Ch 28

The room I occupied in Jean's home was blissfully dark, cool, and quiet, which proved to be the ideal space for restful sleep. I doubted there was a bed in all of Paris that was as comfortable as the one in Jean's home–and I had spent the night in my fair share of beds throughout the city to have a general idea of comfort.

After a late night spent deep in conversation with my host, I woke at seven in the morning, refreshed and with my head thankfully no longer throbbing.

Absently I ran my hand over the cool, silk pillowcase. Jean certainly enjoyed luxury and spared no expense when it came to furnishings. All of his linens were imported from Egypt and perfumed with special blends of spices and oils out of a perfumery in Southern France. The four-poster bed, hand-crafted in Italy, had a canopy with sheer curtains for the summer months and more insulating fabric when it was colder. The tiled fireplace had been commissioned from masons in Morocco, and the plush rug made of wool from flocks of sheep residing in Scotland. Everything within the room was most likely valued at twice my yearly salary, if not more, and it felt like a privilege.

Silk pillows aside, the room's dark paneling and heavy curtains prevented light from entering the room, making it into a wondrous cave for sleeping past sunrise.

"I would have made a good troll, residing in caves," I mumbled to myself as I stretched out in bed, palms pressed to the headboard.

"You're too good-looking to be a troll," Jean replied.

He scared the living daylights out of me and I cursed under my breath.

"My God, have you been here all night?" I asked as I sat upright, still dressed in my attire from the previous night.

"Most of the night, yes," Jean answered. "I left for about an hour, but couldn't fall asleep, so I returned and brought you coffee." He stood, drew back the heavy curtains, and handed me a steaming hot cup of black coffee. "Dark as your desires, just as you prefer."

After the first glorious sip, I felt myself start to relax one more. There was nothing that quite compared to a hot cup of plain black coffee to start my day.

"The troll approves," I said, raising my cup.

Jean grunted. "At the risk of sounding terribly sentimental, I've missed having you here, Phelan. Last night reminded me of how enjoyable it used to be when you took up residence in this room."

I inhaled and looked around at the bedroom that had remained unchanged since I had lived with Jean. The familiarity was comforting, as were the amenities of meals cooked and bedding changed twice a week once the perfume became less noticeable. Of course, I had particular ways that I liked chores done, but having three meals a day cooked and served wherever I pleased had been greatly appreciated as making my own meals was a task I had never enjoyed.

"I might permanently return if you bring me coffee and toast in bed," I said lightly.

Jean gazed around the bedroom. "Every single day I become more convinced that this house is much too large for me," he said. "It needs more feminine touches. And children as well, I think. Or I need to sell the damned place and move into a much smaller home that suits me better." He met my eye again. "Of course, it isn't officially mine until I turn forty. I suppose that's the age my grandparents decided to give up on me being a husband and father."

He ha been saying the same thing for years, but I sincerely doubted he would ever part with his estate.

"You do realize you could have multiple wives living in different wings, none of whom would ever see the other, don't you? Imagine how thrilled your mother would be if she became a grandmother three times in the same year. Jean Junior, Jean Junior the second, and Jean Junior the third."

"Three newborns at the same time? My God, the screaming alone would drive me mad." He folded his hands and sat back. "How are things with you and Celeste?"

I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"My God, you've been with so many women you're forgetting their names."

"I know her name," I defensively replied. "There is no 'thing' between us."

"No?"

I shook my head. Jean should have known by now there never was anything between me and the women I entertained, nothing more than fleeting moments.

Jean grunted. "Well, then, you know…" he said, drawing out the second word in a way that instantly made me suspicious.

"No," I responded.

He turned his head to the side. "I haven't even finished speaking."

"And yet I know what you would say."

Jean frowned at me. "You don't want to know any details about my cousin?"

"Your cousin? God, no."

"She's in town next weekend," he said, making a valiant effort to pique my interest. "I was going to introduce the two of you."

"If that's the case then perhaps I will leave the city entirely."

"She's nice," he said.

"All the more reason for you to keep her far from me."

"She will change your life."

"That sounds like a threat."

"On the contrary. You could use a nice woman in your life."

