There are a few scenes in this story I wanted to get to before I post another one in Beyond Ghosts and Shadows. So for anyone reading both, this one might be updated a few times before I post the ones I've already written for BGAS.
CH 35
Celeste assured me she had a place to stay for the night, indoors and alone, and the means to purchase a meal. If she was in need of assistance, I gave her the address to the gallery where I would be forced to mingle from seven until ten.
"I don't want to interrupt," she said, tucking the card with the address into her pocket as we walked out of the university together.
"Trust me, I would welcome an opportunity to run from the gallery if you should feel the need to burst through the doors and declare there was a fire."
With her wide, questioning eyes, Celeste blinked at me. "Why would there be a fire?"
My humor was truly wasted on her adolescent innocence. "Most likely there will not be. It's merely a scenario of how I could leave the gallery quicker and be in bed at a decent hour."
"Surely there will be hundreds of people there to see you," she said.
"Thankfully, not hundreds. And I doubt there will be anyone there to see me specifically, but some of the other artists will have guests in attendance."
"What about your students? Will Daniel Lincoln be there?"
"My students attended the opening last weekend. This particular event is by private invitation."
A shadow of concern momentarily rested on her face.
"Are you going to be at the gallery alone?"
Her question did nothing to quell my already rising anxiety over the gallery showing. I was aware that outside of Jean, there was probably no one else that I knew and I could hardly rely on a single friend to cling to my side for three hours–if he attended at all, which seemed somewhat doubtful since he'd already seen the art on display the previous week.
"Thankfully, I enjoy my own company."
Celeste remained unconvinced. "Will you be the only one without a guest?"
"I have no idea, but I am certain that I'm in desperate need of coffee," I replied as we approached the cafe.
Celeste continued to study me with grave concern. By the full light of day, her blackened eye didn't appear as terrible as it had inside the studio, for which I was grateful. A bit of ointment used for minor cuts seemed to have helped quiet the dark blue circling her eye.
"May I sit with you?" she asked. "Or…?"
"Or would I prefer it if you sat at a table over and stared at me?"
Her cheeks reddened, but she smiled back at me, same as Elizabeth would have done save for a roll of her eyes at her ridiculous uncle.
My cup of coffee was delivered to the table by a young man who had served me many times and knew precisely what I wanted: black coffee, no cream or sugar.
"Two of your best sandwiches as well," I said before he walked away.
"Professor?" Celeste said suddenly.
I took a sip of coffee, meeting her eye over the rim of the cup. "Hmmm?"
"Do you think there will be additional boxing lessons?" she asked.
"I'm not sure if our instructor is still in Paris," I lied.
"He is," she replied.
My breath stilled as I was certain I knew what she would say next. I followed her gaze to the other side of the outdoor seating where Bernard Montlaur attempted to burn a hole in my head as he glared at me.
"Shall I invite him to sit with us?" she asked, already on her feet.
"I–"
Montlaur stood as well, his posture that of a primate, knuckles planted on the tabletop.
Tongue lodged in my cheek, I inhaled, assuming the chances of him beating me to death in public were quite low, and that if he did anything at all, it would most likely be snarling like some sort of mythical beast before he stormed off.
"Good afternoon, Monsieur Montlaur," I said as he approached, still favoring his right leg.
He continued to stare at me. "What do you want?"
"Would you like to sit with us?" Celeste asked brightly, apparently unaware that the brute of a man hovering over me had no intention of accompanying us for lunch.
"Why would I…?" Bernard's lips remained parted, his gaze fixed on the girl's blackened eye. "What in the hell happened to you?"
Immediately she looked away.
"Do not dare tell me you fell," Bernard snarled. "Now get on with it. What happened?"
Celeste bowed her head. "I was walking down the street," she said, her voice light and trembling. "A man I have seen before asked me to come with him. I told him I was tired, but he said…" She took a deep breath, bracing herself before she continued. "He said I didn't look tired."
Montlaur remained towering over her, a wall of a man blocking out the sun and foot traffic on the street. "And then what happened?" he demanded.
"He took my hand," she replied. "There were too many people around and I didn't want to embarrass him, so I…I didn't say anything."
Montlaur lowered his chin. A sound that could only be described as a growl hummed in his throat.
"We reached his home, he released my hand to unlock the door, and I ran," Celeste continued.
