voice raised in frustration.

Val looked away from me.

"What do you remember?" I asked, lowering my tone.

"I remember the day you and Erik arrived. You were both so emaciated, and Erik was so quiet. I thought he was simply a good baby, but I realized it was because he was hungry and didn't have the strength to cry," Val said. He looked at me and frowned. "Which was not your fault," he said quickly. "You were so young yourself. I am amazed you were able to keep him alive."

"Barely," I whispered.

"I remember having to hold you back while my father tended to Erik and thinking you were much stronger than you looked for being a walking skeleton."

The image in my head made me shiver. Food was not readily made available in Bjorn and Gyda's home, and the house was cold and barren. I remembered filling a bottle with goat's milk for Erik and taking several sips, feeling quite guilty as if I had stolen from an infant when I was nauseous from hunger.

"I was told to be very mindful of your arm because my father didn't want me to hurt you," Val told me. "The wound looked as though it went down to the bone."

My sleeve was down to my wrist, but I still glanced at my left forearm, remembering the blisters that had bubbled into the surface of my flesh and how grotesque the injury had appeared straight away.

"You must have been disgusted," I said quietly.

Val shook his head. "No, no I wasn't disgusted. I was stunned and heartbroken for you. If you and Erik had been left a few days longer, I believe both of you would have succumbed to starvation."

Perhaps it would have been for the best. Perhaps it would have been better to die together, Erik comforted in my embrace while we both closed our eyes for the last time.

"Phelan," Val pleaded. "You know how much I worry about you. Please, if there is anything I can do, tell me. I want to be there for you.."

"You've done far too much for me already."

"That isn't true."

I forced a smile. "You needn't worry about me, Val. We both survived."

He studied me for a long moment. "Phelan, I didn't come here today to start an argument or bring up the past. I came here because I heard you have sold more paintings and I wished to congratulate you on continued success."

"It will never cease to amaze me how swiftly news travels," I said.

"Monsieur De Gas–the elder, not the younger–came into the bank this morning and said you currently have more sales than his son. This is quite extraordinary."

"Not for long, I'm certain. Edgar is the draw to the gallery. Before the closing, I have no doubt all of his paintings will sell."

Val shook his head at me. "Would you accept the compliment rather than dismiss your accomplishment? You've sold two pieces of art, one I hear sold twice. You are doing well for yourself and quite frankly I don't know why you insist on degrading yourself. I am proud of you, Phelan. I wish you could be proud of yourself as well."

My lips parted, but I wasn't sure how to respond to Val. He had always been the person I aspired to be more like in all aspects of my own life. He was well-spoken, charming, quick to offer a witty retort, and at ease in a crowd. He would have truly flourished in the gallery, engaging in conversation and welcoming the crowd toward him with a single glance whereas I had felt completely out of my element.

"I truly appreciate your kind words," I said.

"Phelan, I know I have not been the most supportive of your art," Val admitted. "It wasn't because I doubted your ability. You have always been talented, but no matter how good you were, I worried you would not be able to make a decent living relying on others to see your God-given talents."

"And you didn't want to support me financially."

"No, money was never the issue. I would have done everything within my power to see you thrive, but I didn't want to see you reliant on me or anyone else. And because we both know you would not have asked for my help if it meant the difference between keeping your apartment or sleeping on a bench."

"I suppose not," I agreed.

At last Val smiled. "We should celebrate," he said. "Just the two of us. It's been a while since we've talked."

"Sunday?" I suggested. "It's the last day of the gallery show if you'd like to attend."

"That would be lovely. If you come by Sterois tomorrow, we can discuss," Val said as he started to stand.

"Actually, there is a ballet that opened," I said before he turned. "I will be attending tomorrow night with a friend of mine and his ward. Elizabeth is a few years older than Celeste, but perhaps you would allow Eliza to accompany us?"

I could tell Val was unprepared for my inquiry. He looked at me briefly and inhaled. "It's a school night," he said sternly as he grasped the back of the chair with both hands. "However, I suppose our Sunday game nights tend to run late and I've allowed Elizabeth to stay up and mingle with our guests since she turned fifteen." Val shifted his weight. "She was beside herself with glee that you allowed her to be on your team before I arrived."

"Eliza made the game all the more amusing."

"I don't doubt that. I suppose I should not be surprised you included her. You've always had a way of making her feel like she's the center of the universe."

I couldn't tell if Val was pleased or annoyed by the affection I bestowed upon my niece.

"I think she would enjoy seeing a ballet," Val said. He reached into his overcoat pocket and removed a clip with banknotes. Thumbing through the notes, he placed thirty francs on my desk. "For Elizabeth's ticket."

He started to turn, then paused. "May I ask what you were drawing before I interrupted?"

"Nothing yet," I answered. "Merely shapes."

Val looked at me with his eyes narrowed as if he searched for an untruth, but didn't argue or ask to see the sketchbook, which I wouldn't have shown him anyhow.

"The next great painting to be exhibited in a gallery," he said.

I smiled back at him, knowing that no matter how many times I drew my brother, I would never put a portrait of him on display for the world to dissect and critique. He would not be a spectacle. Of that I was quite certain.