A Monster's Coming of Age Story

by G. D. Falksen

  Forever.

  Slowly she walked out to the balcony and stared off into the darkening sky. The world that she had delighted in only a day before now looked hideous to her. The birds’ evening songs made a mockery of her sorrow. The rolling hills beyond the villa walls were like barrow mounds for a dead earth.

  In that moment, wracked with sorrow, heavy with loss, and still confused by the medicine’s poison, Babette saw nothing left for her. All that she loved was gone. She was a woman of reason, and she saw only one reasonable solution to her pain.

  With uncertain movements but with unhesitant thoughts, Babette climbed onto the railing of the balcony. She looked down upon the stone courtyard beneath her. It was difficult to gauge the distance in her muddled state, but she was certain that the fall would kill her—if not at once, then within a few hours. She could bear the pain of a slow death. What she could not bear was the pain of a long life.

  “Korbinian,” she whispered, “Alistair, I am coming.”

  She opened her arms to the dying sun and stepped out into oblivion.

  * * * *

  “Liebchen.”

  That voice…

  “Liebchen.”

  But it was not possible.

  “Liebchen, you must wake up.”

  Babette slowly forced one eye open. As she did so, she felt a rush of agony flow through her. She lay on the paving stones of the villa courtyard, drenched in her own blood. Something was broken, several somethings, in fact.

  But she was alive, and to her horror she felt not the slow ebb into death but an insurmountable rush of life. Her body felt as if it were aflame, weightless, filled with vigor, as it never had been before. Her will to live had returned, forced upon her from some primeval source buried deep within her.

  But the voice…

  Babette tilted her head and looked up. It was painful to move, but she did not care.

  She saw Korbinian, dressed in his uniform as he had been that terrible night. He knelt before her and looked down upon her tenderly, his eyes alight with passion just as she remembered them.

  “Babette, my love,” he said, “come, we must get you inside.”

  “But…” Babette stammered. “But you are dead.”

  “Did I not say that I would always love you?” Korbinian asked. “Death cannot keep us apart.”

  “But how?”

  “It does not matter,” Korbinian said. “What matters is that you are hurt. Give me your hand; we must get you inside.”

  Babette reached out and took Korbinian’s hand. She expected him to vanish at her touch, like a phantom from a dream, but she felt his strong, warm grasp, his smooth skin, his gentle fingers.

  “Now we will never be apart,” Korbinian said. “Never.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  William peered into his cup of brandy for a short time.

  “You say my granddaughter threw herself from her balcony?” he asked Giovanni, who stood nearby.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And she then—let me see if I have this right,” William said. “She then crawled from the courtyard into the foyer before collapsing? Where she was found by one of the serving maids?”

  Giovanni nodded and repeated, “Yes, sir.”

  William lowered his glass and leaned forward.

  “She crawled?” he asked, sharply emphasizing the word.

  “Yes.”

  It seemed impossible. A grown man should not have been able to move after such a fall, certainly not a tiny young woman like Babette.

  Her Scion breeding finally made manifest, William thought, almost smiling. It must be.

  “Where is she now?”

  “In her bedroom, resting,” Giovanni said. “The doctor has been sent for.”

  “Where is my son?” William asked. “Has he been told?”

  “He is with her while she rests, Signore.”

  William nodded.

  “Inform me when the doctor arrives,” he said. “You may leave.”

  Giovanni bowed and backed out of the study.

  William sipped the brandy and mulled over a few disparate thoughts. He had anticipated an attempted suicide, but the medicine they had given her ought to have kept her asleep until morning. That her body had recovered from it in half the expected time was as remarkable as her surviving the fall.

  The Blood breeds true.

  It was a pleasant thought, and it made William laugh. They had, all of them, been wrong about her. Babette was not a runt; she was as true-blooded as he was, certainly more than her father. It meant that she would survive the ordeal.

  It also meant that William had been right to deal with the child. The scandal Babette would have faced was nothing compared to the violence that Alfonse would inflict upon both mother and son if he knew that Babette was more than a runt to be dismissed. To lose a human was an irritation, but no worse than a dog wandering off to a different master. But to be rejected by a Scion of lesser lineage was a humiliation. And the line between humiliation and fury was quickly crossed.

  No, he had certainly been right to do it.

  * * * *

  The next day, after the child’s funeral, William went straight up to Babette’s room. He had seen her briefly the night before, just after the attempted suicide, but Babette had been delirious and in poor condition for conversation. It had gone without saying that she would not join them for the burial.

  It was just as well. James had been sufficiently distraught. William did not need a sorrowful mother there as well.

  Babette was awake and alert when he arrived. She looked up at him and smiled. She seemed strangely happy for a woman who had attempted to kill herself only a day before.

  “Hello, Grandfather,” Babette said.

  “Babette, how are you feeling?” William asked, sitting by the bed. “You gave us all a fright yesterday.”

  “Well, it is rather painful,” Babette said. “I fear my legs may be broken. And my ribs.”

  She placed her fingers against her chest and pressed inward. She winced in pain and stopped.

  “Yes, the ribs as well.”