My heart felt as though it were lodged in my throat as I visualized what she described in the back of my mind. This nameless bastard must have seen her shortly after my students disbanded from the Purple Whale. Regrettably I couldn't help but think I could have intervened if I'd walked rather than taking Raoul de Chagny's carriage home.
"He caught up to you?" Montlaur asked, his face void of emotion.
"Yes. Before I reached the corner, he grabbed me around here," she answered, touching her belly, her voice hollow and eyes blank. "He pushed me into the wall. I screamed, but…but not loud enough for the people across the street to hear me."
Montlaur's eyes narrowed, and he cursed under his breath. I felt the thrum of apathy vibrate through every nerve in my body, imagining even a single person hearing a girl struggle and continuing on their way, heedless of her desperate pleas for assistance when she attempted to fight off an adult man.
"He struck me in the eye," she said. "And I bit his hand."
Montlaur nodded in approval. "Good."
"When he reached for me again, I hit him," she said, holding her right arm out, palm pulled back. "I hit him in the nose."
Uninvited, Montlaur pulled out the chair beside Celeste and sat, jostling the whole table in the process. "Like I showed you," he said, a note of praise in his tone. "I should have shown you how to kick his balls into his abdomen. He'd stay down for certain."
Celeste's lips pulled into a faint smile. "He did not follow me after that."
Remorse flitted through the puglist's gaze. I thought of the tattoo on his shoulder and the article about his daughter's body found after she and her mother had disappeared.
"You did well," Bernard said in his rumbling tone.
Celeste sat up a little straighter. "When is the next lesson?" she asked, her words and expression filled with hope.
Montlaur's gaze left hers briefly in order to glare at me. "I ain't a boxing coach," he grumbled. "One lesson and one lesson only."
His statement immediately deflated her. Shoulders sagging, she bowed her head and nodded. "If you should reconsider…"
"I won't," he assured her.
Celeste pulled at her sleeves, revealing the scrapes on her hands traveled far up the undersides of her bruised arms. There were four distinct oval-shaped bruises to her flesh on one side and a large, thumb-sized one on the other, the remnants of the struggle from the night before.
"How old are you?" Montlaur snapped.
"Thirteen and a half."
"And what is a girl your age doing away from home alone? Without a chaperone?"
Celeste's lips parted. "I don't…I don't have…"
Realization crossed Montlaur's features. His mouth twisted into a scowl and he crossed his arms. "Well, that ain't right. A girl of your age ain't got no business on the street alone, you're liable to get yourself…" He stopped himself short of whatever thought was on his mind. Raped, beaten to the brink of death, or killed were all possibilities for any young girl alone on the street. "The wrong type of people look for girls like you after a certain hour."
"I know." She lowered her gaze and swallowed, and Montlaur turned his attention to me. I was aware that he silently evaluated my intentions with a girl nearly a third my own age.
"Stand up," Bernard growled at me. "I will speak to her alone. Now."
I looked from him to Celeste. "I will not be far."
"You'll be as far as I tell you to stay," Montlaur threatened.
Inhaling, I walked to the table Bernard had left and noted several empty plates that looked more like a meal for a family than one man. They all appeared practically licked clean, as if he had turned into a starving dog at meal time.
"Has that man mistreated you?" Bernard asked. "Don't look at him and answer me. He is not allowed back at this table until I say so."
"The professor?"
Montlaur nodded once. He briefly turned his attention to me. "Look the other way."
I took a breath and turned my attention toward the street.
"What has he done to you?" Montlaur grumbled.
"He has not done anything."
"I said don't look at him," the Puglist said. "Hand to God, if he's done anything, if he's said he will do anything to you, I will kill him with my bare hands."
"Do not hurt the professor," Celeste blurted out, her voice tight with emotion. "Please, Monsieur Puglist, please I beg you, do not hurt him."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Celeste clutch Bernard's meaty hand in hers.
"Has he made you promises? Furs, jewelry, the prospect of marriage?"
Celeste shook her head. "No, he has not done anything of the sort. Please, I will do whatever you ask if you do not kill him," she said, squeezing his fist tighter. "Anything. Anything you want."
Montlaur pulled his hand away from hers. "What sort of offer is that?" he asked. "From a girl your age?"
One of desperation, I wanted to tell him, one from a hungry belly and tired head that hadn't known a real pillow or had her own bed in months. One from a young girl who had sold herself to survive, who had no other means of providing for herself outside of the offers men made to her in the night.
"Don't hurt him," she begged. "Please, don't hurt the professor. He has been kind to me and asks nothing in return."
