I really love these two :)

Ch 46

"Bloody hell it's early," Bernard groused. "Sun ain't even up."

He stood outside of the gymnasium, cigarette loosely held between his lips and hands stuffed in his pockets. With a heavy wool coat and striped scarf, he looked like a disgruntled snowman standing in the shadows.

"We could have met at six," I said.

"Ain't much difference between five and six," he said.

"Celeste isn't joining us this morning?" I asked, my fingers numb from the cold and barely able to turn the key in the lock.

"Didn't ask," Bernard answered. "Figured one of us should have a good morning and sleep in. Them beds at The Gold Medallion are awfully comfortable and you sink into them right before the sun rises. I don't know if they're enchanted or somethin', but I swear it's about four in the morning when I am knocked the hell out."

"And I suppose our meeting ruined it for you."

"The getting up part wasn't bad. It was the freezing my ass off that did."

I opened the door and stepped aside, motioning for Bernard to enter first. He squinted at me behind a cloud of smoke.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, alarmed by the way he continued to stare at me.

"You look different," he said.

I cocked my head to the side. "How so?"

"Like something real good happened to you." His scowl turned into a smirk. "You get laid or something last night?"

I immediately made a face. "You needn't be crass."

"Is that a yeah or a nah?"

"I am not answering."

"So yeah?"

"If I look different at all it's due to receiving a full and uninterrupted night of sleep, which has been uncommon as of late."

"I certainly don't look that relaxed when I get good sleep," Bernard said as he tossed the butt of his cigarette into the bushes and trudged past me.

I scoffed at his words and followed him inside, surprised by how cold the building felt when it was normally more comfortable. I already struggled with meditation and figured with the numbing chill I'd find it impossible to concentrate.

"It's unfortunate you didn't get laid 'cause you're about to freeze your balls off in here."

"You have such a way with words, Montlaur."

"Like a damn poet." He grinned back at me. "You want to go a few rounds before we start?"

"A few rounds? Now?"

"No, next Thursday," he dryly retorted. "Yeah, right now. I owe you a proper lesson."

"Are you in any condition to fight?" I questioned.

Bernard turned fully around to face me. His nose and eyes were still swollen from the match Saturday night, his bottom lip crusted over.

"I used to fight three times a day when I was younger," he said.

"Younger? You've only been fighting professionally for six years, haven't you?"

"I've only been traveling internationally for six years, but I've been fightin' for a livin' eighteen years now."

"How old are you, if I may ask?"

"I'll be forty in June."

I blinked at him. "I thought you were younger than me," I said.

"I get that a lot. When I first started, some of the men in charge of booking the matches didn't want me to fight 'cause they thought I was sixteen when I was twenty-two."

"How often were you fighting multiple matches a day? Frequently?"

"Nah," Bernard answered. "It was only when the fair came through Wissant and Calais that I'd go six rounds at a time with their strongman."

"Six rounds three times in a single day?" I questioned.

Bernard nodded. "We'd get in the ring at noon, five and ten," he said.

"For how many days?"

"For the week they were in town unless they got run out earlier. They'd stop in Wissant, then go somewhere else for a week, then stay a week in Calais. They'd come back every five or six months."

"Did you typically win?"

Bernard shrugged. "Sometimes. And depending on the strongman traveling with the fair, he'd either orchestrate a plan with me ahead of time to make it look good for the audience or he'd beat the hell out of me so bad that he made himself look good and left me looking like a heap of slaughterhouse scraps."

"How on earth did you manage to complete eighteen rounds in a day?"

"I either kept fighting or I didn't get paid. When you ain't got nothing, you'll do anything to survive."

I didn't argue with the boxer, preferring instead to follow him as he moved across the gymnasium toward the back corner where the boiler room was located and consequently so was a pocket of warmer air.

"This will do," he said, removing both his coat and shirt which he balled into a heap and tossed aside. "Jump around a bit and warm up your muscles. I'll show you a few moves, then I wanna discuss somethin' with you before we meditate."

I felt ridiculous hopping around like a rabbit, but complied and followed Bernard's lead through multiple stretches.