"A nice woman has no use for me."

He snorted. "You are far too pessimistic, you know that, don't you?"

I raised a brow. "Realistic, not pessimistic."

Jean sighed. "If you were willing to give her a chance, I have no doubt you'd like her and she would like you. Perhaps rather than jumping from bed to bed like you have a habit of doing, you'd find someone worth staying with permanently."

I scoffed at his statement. "Jean–"

"I've told Daphne all about you," he said before I could finish.

I winced at his words. "Why would you do that?"

"Because you're my best friend and a brother to me and Daphne was my best friend as a child and…through the years, despite living in different parts of the country, we've always been close."

"I don't recall you mentioning her previously."

He shrugged. "We haven't seen one another in many years, honestly, but we grew up together in the same chateau after her father passed away from a long illness when she was fourteen." He smiled wistfully to himself. "Daphne and her mother moving in with us was truly one of the best things that ever happened to me."

"Was her father your uncle on your mother or father's side?"

"Neither," he answered. "Daphne is not technically related to me by blood, but she's still family."

"If you are not blood related, but are fond of her–"

Jean shook his head, frowning. "It wouldn't be appropriate given the manner in which we were raised," he bitterly answered. "Please, Phelan, at least allow me to introduce you to her."

"I will think about it."

"You know the best part? Daphne would persuade you into attending my parties and the three of us could play cards and drink until dawn. I'm certain she will tell you endless, embarrassing stories about me when I was young and foolish."

"As opposed to older and foolish?"

He smirked at me. "If marriage means I would see the two of you more frequently, I would give my blessing right this moment."

"Your blessing indeed. I said I would entertain the notion of being introduced and nothing further."

"You promise me you will consider my offer?"

"Consider, yes, agree, not likely," I said before I downed the rest of my coffee and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. "I need to return home and take care of Elvira before class."

Jean made no attempt to hide his disappointment. "Well, then, I suppose I have a week to convince you to meet my dear cousin."

oOo

I managed to spend a half an hour at home before I jogged to the university, spitting out chunks of an apple that had gone bad.

My shoulders and neck ached from the incident with the pugilist, but I felt otherwise fine until I walked into my classroom and found it empty.

The Bohemians had been early to class every single day of the school year, and as I turned to walk out into the hall in search of them, the dean greeted me with a look of annoyance on his visage.

"Good morning, Monsieur le Behr," I acknowledged, finding it odd that he knew where the art wing was located at the university.

"Come to my office," he said tightly.
"I'll be there in two hours. I have class in fifteen minutes."

"Your class has been canceled."

I blinked at him. "I beg your pardon? Who canceled my class? And why?"

"By me," he answered, turning on his heel. "To my office at once. I will not ask again."

I scoffed as he stormed through the hall and down the staircase, passing Ink on his way to the first floor.

"Class is canceled," le Behr snapped at my bewildered student.

"Monsieur Kimmer?" Ink questioned as I followed the dean. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. Tell everyone I'll be in class in thirty minutes."

I followed the dean to his office where he slammed the door shut behind me, causing me to jump. He briskly took a seat at his desk and gestured for me to do the same with the chair across from his.

"I sense that you are displeased," I said, attempting to sound observant rather than sarcastic.

"How was your weekend?" he questioned.

"I suppose it was fine," I warily said.

"Fine?"

I stared at him. "I had an art show open…"

"An art show?"

"Yes, at–"

"Is that the only thing that happened this weekend?" he impatiently questioned.

"No, it was not."

He leaned forward. "Would you care to tell me what else happened?"

Immediately I felt my skin prickle. I looked around the windowless room with its undecorated walls. It felt as though the room became smaller and more suffocating with each passing moment.

"I'm not certain what you want me to say."

"Are you daft?" he snapped.

My lips parted, but I had no reply. Other than Val, it had been quite some time since anyone had addressed me in such a manner.

In the six years I had been employed as an art professor, not once had I been called into the dean's office for anything other than discussing the annual art show or something related to the curriculum. Our conversations had always been dull. This felt inherently dangerous, like a conversation that would have taken place with Bjorn if he were still living.