Montlaur softened when he looked at her. "You are asking a lot of me, child, far more than I am capable of promising. What is he to you, anyhow?"
"He is the professor," Celeste said.
"What relation?"
"None," she admitted.
"How are you acquainted with this adult man?"
Celeste pursed her lips.
"I will not ask again, girl. Tell me, how familiar are you with him?"
She curled a finger around a strand of her hair. "He heard me singing."
"Singing?"
"On the opera steps," she clarified.
"Well, ain't you a fancy little songbird."
"The professor gave me twenty francs," Celeste told him.
"In exchange for what?"
"He told me to find a room alone," she answered. "And before he walked away, he gave me a great deal more banknotes from another performer who left his earnings behind." She turned and smiled at me. "The professor is like…like I imagine an uncle would be."
"That damnable fool?" Bernard scoffed. "Are you mad, child? He's an obnoxious bastard if ever there was one."
"I don't care," she said defensively. "He's…he's my professor. And I am his cleaning assistant."
"What in the hell does that mean? Cleaning assistant? Are you a singing maid?"
Celeste sat up straighter. "I use Ivory soap to clean the brushes for the class," she proudly stated. "I have my own name card with a giraffe."
"With a giraffe?" Montlaur gruffly questioned.
"Drawn by the professor." Celeste looked toward me again. "My favorite animal."
Montlaur sighed in disgust. "Fine. You have my word that I won't kill him, but one snide remark and I will punch him in the nose, as he rightly deserves for being a son of…Pardon my language."
"I will tell the professor not to make a snide remark so you do not feel compelled to hurt him."
Montlaur released a hearty belly laugh, one that I imagined sounded quite similar to the devil when amused.
"You think he will listen to you?" Montlaur asked, crossing his arms. "He ain't smart enough to listen to reason."
"I will ask nicely," she replied. "And I am certain he will listen."
Montlaur grunted. "Go and ask nicely for that fool to return to the table. And tell him I'll see to your lesson tomorrow morning, six sharp. If you are not there on time, I'll not offer again. Do you understand?"
Celeste grinned back at him. "I will be there at five."
"Six," he corrected as he stood. "On the dot."
"And you will teach me how to kick balls–"
Montlaur made a face. "Yes, yes, I will have you practice on the professor. I hope you are a slow learner, for my own amusement, as I would greatly like to see you kick the living sh-."
I cleared my throat before he finished his thought. "Mind yourself and your language."
Montlaur scowled at me, but kept his mouth shut.
"Pugilist," Celeste interrupted before he stood and excused himself.
"What now?" he growled.
"Are you attending the art show this evening? The professor will be there. I am certain he would be glad to see a familiar face."
I grunted. Of all the people in Paris, he was one of the last people I desired to see at the gallery.
"Art show? Hell no, sounds miserable," he snapped, before storming off.
OoO
By five in the evening, I had walked Elvira around the neighborhood, fed her dinner, changed clothes twice, and attempted to organize an impeccably tidy home studio.
I pulled out a canvas I hadn't seen in quite some time, a painting from the days I had spent at Bjorn Kimmer's bedside while he refused to die a swift death.
When Bjorn seemed quite hell-bent on prolonging his own demise, I wandered through the house, examining the rooms I had little memory of ever occupying.
Everything of value had been sold and removed, leaving behind the outlines of rugs and scuffs from furniture. The emptiness fit the interior; barren and unwelcoming, just like the man writhing in his bed, surrounded by the buzz of flies and his own filth.
There had been no signs that Erik lived within the home where we had been born. There was a child-sized bed in an empty room that I was fairly certain had once been the nursery, but nothing that would have suited a boy of twelve. There were no toys scattered about, no shoes left by the back door. It was as if my brother had not existed–not until I reached the cellar and discovered all of the evidence I needed to learn of how my brother had been treated for nine horrendous years.
The thought made me shiver as I sat in my studio, the painting I had not looked at in years on the easel. My throat tightened as I studied the image in shades of gray, black and white. The figure laid out at the bottom of the cellar stairs was elongated, outstretched arms and legs and torso exaggerated, as if he was being stretched by his own misery.
The faceless entity mirrored how I had felt the morning I walked down the cellar steps, nearly tumbling down to the bottom as several boards were loose and others misaligned. Dust moats swirled around me in the dawn light, filtered through the barred windows, and I gazed around the dismal surroundings, a lightless prison where a child had been forced to accept his punishment for whatever misdeeds Bjorn thought his son had committed.