"You said you been in fights before, yeah?" Bernard asked once we had completed our warm up.

I nodded."On the street."

"On the street? The hell you doin' fightin' on the street, Professor?"

"I wasn't a professor back then."

Bernard whistled to himself and shook his head. "That kind of fightin' gets a man killed."

"I would wager your style of fighting does as well."

Bernard shrugged. "You ain't wrong. I seen my fair share of men walk out of the ring with a good bump to the head and be found dead the next day. Bad wounds too that don't heal."

There had been a time or two when I found myself surprised to wake the following day after a particularly brutal encounter with dozens of men swinging at one another, heedless of who they struck. Every inch of my body would ache inside and out, screaming in protest, and once the worst of it passed, I would be out again searching for trouble.

Bernard motioned me forward. "We're going to wrap our fists to soften the blows," he said, handing me two long strips of wool fabric that were about the same width as bandages. "I don't want to leave you with a black eye Monday morning before you got class."

I nodded in agreement and wrapped my hands with Bernard's guidance, having no desire to be on the dean's bad side again if he happened to walk to the second floor unannounced and see me clearly roughed up.

"This is for instruction only," Bernard said, gesturing for me to raise my fists and lower my elbows. "Just like with the kid, I ain't hitting you for real."

"I'm assuming I am going through the motions as well?"

Bernard shrugged. "You can take a real swing, but I'd prefer if you avoided my nose while it heals."

I dropped my arms to my side and stared at him, dismayed by his words.

"What?" he snapped.

"You do realize I have no inclination to strike you in the face while you've already sustained injuries," I told him. "I wouldn't ever harm…"

A friend of mine.

I wasn't sure how to refer to Bernard. We certainly had not started out on the best of terms, but I felt as though we had come to a mutual understanding of one another.

Bernard stepped forward, his typical scowl and hardened ice blue eyes no longer posing as a threat when I stared back at him.

"I hope you understand I would not intentionally add to your injuries," I said at last.

"You don't wanna take a real swing at me?"

"Most certainly, but out of immense respect and mindfulness of your injuries, I'll wait until you're fully healed."

He exhaled, tongue lodged against the inside of his cheek. "Respect, eh? That ain't what I'm used to hearing," he grumbled, "but I appreciate you saying so, Professor."

I took a deep breath and resumed my position in our imaginary boxing ring. Bernard stepped forward, adjusting my hands so that my thumbs were protected despite me having no intention of throwing a real punch.

"How'd you get into street fights anyhow?" he asked me while I practiced punching his open, padded hands in a series of moves that started with a jab and ended with a rear uppercut.

"Anger and poor decisions," I answered between labored breaths.

"Anger makes people sloppy when they fight," he said, moving his hands around to give me targets in different positions. "Good. A little faster now."

"I am aware of what anger does."

"You fight with weapons or fists?"

I shook my hands out, feeling my fingers tingle. "I didn't engage if there were hammers or chains involved," I said.

"Smart to avoid that. You still go out there?" Bernard asked.

"No, not for quite some time now," I answered.

He motioned for me to put my hands up as we went through a sequence of exchanging choreographed punches, much like a ballet where we moved our feet back and forth and side to side while swinging at one another's hands in a specific order.

"What made you stop?" he asked.

I paused, finding myself distracted by the conversation, and missed my mark, striking Bernard in the shoulder instead of the palm. It was by no means a hard punch, but I still took a step back, embarrassed by my mistake.

"I ain't gonna punch you back for missing," he reassured me as he put his open hands back into position. "Start over and don't worry about it. Elbows down, fists up. Ready?"

We went through the sequence a second time and Bernard requested a third round, but faster once I had memorized the order of maneuvers.

"What made you stop fighting?" he asked me again.

I inhaled, going through the motions swiftly, my fist connecting with his palm. "I don't know," I mumbled.

"A woman?" he guessed.

"No."

"No? You seem like the type who would settle down for the right woman."

"I don't know what gives you that impression."

"You got the kind of face women appreciate," Bernard answered. "And you got good hair."