"May I ask why you have canceled my class and called me into your office?"

"You don't know the reason?"

"I have no idea."

"Redamacker," he said through his teeth.

My breath hitched, but I made my best attempt at remaining passive. "What about him?"

"You know damn well," la Behr seethed. "Attempted murder charges for a professor at my university."

"There are no charges," I said firmly.

"Are you certain?"

I wasn't, but I still nodded. According to Jean the incident had been smoothed over, but I realized the information I had been given was second-hand.

"And brawling with a prizefighter on university property?" the dean continued. "My God, you had an eventful weekend. I'm surprised you had the energy to show up this morning."

"There was no brawl. Montlaur struck me from behind. If anything, it was an attack."

The dean angrily waved his hands in the air. "Two incidents! In one weekend! By one professor. Do you realize how bad this looks for my school? You are a damnable disgrace, unfit for the position you were given three years ago."

"I've been here six years," I said. "I've never missed a single day of class, nor have I done anything that would misrepresent the university or my students."

Le Behr's jaw twitched. "And Daniel Lincoln," he coldly said through his teeth.

"What about him?"

La Behr narrowed his eyes. "How would you describe him?"

"First year foreign student out of America," I said. "Multiple tardies, frequently forgets his supplies, but an excellent artist."

"He was recently jailed."

I nodded. "He was."

"And you brought him back to your apartment."

"Which was within my rights and his."

"For what purpose?"

"To tend to the injuries sustained after an altercation."

"Are you aware he's a homosexual?"

I lifted my chin, refusing to lower my gaze. "I don't discuss personal matters with my students. I find it highly inappropriate."

The dean grunted. "I suppose the one positive point you can make is that you don't go about bragging to your students about your affairs."

His words caught me off-guard and I looked away, uncertain of how to respond. We had so few conversations that I was alarmed by how much the dean knew of my private life.

"How many students have become your conquests?"

"None," I answered, my pulse quickening. "And quite frankly your accusations are uncalled for, la Behr."

"Are they?" he challenged me. "You seem to have quite the colorful lifestyle, though I suppose for a part-time artist, that is to be expected."

Heat rose up the back of my neck. "You had better mind your words."

"I'm not the one whose position is in jeopardy."

"Am I being dismissed?" I asked hoarsely.

The question left me feeling light-headed, like I was falling backward off the side of a cliff. My heart began to race and I swallowed, fearing his answer.

It wasn't much financially, but I enjoyed my employment as a professor and days revolving around creating and discussing art. Slowly I sat back and rested my hands on my knees, attempting to appear passive and obedient when deep inside I wanted nothing more than to wrap my hands around la Behr's throat and squeeze the life from him in retribution for his accusations.

"Do you believe you deserve to keep your employment?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation.

"Do you really?"

"Daniel Lincoln is a foreign student who was beaten on the street and left to languish over the weekend in a jail cell without medical attention or a chance to post bail. Montlaur attacked me from behind, giving me no opportunity to defend myself," I stated. "And Edmund Redamacker was soliciting a child to keep his bed warm and deserved a hell of a lot worse than what I did Friday night.

"If the university would rather see an enrolled student rot in a jail cell rather than have a professor post his bail, then I would reconsider my position," I continued. "And if the dean of students would defend a man who would prey upon a child, then I resign."

It was the dean's turn to stare wide-eyed back at me. His lips parted, but he didn't immediately speak.

"Make your choice," I growled. "I'll have my studio cleared within the hour and let everyone know that the dean doesn't give a damn about the well-being of an American attending his university, yet he fully supports a man who would take a child to his…." I shook my head and started to stand. "I'd rather retch on your desk than finish my words."

"I don't need to hear another word from you, Kimmer. You're suspended through Wednesday. You may not occupy any portion of university property for the duration of your suspension."

I stood with my back to him. "And if I don't return Thursday?"

"Then Monsieur Raitt will assume your position and finish the school year with your students."

I grunted. "Good luck to Monsieur Raitt taking on four additional classes," I said under my breath.

"Oh, and Monsieur Kimmer, I am denying entrance for Marco Fabienne," he said before I walked out of his office.