Tarps covered forgotten furnishings; a table, three chairs that didn't match, empty containers of kerosene and some broken candles. There was a tarp beneath the stairs and another one that appeared to have been fashioned into a pillow along with pieces of straw tied together with twine and various sized bolts also held together with string, the pieces placed together like arms and legs.
Toys, I realized, objects Erik had devised to keep himself entertained while he was sent to the cellar for punishment, most likely without food and water. I had no idea how long he was forced to stay beneath the house, but even a moment was far too long for a child who had always feared the darkness.
The more I looked around, the heavier my heart became as I feared that the cellar was not for occasional punishment, but it had been where my brother resided full time, languishing in the darkness he had always feared.
There were books tucked beneath the stairs, the pages moldy and falling apart, and stumps of candles in puddles of melted wax. There were marks on the walls, drawings etched into the dirt floor and stone walls and writing as well. He had scrawled his name hundreds of times: ERIK, ERIK, ERIK KIRE ERIK ERIK KIRE KIRE.
The realization of how he had been forced to live was more than I could bear. I found myself sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, chest heaving and throat tight. Alone, heedless of whether or not Bjorn could hear me, I wept in the place my brother had called home for nine long, agonizing years.
I would have taken his place if given the chance. I would have begged our father to take me, to do whatever he desired and release Erik. Beat me, I thought. I wasn't certain if I said the words aloud. Bludgeon me. Starve me. Leave me on the very brink of death. But release Erik. Spare him whatever atrocities you forced upon my brother. Leave him the hell alone, you cruel, evil bastard.
Despite how frustrating Erik could be, I had never physically punished him for his incessant questions or need to be touching me day and night. I allowed him to hang onto me, to speak against my lips, to bury his face against my neck when it was uncomfortably warm in our shared room.
The affection he craved I gladly gave to him, content with how close he insisted on being. He was the only person whom I had ever associated love and touch being connected, the only person in the world with whom I had felt a sense of true belonging. He had needed me and I had needed him.
I wondered what went through his mind when Bjorn struck him for the first time, the fear he must have felt, how he must have burst into tears, not knowing what he had done or how to make it stop. He was so accustomed to being soothed, to having arms around him, a gentle hand stroking his spine.
Bjorn had not struck him a single time. From the letters Alak sent to Val, I knew that Erik had spent years being abused by our father, caged like a beast and struck until he was limping and covered in welts.
The thought made me weep harder for what my brother had endured because I hadn't noticed him wander from the house. His suffering was my doing, every bruise and laceration something I had done to him out of my own foolishness.
I had no idea how long I remained at the bottom of the stairs, but I knew for certain it was not as long as Erik had spent as a prisoner, tormented by the man who had never wanted either of his children.
The painting on the easel was little more than a blur to my watery eyes. I had hidden the painting behind others, my feelings mixed about the image I'd painted at Bjorn's bedside. It was the most raw and truthful self-portrait I'd ever created, my grief laid out in each stroke of the brush. It was void of color, just as my world had been when I thought of the years Erik and I had been separated. A lifetime, really, far more years apart than together.
Bjorn had done more than keep Erik from me; he had taken away my purpose, my reason for living and the only love I'd ever felt from another person. He had taken everything from me.
oOo
There was a knock at the door that I almost didn't hear as Elvira screeched from the studio doorway behind me. She had left her perch and wandered into the room where she eyed the canvases stacked up against the wall.
"One moment," I called.
"I'm busy," Elvira yelled.
"Don't you even think about it," I warned as Elivra started to reach for one of the paintings with her beak, intending to pierce the canvas and shred it.
She repeated my words, her tone matching mine.
"Come here, Elvira," I said, holding my arm out. "You awful little chicken."
Macaws, like every other bird in the world, were not truly tame, and I was well aware that such a feral creature had no desire to come to me like a dog to its master. She looked at me briefly and spread her wings, waddling across the floor and past me toward something far more entertaining: the prospect of creating chaos.
"Snails," I said. "Delicious snails."
Immediately she forgot the canvases and walked quickly toward me and stepped up my outstretched arm at the prospect of her favorite food, and allowed me to place her onto her perch.
"Shame on you," I said when she attempted to bite me, undoubtedly when she realized I had tricked her into obedience.
Elvira hid her face under her wing like a toddler who had been scolded.