"Do you always talk this much?" I snapped. "My God, you are worse than a woman."

Bernard paused and stood upright. He blinked at me, his usual hardened gaze filled with a look I could only describe as offended, which I hadn't expected.

"No," he said, landing a punch to my open hand that was harder than the rest. "Matter of fact, I don't usually talk to no one and if you don't want to talk, we don't got to say nothing to one another. Put your hands back up. I'm just getting warmed up."

I took a step back, shook out my aching hands, and got back into the proper position in time for Bernard to strike my open palms faster and harder than the first time. The impact startled me, the speed in which he moved driving me toward the wall.

"Quit retreating," he grumbled.

"I wasn't prepared," I said. "And you are hitting a lot harder than you were previously."

Bernard grit his teeth, arm raised shoulder-level and hand in a fist. He glared at me momentarily, his gaze pinned on the center of my face, his nostrils flared. Padded hands or not, I was certain the blow would leave me with a bloody nose if he took the opportunity to strike me clear in the face.

Before I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes, bracing for the impact, Bernard lowered his hands and stepped away from me. Wordlessly he turned, ripping off the strips of wool fabric from his hands, which he tossed onto the ground by his shirt and coat.

I remained where I stood, uncertain if the lesson had come to an end or if Bernard merely wanted a moment for us both to regroup. I watched him walk the length of the gym, hands on his hips as he took several slow breaths.

"Ready?" he asked, grabbing the strips of fabric off the ground. His expression returned to its normal look of impatience as he finished wrapping his hands again.

I hesitated, but still nodded and put my hands up and into position.

"Reverse this time," he said, no hint of irritation in his voice. "Instead one one through six, six to one."

"Rear uppercut first?" I asked.

He nodded, but said nothing further, and I went slowly through the motions, starting with a rear uppercut and ending with two jabs.

"Again," he said, his expression hardened.

I paused, adjusting my stance.

"You done?" he grumbled.

"I–"

"Again."

I went through the moves in reverse twice before Bernard silently performed the same punches, striking my hands with considerable force. The very last jab connected with the heel of my left hand and sent an unexpected bolt of lightning up my arm to my elbow.

The pain was immediate and left me completely incapacitated. Sucking in a breath, I drew my arm toward my body, cradling my elbow in my right hand while resting my curled fingers on my shoulder. My vision blurred, my stomach tightening as I swallowed back the swell of sickness that threatened.

Bernard's jaw twitched. "That wasn't on purpose," he said.

"I know," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't think I had my hand held far enough back."

He lowered his gaze, hands on his hips as he kicked the mat with the toe of his boot. "How long does it hurt for?"

"Thirty seconds to a minute?" I guessed. "But in the midst of the nerves…waking, I suppose, it feels like far longer."

"Thirty seconds? That's a hell of a long time to be incapacitated," he growled.

I took another step back until I was up against the wall, fire still radiating down the length of my forearm in excruciating waves. My heart thumped in my chest, blood thrumming through my ringing ears.

Bernard frowned at me, sharp blue eyes filled with remorse. "I ain't gonna do nothing to you."

"I didn't think you would."

"Yeah you did. That's why you're moving back. You think I'm gonna drive you to the ground and punch you 'cause you pissed me off," he grumbled.

"That is not what I am doing."

"Then what the hell are you doing?"

"The pain has not yet subsided and I can barely see straight," I said through my teeth. "And besides, you've already had the opportunity to break my nose and refrained," I pointed out.

"The hell you still standing for then if you can't see straight? Sit on the mat 'til you got your wits about you."

"Sitting doesn't make me feel any better."

"Well, if you pass out, you're better off on the ground."

"I won't pass out."

"I swear to Christ, if you pitch to the side and are out cold, I will punch you to wake you up," Bernard said as he crossed his arms and scowled.

"Your concern is overwhelming," I mumbled.

"Yeah, well, I don't know what else to do and it's pissing me off 'cause you can't listen to reason." He walked the length of the gym and retrieved two folding chairs, which he placed beside one another. "Now sit your ass down."

I stared at him briefly.