My lips parted, and I inhaled sharply. I could already imagine Florine's wrath directed at me once the letter arrived denying her son a place at the university in the fall.

"Why?" I asked, my mind reeling. "Why would you do that?"

"Because I owe you no favors. Now get out of my building."

OoO

I was livid as I walked out of the university, every muscle in my body thrumming with malice and a need for destruction. As incensed as the dean had left me, I was at least glad that I hadn't given a verbal resignation and slammed the door behind me– or, given my reputation, a hell of a lot worse.

"Call me daft," I grumbled. "You stupid little fu–"

"Kimmer!"

I startled at the sound of my voice being called by multiple people. Looking up, I saw my entire class standing at the bottom of the university steps.

"Class is canceled."

"What are we going to do?"

"Do whatever you like."

They frowned at me. "May we walk with you?"

"No," I snapped. "And why would you want to when you have an entire day at your disposal?"

My response left them crestfallen. "Are you angry with us?"

I stopped in my tracks and took a breath. "I am not upset with you. I'm…" I closed my eyes and exhaled, reminding myself that they were not responsible for my suspension. "I'm returning home for my sketchbook. If you feel so inclined, I will meet you in the park in forty minutes."

"Bring Elvira!"

I rolled my eyes. "Forty minutes."

A half hour later, I was in the park with Elvira secured to my shoulder and wide-eyed Bohemians cooing at her from a safe distance.

"Will you pose for us?" they asked. "So that we may draw Elvira?"

"I intend to sit here beneath this tree and if you feel the need or inspiration to use me for your material, by all means, waste a sheet of paper."

They giggled and gathered around on the two blankets I'd grabbed from my linen closet, nibbling their juicy pears, salty crisps, and whatever else they kept stashed in their satchels.

I had half the mind to draw the dean's face on the body of a pig rotating on a spit, but refrained, deciding with my most recent encounter it was best that I didn't give him reason to dismiss me from my position entirely.

Instead I drew a woman and her curly-coated little dog as they sat across the park from us sharing a pastry. She was older, with a round face and kind eyes. I watched her softly speak to her furry companion, telling the little white dog that he had to be patient while the canine danced about on its hind legs until receiving its reward.

A little boy dressed entirely in red ran up and hugged the older woman before he climbed onto the bench beside her and received his own pastry. I watched her tenderly stroke his hair and clean the jam from his lips before the woman, child, and dog walked off together.

How simple it must have been to live the life of a little dog begging for scraps or a child doted upon by an attentive grandmother. I thought of the woman on the cart with the pony who had taken me back to her home. I held my breath as if I could suspend myself into the memory of riding beside her in the cart, how she would hand me the reins and tell me to guide the little tan pony with the blond mane.

I could almost smell the autumn air, the leaves turning from green to a bright carpet of warm colors that slowly turned to brown rot. I saw her shoo away the bees buzzing around us, felt the scratchy wool fabric of her shawl against my cheek.

Myrna. The name rang through my head, but I had no idea if it was the woman's name or the pony, or someone else entirely.

I doubted I had seen the woman more than three or four times, but they were wonderful memories of a mysterious, gentle presence whose name I didn't know.

"Monsieur," Ink said, drawing me out of my musings.

I looked up and saw him reaching out to tap me on the shoulder.

"Careful, she bites!" Elvira screeched.

Immediately Ink drew his hand back. "My apologies, Monsieur but there's someone here to see you."

I furrowed my brow. "In the park?"

Ink gestured to my left and I spotted the young girl from the opera house steps in her tattered dress, her face and arms smudged with dirt. I had forgotten that I asked her to inquire about employment, and seeing how my meeting with Cecil le Behr had gone, I highly doubted he would consider hiring her for cleaning duties, at least not by my recommendation.

She met my eye, but her stare was utterly blank, as if she had turned into a porcelain doll. It was familiar to me, the blankness and welcomed void preferred over feeling anything at all.

"Sit," I said, nodding to an empty space between students.

She continued to stare at me for a long moment, a waif of a girl frozen in fear of what I was capable of doing to her if she agreed to stay. It was evident that her trust had been broken, that taking a hand she thought would be kind or gentle turned to her giving more of herself than she had anticipated.