"I wouldn't have to shame you if you listened," I pointed out.
Still, she sulked, and I exhaled in frustration before I answered the door at last, finding Val standing with his arms crossed, looking annoyed as usual.
"There you are," he said as he slipped past me through the open door and paused, seeing Elvira with one foot outstretched. "Is she secured?"
"Seeing how I was not expecting a guest, she is free to fly where she pleases."
"If she flies toward me, I will kick her."
"If you kick Elvira, you'll be crawling to the street on broken hands and shattered knees," I snapped.
Val ignored me. "You've missed the last few Sundays," he commented. "We have been worried about you."
"We?"
"Carmen, Elizabeth and myself," Val gruffly replied. "Your family."
"My time has been occupied."
"Your time and your bed," Val replied under his breath.
I scoffed at his words. "It's the end of the semester and the school year, Val, but I appreciate your interest in my private life and how I choose to spend my time."
"I am not here to argue."
"No, you are here to tell me how I have yet again failed to live up to your expectations."
Val's lips parted. His jaw moved, but no words came out from his mouth. "I suppose I did not enter your home with the best of intentions," he admitted. "It is difficult to speak to someone who doesn't want to speak to you."
"And now you have placed the blame on me. At least you are sticking to the usual script."
Val exhaled and briefly closed his eyes. "Phelan," he said. "I…"
It continued to amaze me that Val had always succeeded in making the three years between us feel like decades, like I was nothing more than an ignorant child and he was the wise, judgmental adult able to point out all of my faults.
"I apologize," Val said. "Ever since Jean called me to his home because you were injured, I have been increasingly concerned for your well-being."
"Yes, you made it perfectly clear that you believe I should be committed to an asylum for my deteriorating health."
He looked away from me. "May I speak?" he snapped. "Without your commentary on the matter?"
I crossed my arms, waiting for the apology he offered to turn into all of the reasons why I was unfit to remain in my own apartment.
"I wish I knew what I could do for you," Val blurted out. "To put your mind at ease, to settle the disturbance that plagues you. It's difficult to see someone I have always cared about so…so aimless in his life."
Disturbance, plagues, aimless… that was how he viewed me: a madman with a broken compass.
"I pray to God every night for guidance so that I may help lead you from your sorrows," Val said. "To help you find your purpose in this life. That is all I want for you."
Val's attempt at sincerity fell flat, but I didn't argue. Well before we had boarded the train to Paris from Conforeit, the rift between us had been growing. He looked at me with disdain and spoke to me like I was ignorant.
"I will make greater effort so that I do not continue to disappoint you."
Val frowned at me. "Phelan," he said softly. "You twist my words."
"Are you not disappointed in me?" I questioned.
He failed to answer, instead preferring to look away and sigh heavily.
"As I said, I will make greater effort–"
"Why must you be so childish? Every time I express to you that I am concerned, you turn my words into criticism. You act as though all I have ever done is berate you, like–"
"Like Alak."
Val closed his eyes and took a breath. "I am not my father, same as you are not yours."
"Some would say I am very much like Bjorn, a near mirror-image."
"Is that what you want to be, Phelan? A combative, drunken fool sent to an early grave? You are better than that. You know you have far more potential than he ever did. I know it, and damn it, your father knew it as well. You–"
Val's expression changed, the frustration knit into his brow giving way to curiosity. I followed his gaze to the easel and the painting I had propped up in my studio.
"Is that one of yours?" he asked.
My heart stuttered. The painting from my time at Bjorn's bedside was not something I wanted others to observe. It was far too personal of a subject for me to share with anyone, least of all Val, whom I assumed would use it against me if he knew the true meaning behind my work.
"No–"
"Why is it on an easel if it's not yours?" he questioned, stepping out of the parlor and into my private studio.
"Val, I do not like others in my studio."
Ignoring my words, he planted himself in front of the canvas, his hands on his hips, eyes scanning every detail.
"This is…extraordinary, Phelan. When did you paint this?"
The longer he stared at the painting, the more uncomfortable I became with him examining the part of me I had never wanted him to see. If he knew the meaning behind the portrait, undoubtedly he would make arrangements with the asylum and have me carted off.
"I painted it a while ago," I answered impatiently.
"I had no idea you were this..." He glanced at me. "Talented, I suppose."
"Your compliments are so sincere," I dryly replied.