Bernard rolled his eyes. "Kindly sit your ass down."

I leaned against the wall, the back of my neck covered with cold sweat, the worst of the pain behind me. Rather than argue, I accepted his offer, my arm tingling from my elbow down to the base of my hand.

From the corner of my eye I saw Bernard's jaw twitching and knew he was frustrated with me initially denying his assistance.

"I don't typically ask for anyone to help because it will remedy itself," I said at last.

"I don't normally offer help 'cause everyone thinks I'm a mindless brute that would rather crush skulls than lend a hand."

"I don't think you're a mindless brute and I appreciate the offer."

The tension knit between Bernard's pale brows loosened. I thought of my brother, of how he would be perceived by others, of the softness within him that would be overlooked because he was different.

I rested the back of my head against the wall and took a deep breath. "I honestly cannot recall the last time anyone showed concern."

The scar had two reactions: curiosity, which came first, followed by immense discomfort once most people had a good look at my deformed flesh. It was astonishing how quickly some people went from wanting a better look to being unable to meet my eye.

"What's it feel like?" Bernard asked, nodding at my gnarled arm.

I was surprised by his question as few asked about the burn past the initial inquiry of what had happened. Once individuals were aware that it was a burn caused by my father, they tended to look at me with pity.

"Like my arm is being held over the fire again," I answered. "Like it's still as raw and blistered as the day it happened."

"You were three at the time?"

"Three and a half, yes."

Bernard's pale brows furrowed. "You remember that?"
I looked away from him and nodded. I remembered everything from that moment; Bjorn's heavy footfalls across the floorboards, the way he snatched my arm in his hand and the roughness of the calluses on his palm when he slapped me across the face. I remembered the sting of tears as he kicked the blankets where Erik lay bundled up, how I thought he would kill my brother and I had begged him to stop.

He's cold. He is crying because he is cold. He will quiet down in a moment when I hold him again. Just let me tend to him.

And then Bjorn pried me away from Erik, held my arm over the fire that I had built moments earlier, and I had screamed like some beast caught in a snare, writhing and punching at my own father until at last he released me, unable to tolerate burning his own hand.

I had left Erik crying in the middle of the floor in favor of sinking my injured arm into the fresh snow, shaking violently as the white flakes turned red from the blistering wounds. I had cried until I could barely breathe, the pain so excruciating that I thought the sensation would prove fatal.

"I don't remember nothing from being that age," Bernard commented

"Then you were fortunate not to experience trauma of such a prominent nature."

Bernard remained silent for a long moment. He unrolled the fabric used to wrap his hands and allowed it to unfurl completely, the end reaching the mat.

"I remember the physician in Wissant lived across the street from my folks in this real nice house that faced the water," he said. "He had a back room built onto the house 'cause his wife was real good at bearing children and they had seven or eight already and another on the way, so they needed more space."

I extended my legs and listened, nodding for Bernard to continue if he desired.

"I saw these men building the house and thought I bet I could be a carpenter," he continued, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "Like I was the next Jesus or something."

I chuckled to myself.

"Next day at school, I figured I'd ask some of the boys if they wanted to build a fort in the woods. I never had no friends in school 'cause I was bigger than everyone else, so they didn't want me around when they played their games." Slowly he gathered up the fabric, rolling it back into place. "I should have known better 'cause after I asked, none of them said yeah. I figured I'd do it on my own and then tell them they couldn't use the fort. "Cause to hell with them, you know?"

"I think I would have said the same," I replied.

Bernard moved his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "And then this group of older boys was outside the school house and I asked them if they wanted to build a fort and they said yeah, sure, we'll go with you to the woods and pick out a spot. And I was real excited about it. 'Cause when you're twelve, boys who are seventeen, eighteen…they seem so mature. They're men by that age, not snot-faced children. I was really gonna show them back at school when I built a fort with these older boys."

My stomach filled with dread, certain I knew what would follow his words.