I ripped a sheet of paper from my sketchbook and she flinched, but didn't run off. Keeping my gaze trained on hers, I handed her the paper along with a pencil.

"Draw something," I suggested.

The girl looked around at the students all lost in their own little artistic corners, then at Ink, who seated himself cross-legged in front of me and patted the blanket, inviting her to do the same.

"My name is Daniel Lincoln," he whispered to her. "I'm from Illinois. That's in the United States, in case you are not familiar. You must forgive me if I am not good at speaking French. This is my first time in Paris."

She swallowed and nodded. "Hello, Daniel Lincoln."

Ink offered a gentle smile and reached into his satchel where he produced a half-eaten pretzel, which he offered to the girl.

"I don't have money," she murmured.

Ink shrugged. "Neither do I, probably because I bought this pretzel on my way to the park." Again, he offered her the rest of his food, grinning at her. "Take half. I don't mind sharing."

The girl at last smiled in return and accepted the treat. She broke off a piece, handed the rest back, then turned her attention to the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

"What are you going to draw?" Ink asked.

"I don't know how to draw," she said quietly, twirling the pencil in between her fingers. She glanced bashfully at me.

"Then you're in the right place. We're all students here. Besides Monsieur Kimmer. He's a professional."

"Hardly," I said under my breath.

"What is your name, Mademoiselle?" Ink asked.

The girl took a breath and tucked her hair behind her ear. "My name is Celeste."

oOo

"This was not an official class," I reminded my students as they gathered their belongings. "Understood?"

They murmured that they were aware.

"If anyone wants to unofficially meet again on Wednesday, I suggest we gather here at ten."

"What if it rains?"

"Are you made out of sugar?"

They exchanged looks of confusion. One young lady raised his hand.

"If we were made out of sugar, would you put us into your coffee?"

"What an absurd question," I replied, snorting at her question. "You are all aware I do not add sugar to my coffee, but if it rains, we'll meet at the cafe on Builes Boulevard where I will not be giving any official feedback or handing out quizzes because it isn't an actual class."

They murmured to one another and exchanged looks until hands began to raise. "Does that mean you will be handing out quizzes that have nothing to do with our class?"

I exhaled, exasperated by their questions. "If you prevent me from returning home one moment longer, you'll be quizzed on the fall of Rome."

Like mice they scattered in all directions, shrieking with laughter as they scurried off. I shook my head and took a breath before gathering my own belongings. When I stood, the girl from the opera house steps was the only one remaining, her drawing clutched at her side.

"Did you enjoy your first unofficial art class?" I asked.

She silently nodded.

"May I see your work?" I asked.

As I expected, she hesitated. "It isn't very good."

"Well, that's a relief. I would have to retire at once if you were the next Rembrandt."

She blinked at me, apparently having no idea to whom I referred or completely oblivious to my attempt at humor. At last she handed me the paper, wincing as I held it up.

Some individuals were quite modest and said their work was rubbish when in fact it was quite good. The girl, however, was correct. Her drawing was two ovals stacked one on top of the other with lines protruding from the bottom one, two on each side at different angles. In other words, it was a lop-sided stick figure lacking detail.

"A self portrait?" I asked. There was a face drawn, but no hair and the arms and legs didn't end with hands or feet. There were, however, eyelashes that were so exaggerated it looked as though needles were protruding from the figure's eyeballs.

The girl shook her head. "It's Daniel Lincoln."

"Oh, yes, I see," I said, nodding. "Obviously."

"You don't like it."

"Now when did I say that?"

"You didn't know who it was," she pointed out.

"That has absolutely no bearing on whether or not I like it. But, the eyelashes should have been a dead giveaway."

It felt nothing like a conversation I'd typically have years earlier with Elizabeth, who had no artistic talent when it came to drawing. Her rainbows looked like stairs, her images of dogs resembled foot stools, and people were misshapen blobs, similar to the drawing I held in my hands.

I genuinely adored Elizabeth's lack of artistic abilities when it came to her artwork, particularly how proud she was when she handed it to me, as if she were an old master reincarnated.