"Honestly, Phelan, this should be at the gallery," Val said. "This should be in a museum. The emotion is heavy, but I cannot force my gaze away. I've never felt that way about any piece of art previously."
I plucked the canvas off the easel and set the painting behind several others on the lower shelf and out of his view. "No, it is not gallery or museum quality, which you would not understand given you know nothing about art."
"Phelan, you underestimate yourself."
"It is not for sale or display," I firmly replied. "Now if you will excuse me, I must prepare for the gallery show."
At last Val conceded. "One day," he said, "you'll have everyone in Paris talking about that painting. I guarantee it."
"This will never see the light of day, Val. I guarantee it."
oOo
As expected, I was not familiar with anyone at the private gallery showing–at least not well enough acquainted to mingle for any length of time.
Edgar De Gas and I exchanged pleasantries at the very start of the show, a full half hour before guests began to arrive in small groups. Eventually the rest of the artists spread out, prepared to greet patrons and answer questions potential buyers had for the different mediums on display.
The line to speak De Gas was never fewer than ten people, all of whom seemed to annoy the popular artist while most of the other people with art on display fielded one or two guests at most.
Given that I was unknown, I was asked the same questions over and over: How long have you lived in Paris? How long have you been painting? Why is this the first I've heard of you? The repetition was painful, the eyes scrutinizing, and I felt beads of sweat forming on my brow as the gallery filled with more and more people.
Ninety minutes in and I felt dizzy with growing anxiety. Once there was a break from conversation, I walked toward the back room, intending to take a moment to myself only to find the door locked. Annoyed, I returned to my spot on the floor in time to see Florine walk in, dressed in egg yolk yellow.
There was no point pretending I had not seen her as there was little distraction on my end, and with nowhere to retreat, I clasped my hands behind my back and waited for her to approach, which she did in agonizingly slow fashion.
Everyone in attendance knew Florine, either from her mother and father's station in life or the name she had married into not long after our relationship had come to a forced ending. She greeted everyone warmly, at least by appearance, smiling when appropriate, touching her chest or clasping her hands in response to whomever stood in front of her. It was all an act to people who had enough money within their bank accounts, an intricate display of niceties that I had never learned, despite my years at the bank attempting to imitate their mannerisms.
Twenty minutes later she made her way toward me, her eyes meeting mine. She smiled at me, same as she had done with everyone else, and looked me over.
"Phelan," she said.
"Madame Fabienne."
"Would you do me the honor of showing me your paintings," she requested.
Given that every single piece of art had a card with the title, medium, and artist's accompanying it, there was no question which paintings belonged to me, but I offered my arm nonetheless and guided her around the gallery, drawing looks from many different patrons.
"How are you?" Florine asked once we reached the furthest end of the gallery.
"My heart still beats," I answered.
"Thank goodness or we would not be standing here tonight."
"The fortune is undoubtedly mine."
Florine clutched my arm tighter. "Do not be so certain of that."
I couldn't begin to imagine the meaning behind her words. "How are you, Madame?"
"I am wonderful," she replied, stepping nearer to me. She inhaled deeply. "You are wearing a different cologne."
"Am I?"
"I'm certain of it."
"I am surprised you noticed."
Florine chuckled. "Have you forgotten how I once knew you?"
I glanced around the gallery to see if anyone had heard her comment, but the guests were more preoccupied with their champagne and the price tags attached to the art they browsed than potential scandal and gossip.
"We once spent every minute of the afternoon together," Florine whispered.
"I recall."
"Good memories?"
I didn't reply, uncertain of how I should answer as those afternoons had been truly unforgettable, stolen moments in her parents estate–the largest private residence I had ever stepped foot inside, including the home Jean had inherited. Florine and her sisters had their own wing, separate from the halls where her brother had his own apartment and her parents a completely different place of their own to retreat.
Sprawling did not begin to describe their home. The gardens were incredibly well-maintained, the dining room bigger than the apartment I currently rented, and the receiving room for guests always adorned with flowers grown in their own greenhouse. It was a maze of halls, alcoves, and rooms, one that I swiftly learned how to navigate in order to find Florine's bedroom.
It seemed a waste that her four poster bed was only occupied by her. There were a dozen pillows propped up against the carved headboard, varying in firmness as well as a bolster for her feet. In the midst of summer, the entire room smelled like lilacs and lemons thanks to the garden outside of her bedroom–scents that I associated with having Florine alone.