  “That sort of thing does come from a fall upon hard stone,” William said. “What in Heaven’s name possessed you to do such a thing?”

  Babette thought for a moment and gazed off toward the window. She slowly looked back and said:

  “Primarily grief. Grief and that abysmal tonic you gave to me. You can scarcely blame me under the circumstances.”

  “Perhaps,” William said. “You seem quite recovered.”

  “Nearly dying changes one’s perspective on life,” Babette said.

  That was probably true.

  “I shall have to take your word for it,” William said.

  * * * *

  “That would seem best,” Babette said to Grandfather. “It would be most unfortunate if you were to come within any proximity to death. I would be upset. Don’t you agree?”

  She looked to Korbinian, who sat in bed next to her. She smiled at him. How marvelous to have him back. It was so marvelous, in fact, that she did not allow herself to ponder the impossibility of his appearance. He could not be a ghost because ghosts did not exist. And he could not be an hallucination because that would mean she was mad, and she was not mad.

  “You know that he cannot see me,” Korbinian said to her, touching her cheek with his fingertips. “Only you can.”

  Grandfather raised an eyebrow at Babette, and she quickly looked back at him.

  “I certainly agree,” he said. “I seem to have developed a singular distaste for death in my old age.”

  “Did you bury Alistair?” Babette asked. She glanced toward Korbinian, preparing to explain whom she meant.

  Korbinian held a finger over his lips and motioned toward Grandfather.

  “I know,” he said. “Our son. Talk to your grandfather. He will become suspicious if you continue to look at me.”

  “Yes, we buried him by the chapel,” William said. “Niccolo was very gene
rous to allow it.” He leaned forward and folded his hands. “Babette, listen to me. We must not speak of Alistair again, certainly not in the presence of others. If someone were to learn that you had a child out of wedlock—”

  “But, Grandfather!” Babette exclaimed.

  How could he speak of such things the very same day that her child had been cast away into the ground? And to say “out of wedlock” like Alistair had been the product of some sordid tryst! She and Korbinian were in love. If he had not been murdered, Alistair would have been born in wedlock. They would have been forced to perform the marriage a year early and postpone the christening for a few months to conceal Alistair’s true date of birth, but that was not the same as him being born out of wedlock.

  “Liebchen,” Korbinian said, leaning in front of her and meeting her eyes with his, “he is right. I am dead and so is our son. You cannot allow your future to be dragged into the grave with us.”

  Babette took a breath and said, “I’m sorry, Grandfather. You are right. We will not speak of Alistair again.”

  Grandfather blinked a few times and sat back.

  “Good,” he said. “Very good.”

  “Where is my sister?” Korbinian mused aloud.

  “Yes, where is she?” Babette asked. She quickly added, “Mademoiselle von Fuchsburg that is. Did she attend the funeral?”

  “No, no,” Grandfather said quickly. “She departed early this morning. The grief of her nephew’s death was too much for her.”

  Babette looked at Korbinian. Korbinian shrugged.

  “It does sound like something she would do,” he said.

  “And what do you intend for the family?” Babette asked Grandfather. “Are we to return to France?”

  Korbinian looked at her and asked, “With both of your legs broken?”

  Grandfather smiled and shook his head.

  “I think travel is out of the question for a little while now. The fact that you survived gives me great hope for your recovery, but it will be some time in coming.”

  “And when I can walk again?” Babette asked.

  “If you can walk again,” Korbinian said.

  “Well…” Grandfather said. “We are already in the Mediterranean, the heart of classical antiquity. I think it would be very instructive for you—indeed, for all of us—to travel for a while. I have always felt that a young woman of culture and distinction should visit Rome, Athens, and Vienna as well as Paris if she is to appreciate art and culture. Perhaps we shall even have time for a few weeks in Constantinople.”

  “Oh yes, let us,” Korbinian said, clapping his hands together. “Vienna is so very beautiful. As is Constantinople. And Rome is…nearby.”

  Babette smiled and said, “I think that would be most agreeable, Grandfather. Most agreeable indeed.”

  * * * *

  Winter and Spring, 1863

  The speed of her recovery took Babette by surprise, just as it seemed to do for everyone else in the household. As it was, the pain of Babette’s injuries faded into a sort of dull tickle by the end of the second week, though her ribs still ached from time to time and she was quite unable to stand. More curious, by the end of the first month, Babette found that she could stand after a fashion. Five weeks into her convalescence, she could even hobble about so long as she clung to the furniture, as she discovered when her lady’s maid, quite foolishly, moved the book she had been reading to the far side of the room while she was sleeping.

  After that, Grandfather came to her and explained quite pointedly that Babette was to remain in bed without complaint until three months had passed. She was above all never to speak of her swift recovery to anyone, not even Father. Babette knew not what to make of these strange instructions, but she complied without complaint. For several days, she and Korbinian conversed in whispers, musing over the source of her unexpected recovery and Grandfather’s concealment of it. Babette assumed it had something to do with the strict—and rather eccentric—diet of beef and milk pudding that Grandfather had given her to eat. Korbinian supposed it to be the Italian water. Why Grandfather insisted that they keep the marked improvement a secret was beyond both of them.