"And then we was all the way out in the woods, real far from the school house and all the way across town from where I lived and they surrounded me. Told me I wasn't allowed to leave until I fought one of them." His expression darkened, his blue eyes distant. "I remember all of that, how many times they punched me in the gut and the back and right in my face. I must have cried the whole way home, not 'cause it hurt, really, but 'cause I was real ashamed of myself for thinking they wanted to be my friend."

The hairs on my arm stood on end, imagining Erik telling me a similar story of his youth, how his hopes of making friends had turned into some horribly violent and terrifying encounter. If he were truly still alive, I could not imagine what he had faced alone.

"But everything was going to be fine, 'cause I was going to tell my pa and my pa would talk to their parents and they'd apologize and that would be that. They wouldn't mess me with me no more."

He paused for a long moment and shook his head.

"But my pa looked at me with my clothes torn and face all bloodied and told me not to let them beat me so bad in the future. Like it was my fault or somethin'. I remember that real well, how he looked me in the eye and said if I couldn't be faster, I'd have to be meaner than them. I didn't want to be mean. I wanted to build a fort 'cause I was twelve and that's what you do at that age. Right?"

I nodded and lowered my gaze when he sniffled. "That was cruel of him to leave that on you," I said.

Bernard shrugged. "I wasn't ever good at building nothing, so maybe he was right. Maybe it was a good thing I got mean."

"You built a birdhouse with a front porch," I reminded him. "That surely takes more skill than you're letting on."

Bernard offered a crooked grin in return. "Well, you ain't seen it, so for all you know, it's a crap birdhouse."

"I'm expecting five of the highest quality birdhouses Bernard Montlaur is capable of creating," I said lightly.

Bernard snorted. "Yeah, we'll see."

"As a fellow bird enthusiast and your friend, I look forward to seeing what you create."

Bernard paused and met my eye. My breath stilled, and I waited for him to grumble, 'Friends? We ain't friends. You annoy the hell out of me.'

Instead he regarded me for a long moment, the scowl on his face turning to an appreciative smile. He unrolled the fabric again, fidgeting as he spoke. "Why'd your old man burn you again, anyhow?"

"Because I added too much wood to the fireplace," I answered.

"That's a shit reason," Bernard commented.

"He didn't need a reason," I said under my breath, feeling the tug of numbness draw me near, beckoning me away from the physical torment.

"Your old man still alive?"

I shook my head. "He died a few years ago," I said.

Bernard huffed. "Mine ain't around either, but I'll tell you what. If your old man were still around, I'd kick his ass real bad for what he did."

"He used to get into brawls at the tavern and return home looking for trouble," I said.

I wasn't sure why I mentioned it to Bernard. It was not a detail I normally revealed, a shameful secret that I had kept to myself for the most part.

"That's where them anger and poor decisions came from, ain't it? The apple don't fall from the tree, as they say."

"I am nothing like my father," I said sharply. "He was a drunken fool of a man."

"Why?" Bernard asked.

"I don't understand the question."

"Why was he a drunk?"

I scoffed. "Because he liked the taste of liquor and enjoyed being drunk? How would I know?"

Bernard shrugged. "Lot of people drown somethin' else out when they turn to the bottle. I ain't never met no one who wanted to live like that," he said. "But I met plenty of people who couldn't stop 'cause they couldn't tolerate the noise in the background."

I swallowed and gingerly touched the crook of my elbow, having no desire to experience the shock of pain when I felt as though I'd not yet fully recovered, yet unable to tolerate the emotions stirred within me.

Bernard stared back at me, his eyes narrowed, watching where I placed my hand until I gripped the edge of the chair to keep myself from touching the scar and reigniting the nerves.

"A bottle ain't the only way to muffle that noise," Bernard said. He leaned to his side, grabbing his shirt off the ground before he tossed mine to me.

"No it is not," I agreed.

Once his shirt was on, Bernard removed his shoes and eased onto the mat, back against the boiler room wall.

"Right now I got a lot of noise rattling around like rocks in a tin bucket," Bernard said, tapping the side of his head. He looked me over before he removed both shoes. "If you don't want to sit here and listen, I ain't going to be mad. I been talking too much today anyhow and I know you prefer silence. Gimme fifteen minutes and then I'll be ready to go through the breathing with you."