The moment she shut and locked her door, we were drawn together like magnets, her body crushed to mind while we stumbled toward her bed and flung clothing around the room, heedless of where her skirt fell or my trousers landed.
"You were not at all shy," Florine whispered.
"Neither were you."
There had been no need to blush or look away. I had no idea how many lovers Florine entertained before we had been together, but she was certainly aware of her needs and unafraid to voice her desires.
We told each other our preferences and found pleasure in each other's arms, often multiple times in the same afternoon, between long, languid sessions of kissing and caressing bare flesh until our needs made us one and we groaned and vibrated with passion.
Florine had not been the first woman with whom I had intimate relations, but she was by the far the first woman whose drive matched mine, who initiated our moments of shared pleasure and who whispered in my ear where to touch her. She gave every indication that she wanted me, that she needed me to be with her, that there was no one else on her mind or in her bed for the months we were together.
And at the age of twenty, I couldn't imagine being with anyone else. When she gazed into my eyes, it felt as if we shared the same heart and lungs, our nerves intertwined, our blood pumping to the same eager organs. She drove me absolutely mad with primal need while at the same time calming my feral mind. I had done whatever it took to keep her in my arms for as long as I could have her. She fulfilled me in ways I had never imagined, and after months and months of never considering that our passion could lead to anything tangible, she told me she was with child.
Neither of us had taken precautions to prevent conception. It hadn't crossed my mind when the coil within me tightened and I pulled her closer that her womb could be filled, not after months of enthusiastically taking her to bed and her courses still coming monthly without fail.
My initial reaction to the news had been elation. The woman whom I adored, whose body had been my solace, carried my child. It didn't matter that we had only been together for the summer, that we spent most of our time naked in her bed and a very small portion of our relationship in the park, walking together. We were bound together through our physical affection and her womb would swell with the proof of our secret encounters.
We would run away together, I assumed, perhaps to the south of France or out of the country entirely. I would paint and she would care for the child and somehow everything would work out and we would be content, lovers no longer needing to keep our affairs private.
"I will be married soon," she had whispered in my ear while I took her again, each thrust rocking the headboard enthusiastically.
Marriage.
Not to me, but to the man who had been promised her hand, a wealthy ship builder who was twice her age and childless. I'd heard rumors he was impotent, that there was no possibility of him siring children as he was not capable of intercourse.
"Don't marry him," I urged.
Her fingers were tangled in my hair, her hips lifting to meet mine. I felt the curve of her belly, the slight rise that had been my doing.
"I have to before I start showing," she said.
"You don't have–"
"We can stay lovers," she suggested. "Please, Phelan, please–"
Her body trembled beneath mine, and she groaned deeply, her fingers digging into my arms, and the whisper of my name on her lips led to my undoing as well.
We kissed to prevent words from leaving our lips, we touched to remind ourselves of what we had shared. I recalled quite distinctly that I had not wanted to let her go, knowing that eventually it would be for good.
"I could have you still," she told me. "I cannot imagine being denied such pleasures."
"Florine," I had murmured in her ear, "I will not warm the bed of another man's wife. Don't marry him."
"What can you possibly provide for me, Phelan, outside of this bed?" she had asked. "You have no money, no property and no name."
At once the fantasy life I had imagined was swiftly paved over by the reality of what a life spent together would look like: a struggling, nameless artist and his penniless bride disowned by her family. I could give her and our child a life of poverty.
And, in the back of my mind, I knew I had inherited my father's insatiable demons and the desire to fight. I had no idea if I could keep those demons under control or if they would control me.
Weeks later, Florine had been swiftly whisked away and wed at once, but I couldn't erase the memories of her body crushed to mine, the feel of her breasts against my chest, the scent of her hair with my face buried in her shoulder.
I paused in the corner of the gallery and removed my arm from hers, feeling as though her close proximity delivered me far too near the past and a life I had truly desired, despite the difficulties we would have faced. I would have done anything for Florine if she would agreed to stay with me.
"A letter arrived from the university this morning," Florine said suddenly.
My heart stuttered. And that was why she had come to the gallery showing, I realized. She had every intention of confronting me in public, in a place where I would be forced to withstand whatever she had to say to me.
But first, she had reminded me of what I had lost the day I refused to remain in her life as nothing more than a secret lover, sneaking through the shadows to her side, fulfilling her in ways her husband could not.
"Florine–"
She pulled the folded envelope from her dress pocket and handed it to me. "Read."