"I went to the classroom this morning and it was locked," the girl said quickly.

"My apologies, class was abruptly canceled. I will be back on Thursday," I said, handing her back the drawing. "You are more than welcome to return then."

The girl pursed her lips, and I couldn't begin to guess what was on her mind.

"I'm getting a coffee," I announced. "Do you care for a cup of tea?"

"A cup of tea?" she warily asked.

"Well, if you don't like tea, they serve danishes, soup, sandwiches, cookies bigger than your head, although I am not much for sweets, and drinking chocolate if you prefer that to tea."

She curiously eyed Elvira, who was hanging off my shoulder side-ways as far as the tether allowed, her wings spread and head turned to the side.

"Does the bird have a name?"

"Her name is Elvira," I answered as we began to walk from the park toward the street.

"Where did you get her?"

"I took her from a place where they were not very nice to her."

"Is she friendly?" the girl asked.

"Believe it or not, between the two of us, I'm the least likely to bite."

At last the girl smiled, a grin more fitting for her age. The cafe came into view, and I noted that the inside was fairly crowded for lunch.

"Here?" I said as I pointed toward a table out front and reached into my trouser pocket for my wallet. I pulled out all twelve of the banknotes I had in my possession. "Black coffee for me," I said. "You may purchase whatever you want for yourself as long as it's under…eleven francs."

She hesitated, staring at the banknotes in my hand, then back at me with the same blank stare returned.

"No cream, no sugar," I said, placing the banknotes onto the table. "Plain black coffee.'

Without a word, she grabbed the money and crumpled them up in her hands. Inwardly I winced at the way she stuffed them into her fist, but I remained silent and watched as she turned on her heel and walked toward the cafe entrance.

The line of patrons was out the door, and while I prepared to wait at least fifteen minutes for coffee, my impatient bird tugged at my collar, reminding me that she wanted the snacks I had stowed in my pocket out of her reach.

I handed her a long slice of carrot and sat back, opening my notebook while I waited for my coffee, and thought about the girl's reaction to being handed twelve francs.

I'd never once considered soliciting a woman for sexual favors, partly because I knew the diseases that were rampant amongst prostitutes and partly because even if I had wanted to entertain the thought, I didn't have the means to pay for an hour of their company.

Silently I wondered how men offered money in exchange for intercourse. I found it difficult enough to walk through the market, select the best-looking loaves of bread, and pay the baker for his creations, hoping that he didn't observe me declining loaf after loaf until I found the most suitable one. I couldn't imagine approaching another person, looking them up and down, and telling them, "You'll do for an hour, I suppose. Now lift your skirts so I may satisfy my most primal need."

The bell above the cafe door jingled and I looked up from my sketchbook to see the girl exit empty-handed. With her head down, she frantically dashed across the street and around the corner.

I fed Elvira another piece of carrot and rolled my tongue along the inside of my mouth, sighing to myself.

"Unfortunate," I said under my breath. "But not unexpected, I suppose."

"Phelan Kimmer."

My breath hitched as I turned my attention toward the cafe where Florine stood with her arms crossed, glaring at me.

"Madame," I said cheerfully. "How are you this lovely Monday afternoon?"

"I have not yet heard from the university," she said, skipping pleasantries.

"It could be weeks. And may I remind you, there are no guarantees for admission to the art program," I replied, knowing damned well she would probably receive a rejection letter before the end of the week. Considering how my day had gone thus far, it was not a discussion I wished to have with her face-to-face.

Florine stood expressionless across from me. "Who is the girl who ran off? Your daughter?"

"No," I answered.

"At least not that you've claimed."

I searched her face for a long moment, the features I had once been enamored with in what seemed like a different lifetime. She would always be strikingly beautiful in my eyes, but also ill-tempered.

"A pleasure to see you as always," I muttered. "If you will excuse me–"

"No need for you to leave," she said before I stood. "I have other priorities. Good day."

She briskly walked away without another word and I started to reach for the phantom cup of coffee that had not been delivered to the table.

"Damn it," I said through my teeth. "The best coffee in all of Paris too."