"Would you prefer privacy?"

"No," he answered. "No, I wouldn't but–"

"Then I will stay and keep you company."

"You sure?"

"Without a doubt."

I kicked off my shoes, setting them aside, then sat against the wall, appreciating the warmth against my back and shoulders. Bernard wriggled around, at last finding a comfortable position.

"The kid is real excited to return to Brussels," he said. "It's all she wanted to talk about last night."

I sat with my eyes closed, unsure of whether he wanted me to respond or merely listen.

"I'm happy for her," Bernard said. "Make no mistake, I'm happy as hell for that girl. She's had it rough and it's good to see her pleased. I ain't seen no one happy like that since…"

I dared to open my eyes and saw Bernard talking to his folded hands.

"Since my Bea."

My heart truly ached for him, for the pain of loss I knew all too well.

"And seeing the kid that happy makes me a little jealous," he admitted. "Not 'cause I don't want her to have joy, but 'cause I thought I'd get to see her be all excited and smiling a while longer."

Bernard looked expectantly at me and I realized he awaited my response.

"You want Celeste to stay with you in Wissant?" I asked.

"Yeah," he answered. "Yeah, I did."

"But you haven't told Celeste that you want her to stay?"

"Of course not. What the hell am I supposed to say to her? You gotta stay with me 'cause I don't want you to go? 'Cause I'm gonna worry every minute of every day that you ain't safe?" he growled. "That ain't right to put my concerns on her. She's been through too much as it is."

I spread my legs out further, evaluating his words with care. "No, I wouldn't say that, exactly."

Bernard appeared more than prepared to lash out, but instead took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. "What would you say then?" he asked, his tone much more passive.

I exhaled. "I suppose I would start off by telling her she's always welcome to visit."

He pursed his lips briefly. "What if she don't want to visit?"

"I would wager my entire savings account that Celeste would absolutely leap at the opportunity to see you again."

Bernard stared at his feet, his expression unreadable. "What makes you so sure?"

"I guarantee you that when Celeste looks at you, she sees the furthest thing from a mindless brute. She sees a genuinely decent man, one who has appointed himself her guardian and who has given his word that she will never be put into a situation where she is preyed upon ever again. Given all that she's endured, finding the strength to trust any man at all must take quite a bit of digging deep into her heart. If that is not a testament to your character, quite frankly, I don't know what is."

Bernard's expression brightened, the scowl giving way to an unexpectedly pleasant smile. "You know, I didn't want to fight this match here."

"No?"

He shook his head. "This damn city sure as hell don't hold no good memories for me," he said. "Most of 'em don't."

"Why is that?"

Bernard frowned and ran his hand over his short hair. "I ain't had many friends. When I travel and people see me, they think I wanna fight 'em. I coul be minding my own business feeding birds at the park and someone will come up and try to pick a fight."

"Because they recognize you?"

"Because that's all they see. A mean son of a bitch."

"Then they're clearly blind or ignorant."

Bernard shrugged. "Last thing I ever expected to find in Paris was…" He paused, his lips twitching into the shadow of a smile, eyes filled with uncertainty. "Was a friend."

"A title I quite proudly claim," I said.

"I appreciate you sitting here in silence with me, Professor." He extended his meaty, calloused hand to me.

"You have swiftly become my favorite person to not hold a conversation with, Pugilist," I said, accepting the handshake.

Bernard offered an appreciative smile and nod. "Now let's not talk for real and leave all of that heavy stuff beside us for a while."

OoO

It was after six when the group of strongmen who typically waited for me to unlock the gymnasium door for them in the morning stood gathered outside, shocked to see me exit.

"My apologies if you've suffered in the cold for an extended length of time," I said.

"You been here all night?" they asked, grinning at me.

"It certainly feels like it."

The conversation ended when they noticed Bernard, their demeanor becoming far more tense than it had when they'd seen me. Chests puffed out, shoulders drawn up to ears as Bernard scowled back at them. I found myself surprised that a cloud of testosterone didn't encompass us like a blanket of fog, such was their posturing.