Reluctantly I took the envelope and removed the letter, scanning through the contents. There was mention of Hugo and a generous donation as well as welcoming Marco Fabienne to the fall semester into Monsieur Raitt's pottery studio.
"A full scholarship," Florine said quite proudly.
"In…pottery."
"In art," Florine corrected.
"The letter specifically mentions pottery. Does Marco show an interest in clay?" I asked, handing the letter back. "I thought he wanted to paint."
Florine folded the envelope and returned it to her pocket. "He will be quite pleased that he has been accepted to the university, regardless if it's pottery or painting." Her blue eyes met mine and she smiled with more sincerity than I had seen from her in years. "You have done well by Marco." She stepped closer, grasping my wrist as she whispered, "by our son."
The letter had no mention of me and I had no prior knowledge that Cecil le Behr had admitted Marco for the fall semester. The last I had heard, the dean had denied him at the same time he had placed me on suspension.
"I'm happy for him," I said.
Florine continued to grasp my wrist. "Marco has been taking lessons several days a week from a secret instructor," she told me. "Early mornings."
"The lessons are not with me if that is what you are implying."
"I am aware it isn't with you," she said, keeping her voice low as we continued through the gallery. "I've followed him."
I sniggered at her words. "Why would you follow him, Florine?"
"He's my son."
"And he's seventeen. He should be out doing plenty of things without your consent or knowledge. As a matter of fact, I hope he's off causing trouble right this moment, while you are attending this function."
"Causing trouble?" She gasped. "As you were doing at his age?"
"You are already aware I had no supervision whatsoever at his age."
"Perhaps you needed someone to keep an eye on you."
"Perhaps I did," I admitted.
Most teens were rebellious, testing the rules of their households and causing mischief. There was no true enjoyment in sneaking out as the only one who would reprimand me was Valgarde and he was far more condescending than concerned.
Florine stroked my right arm with the tips of her fingers. "You were my true rebellion," she said. "A very satisfying rebellion at that, under my parents' roof, no less..."
"You are not yourself tonight," I commented.
"Do you still believe you know me well enough to say such words?"
I didn't reply. There had been many times when we finished each other's sentences, when in the midst of an intimate afternoon, we held full conversations about philosophy and mythology, where we discussed travel to Egypt and Eastern Europe between the sheets and mutual climaxes, our minds and bodies combined. I had never been with anyone like her before or since.
But I was aware that it had been seventeen years since there had been anything truly between us, since the man she married had unexpectedly passed away and we had attempted to rebuild what had been lost. A wailing infant had changed the dynamics, and when I looked at the black-haired boy, when Florine insisted that I hold him if only for a moment, his piercing wails and the weight of him against my injured left arm filled my thoughts with Bjorn Kimmer and his malicious intentions.
Shamefully, I had not pursued the possibility of a relationship once she was widowed. I feared what was barely kept dormant within me, the potential to ruin everything and everyone around me.
"This," Florine said as we found ourselves at the back of the gallery and standing in front of the largest canvas I had brought for Stefan. "This one is my favorite."
"Because it's a painting of daffodils," I replied, "and yellow is your favorite color."
"And the bird," she said. "What is that?"
"A tanager."
Florine smiled as she gazed at the painting. "I would like to purchase this one."
"I would give it to you," I offered.
"No," she said quickly. The back of her hand grazed mine. "No, you will not simply hand it over to me. I will pay the asking price."
"If this is because of the acceptance letter for Marco, I assure you that purchasing this painting is not necessary."
Ignoring my words, Florine removed the card from beneath the painting and motioned one of Stefan's employees over. "Madame Florine Fabienne," she said. "Mark this one as sold."
The young man nodded, replacing the card with a small red sign that said SOLD in bold, black letters while scribbling her name on the original card and scurrying toward Stefan, who rang a bell he kept in his breast pocket, garnering the full attention of the gallery.
"Our first sale of the evening, ladies and gentleman. And what is this here? Flame-colored Tanager, by Phelan Kimmer, sold to…" Stefan bowed toward Florine. "The esteemed collector Florine Fabienne. Thank you, Madame, for your patronage. I will see it personally delivered to your estate at the end of the show."
The crowd applauded before returning to their browsing. Florine placed her hand back on my arm and inclined her head.
"If I may be so bold, Phelan, being here with you tonight makes me realize there is something else I'd like personally delivered to my estate this evening," she murmured, her gaze drawn to my lips.