A moment later, Florine returned and I closed my eyes, taking a breath. "How may I be of service to you?" I tersely questioned, annoyed by the lack of coffee in my hand.

When there was no reply, I opened my eyes and found the girl standing on the opposite side of the table, holding out the twelve francs I'd given her in one trembling hand.

"I apologize," she said before I spoke, her eyes welling with tears. "I didn't mean to…"

I looked past her at the line of people awaiting service, which was no longer out the door.

"You gave up waiting?" I asked, certain she had not seen me watch her sprint from the cafe and across the street. "Quite frankly, I'm disappointed you didn't wait, but not surprised as I would have done the same. I detest lines."

She followed my gaze, then turned and faced me once more. "No, I–"

I sat back and sighed heavily. "That is quite unfortunate. Elvira has a tendency to frighten the servers, so it's not advisable that I walk inside. I suppose I'll return home and make my own coffee."

The girl frowned at me. "I left the cafe," she blurted out. "I ran and took your money when you were not looking." She inhaled sharply, her body rigid and face turned to the side.

"Oh," I said, genuinely surprised by her confession and dismayed by her posture. There was no telling how many times she had been struck in the past, but once in my opinion was too many. "What made you return?"

For a long moment she didn't speak or look at me. She stood with her head down and the twelve francs still clutched in her hand.

"Why did you offer me tea?" she asked.

"Because I assumed after the pretzel you consumed, you were probably thirsty."

"But why me," she asked.

I imagined there were two reasons men had shown interest in her previously: because she was very young and perceived to be naive, thus giving them as much access as they desired with little protest. And because deep inside of their perverted minds, they reasoned that she would do them a favor and be reimbursed financially.

"I believe that you have not yet answered my first question. Why did you decide to return here with the money I gave you?"

"Because I'm not a thief," she answered, placing the bank notes onto the table.

I made no attempt to collect the bills.

"Then I trust you will do as I previously requested and bring back a cup of coffee for me and something for yourself."

"You…you still want me to bring back coffee?"

I nodded once. "It's the best coffee in this entire city."

"But what if I…?"

I lifted a brow. "What if you don't return? Then I suppose I'm officially out twelve francs and the offer for employment at the university as a maid would be retracted. That's entirely up to you, isn't it?"

She collected the banknotes and gave me one last look before walking into the cafe. I could see her through the large windows as she pointed at the mirrored case with its glass shelves and then turned and pointed at me. The girl behind the counter smiled and waved back at me.

The woman behind the counter had the misfortune of being one of my first year students six years earlier, back when I had been far more critical than my class needed or deserved. There was a mural on one of the walls that she had painted, and as far I knew it was the only piece of art she'd created since graduating from the university.

Moments later the young girl returned outside with a wooden tray holding a cup of coffee, gigantic cookie, and a cup of milk. She looked quite pleased with herself as she placed each item on the table and returned the tray inside.

"You should have gotten yourself a sandwich," I commented once she returned.

"You said I could get what I wanted," she pointed out.

I made a face. "I did indeed and I hope you are satisfied with your decision."

The girl gasped and excused herself, running back into the cafe where she returned a moment later with another tray continuing a steaming hot bowl of soup and a loaf of bread almost as long as her arm.

"This is from Mona," the girl announced. "She said congratulations on your art show."

I started to reach for the bowl before I realized it was cream of leek. Breaking the bread in half, I scooted the bowl toward the girl.

"You're not hungry?"

I was starving, but not for leeks.

"Bread will do."

She was quiet for a long moment, enjoying every morsel of the cookie that was nearly as big as her head. I took a sip of coffee, tore off a bite of bread, and flipped through my sketchbook, comfortable with the lack of conversation. Elvira dug her claws into my shoulder, kneading the muscles and tendons as a way of letting me know she wanted more snacks. Grimacing, I fed her a piece of dried apricot and she stopped pressing her claws into my flesh.

"I haven't had chocolate in a very long time," the girl said suddenly.

I examined her from over the edge of my coffee cup. "I'm not one for sweets," I replied.

She frowned at me.