"Is an introduction in order?" I asked, standing at Bernard's side.

The strongmen exchanged looks, nodding one by one until they all agreed my offer was acceptable. From the corner of my eye I saw Bernard still quite stiff and apprehensive, his posture indicating he was more than prepared to take a swing if they provoked him.

"Breathe," I whispered, nudging him in the ribs.

"Don't tell me what to do," he grumbled.

"Pretend it was your idea."

Bernard was not pleased in the least, but he did as I suggested and took a breath. Tension slowly melted out of his shoulders, but he still liked very much like a raging ape.

"By the looks on your collective faces, I am sure you are all aware that this is Monsieur Bernard Montlaur."

They nodded in silence.

"My apologies, gentleman, I am only familiar with the names of my own students," I replied. "Please, by all means, introduce yourselves."

The tension lingered. No one stepped forward to offer their name.

"How is the drawing for your mother coming along, Franz?" I asked the only one of the six I was familiar with, hoping to at least start a conversation and prevent an exchange of barbed words.

Franz softened and dug into his coat pocket. "I finished it!" he said quite proudly. "I know you said to show it to you today, but I kept hoping I'd see you sooner so I could get your opinion."

Much like a primary student displaying his art, he thrust the drawing toward me, grinning with pride. His black mustache-which reminded me of Abigail's brother-twitched as he nervously awaited my critique.

I expected a lop-sided depiction of an Amaryllis, unsteady lines in all directions and a lot of imagination to decipher his drawing.

"You did this free hand?" I questioned, impressed by the symmetry. In less than a week, Franz showed impressive improvement.

"I did," he proudly answered. "Only took me about fifty tries."

"You did very well," I replied, handing him the drawing back. "Much better than the last one you showed me."

"Now I'm going to color it in."

"Might I suggest using one of your previous renditions to experiment with color?"

The strongman furrowed his brow and slowly nodded. "That's a good idea. I don't want to ruin this one. Thanks, Professor Kimmer."

One of the other strongmen scoffed at the drawing and crossed his arms. "Who cares about some stupid flower?"

"It's for my mother's birthday," Franz replied. "You better not say something rotten about my mother, you hear me?"

The other strongman cleared his throat and shifted his weight. "I'm not saying anything bad about your mother. She's going to love this. I just hope your mother doesn't show mine or else I'll have to draw her some flowers too."

The rest of the men nodded and groaned, clearly concerned that they'd all be forced into becoming artists.

"I feel quite insulted by your collective reaction, gentlemen," I said. "Art is hardly a death sentence."

"Not to you," Bernard chimed in. "You're a famous artist."

Their attention was turned to Bernard, who continued to scowl like a grumpy troll surrounded by six other equally grumpy trolls.

"Two art shows does not make one famous," I pointed out. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"Do you paint?" Franz asked.

"I don't know nothing about art," Bernard growled.

The boxer's inability to hold a conversation without sounding as though he were filled with murderous rage made it nearly impossible to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head. I found myself filled with equal parts amusement and annoyance.

"Monsieur Montlaur attended the gallery show this past week, and like the rest of you in your current university studies, he is still learning," I said.

"I've started an art collection," Bernard said suddenly.

My attention immediately snapped to him as this was news to me. "You are collecting art?"

"Yeah." He shrugged his oversized shoulders. "Started yesterday."

"Did you purchase a painting at the gallery?"

Bernard's frown deepened. "I purchased a painting, but it wasn't at the gallery."

My brow furrowed. "May I ask what you purchased?"

Bernard eyed me. "As a matter of fact, you cannot."

His statement elicited several chuckles from the other strongmen. I shook my head, amused by his reply.

"I sincerely hope you get years of enjoyment from your secret painting, Monsieur Montlaur. Now if you will all excuse me, I'm on my way to class," I said.

"Professor," one of the men said before I turned away. "Do you give private art lessons? To draw flowers."

"Flower drawing for Mother's birthday?" I dryly questioned.

The men exchanged looks and, to my surprise, nodded.

"Perhaps an elective course," I suggested. "I will consider it, gentlemen."