"Bread and butter," I said. "I believe I could survive off warm bread slathered in a generous heap of melting butter. Regular plain butter, garlic herb, honey, cranberry. If there was a bowl of butter on this table, I'd eat it with a spoon. Or add it to my coffee."

The girl wrinkled her nose.

"I enjoy the taste. I have quite the refined pallet," I said dryly.

She wiggled in her seat and nervously looked around. In silence I scanned the surrounding area, but didn't notice anyone blatantly staring at her or lingering in the distance.

"What do you like about chocolate?" I asked.

"It's sweet. And it melts, so you don't need to chew."

Just like butter, I thought.

She flashed a quick smile. "I suppose butter also melts."

"My thoughts precisely."

She took another bite of the large cookie, followed by a gulp of milk that made the most atrocious sound I'd ever heard, like she sucked liquid into her mouth and sloshed it around.

"Why do you teach art?" she asked, sitting back in her chair as she became more at ease in my company.

"Because I'm good at it," I answered. It was perhaps a bit of a pompous reply, one that I felt needed more elaboration. "Not art specifically, although I suppose I'm not bad at creating art, seeing as how I have sold a few paintings, but I would like to think my students would say I'm a decent professor. Although I wasn't always a good professor, at least not at the start. Thankfully, in that respect, I've improved," I rambled on.

She stared wide-eyed at me, most likely wondering when I would cease speaking. I took another sip of coffee, hearing the echo of words spoken years earlier.

You're quite dull.

My aversion to conversation and preference for silence had evolved long before I'd been told I was not interesting, but every so often I felt like my tongue was a wheel dislodged from a cart, careening off course on its own accord. In those moments, I became a blathering fool, unable to stop myself from continuing.

"How is your soup?" I asked, offering her the opportunity to speak.

Much like the milk, she slurped the soup from her spoon in a fashion that went directly through my ears and churned my stomach.

"Delicious," she answered, proceeding to slurp more soup in between loudly chewing her bread with her mouth open.

"Good," I said, despite truly feeling she had terrible manners.

"What would be my required duties at the university?" she asked.

When I looked across the table at her, I noticed that she stared at my left hand, which I had set in between the sheets of my open sketchbook to keep my place.

"Emptying trash receptacles, sweeping, mopping, cleaning the windows…"

"Of the entire university?"

It was a large campus, containing three buildings of classrooms, studios, and scientific theaters, plus the gymnasium, four dormitories, an auditorium, a newly built administrative building, and a chapel within a small garden that I had never stepped foot inside.

"No, I would think if the dean agrees, you'd clean one specific wing of the campus building. Otherwise you'd be cleaning until your hands fell off."

"Would I be cleaning where you are? Or a different professor?" she warily asked.

"It could be anywhere."

She slurped more soup in the same nauseating fashion. "Is it…is it all men?" she asked without meeting my eye.

In my mind I rephrased the inquiry of a young girl who had been coaxed into less than desirable situations by unfamiliar men: Will I be left alone with men I've never met. Visibly she tensed, her features more strained.

"I will specifically request that you stay on the second floor of the main building," I said. "In the art wing."

Considering how the morning had gone, I was well aware that the dean would never agree to my recommendation. The chances of her obtaining employment was very low–if she inquired at the office.

"Actually, I will request that for the time being, you are assigned to my studio," I said. "Twice a week between classes. Ten francs per day."

It was not enough to support herself, but it was as much as I could offer. If she was frugal, she might be able to enjoy one meal a day and perhaps a room for the night once a week in a less than desirable hotel or inn, perhaps more nights in a bed that was hers alone if she continued singing outside of the opera house and received enough coins and crumpled bank notes.

"Oh!" she said suddenly, digging into her pocket where she placed six francs onto the table. "This is yours."

"Consider it an advance for cleaning on Thursday," I said.

She scraped the spoon against the bowl, scooping out the remainder of soup. The sound was like fingernails dragged along a slate board and I cringed, the hairs on my arms standing on end.

"Thank you," she said. "Monsieur…Kimmer?"

I nodded. "And you wish to be called Celeste?" I asked. "Or Hannah?"

For all I knew, neither was her real name, but I would call her whatever she preferred.

"My name is Celeste."