  Still, it gave Babette ample time to read and chat with Korbinian, who was her constant companion. He made far better conversation than anyone in the house save for Grandfather, even if no one else could see or hear him. People were peculiar that way.

  The memory of Alistair never ceased to haunt her, least of all in her dreams. Every few nights, she would wake in a cold sweat with her lost child’s name upon her lips. Thank God that each time Korbinian was there to comfort her. Without him, she suspected she would have gone mad.

  The visions were not confined to sleep, however, and Babette found her mind always turning back to her son when she left it unoccupied. Even the most innocent of sights found some way to twist back to Alistair: the sunshine, a flower, even the violet-blue of the sky just before sunrise and just after sunset that so perfectly matched his eyes. Daydreams held nothing but Alistair. A casual glance toward an empty chair would produce him like a phantom from the shadows. The light filtering through the window somehow formed his face. It was unbearable.

  Instead, Babette threw herself into books, a pastime she and Korbinian gladly shared. It allowed them to associate without the awkwardness of conversing aloud, which always led to questions when they were overheard. She read endlessly from rising to retiring, and on as many subjects as she could set her mind to. The only books she rejected out of hand were those that she had read to Alistair. They were too painful even to look at.

  Finally, as the months wore on, Grandfather permitted her to make her recovery public—gradually, of course. It almost made Babette laugh when, in keeping with the charade, she was forced to hobble around on Father’s arm long after her legs had healed. And of course, each step of the way Father fussed over her like a mother hen.

  But in the end, Grandfather proved to be as good as his word. With the coming of spring, when the doctor was finally permitted to see Babette again and to declare her well, Grandfather announced his intentions for the future. One evening over supper—the first time that Babette was permitted, or rather forced, downstairs to eat with the family—he stated almost casually:

  “Now that winter has passed and we are all in good health again, I think we ought to take Babette on a proper tour of the Mediterranean. You agree, of course, don’t you James?”

  Father balked openly at this, the expression on his face such that Babette exchanged looks with Korbinian, who stood unnoticed by the sideboard.

  “The Mediterranean?” Father demanded. “Are you mad? What about the Season? We must return to Paris!”

  “Paris?” Grandfather asked. “Nonsense. Babette has only just recovered from her fall. Is that not right, Babette?”

  Babette looked back at them and quickly nodded.

  “Oh, yes, quite so,” she said. “I couldn’t even think of dancing.”

  “I don’t know,” Korbinian said with a smirk. “You waltzed beautifully last night.”

  Thank God no one else could hear him. Even after death he was still so damned incorrigible.

  “In any event, I should be quite wasted on Society for at least the remainder of the year,” Babette continued. “And I quite agree with Grandfather on this point. It would be most unfortunate for my education if we were to miss such an opportunity. After all, Father, how many times have you said that I simply must visit the places of Antiquity before I am married?”

  “Well, um,” Father said, stammering in confusion. “Not once that I recall—”

  “Precisely,” Babette said. “And why haven’t you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “We are in Italy,” Babette said, “and yet you have no intention of visiting Rome? What manner of Catholics are we?”

  “Now Babette, you must understand—”

  “Your daughter is correct, James,” Grandfather said. “We should make a pilgrimage while the destination is so cl
ose.”

  Father looked confused.

  “Would not a proper pilgrimage entail the Holy Land?” he asked.

  “Well, I suppose, time permitting…” Grandfather said.

  Father frowned and said, “That’s not quite what I meant.”

  “Father,” Babette said, “I feel that Grandfather is right. It would be a shame for us to depart this antique land without first seeing the wonders of the ancient world.”

  “But—” Father protested.

  “Good,” Grandfather said, “we are agreed. I knew you would understand, James. After all, we are doing this for Babette.”

  * * * *

  Spring and Summer, 1863

  The Mediterranean

  After a few more weeks at the villa and another in Venice—during which time Grandfather complained about the salt air endlessly when he thought no one was listening—Babette and the family made their way to Rome. Babette found the experience exhilarating. While Father insisted upon tiresome gatherings with the Roman elite, Babette had ample opportunity to slip away during the afternoons to visit the old ruins. She found the ancient city to be properly romantic, although Korbinian insisted that it was merely Babette’s love of the Classics misleading her better judgment. Rome, he said, was nothing but a relic of a dead age. Babette was inclined to disagree, and the two of them had great fun arguing the point as they strolled along the Tiber.

  Departing Rome, they turned northward, spending a month in Tuscany—where Babette quickly developed a great affection for Florence—and another two months touring the cities of the north before returning to Venice, which had been Babette’s favorite in spite of its fish and sea air. Next, they traveled down the Adriatic, stopping along the Dalmatian coast, until turning east and finally arriving in Greece.

  The country was in a state of excitement when they landed. A new king—a Dane apparently—had been proclaimed that very spring, though he had not yet arrived. The knowledge of King George’s heritage proved to be most amusing to Grandfather, who from time to time joked about their being distant relatives to the Greek Crown. He also mused aloud to Babette, wondering somewhat curiously what sort of beard the king would grow when he was older. Babette understood none of it, and Korbinian was of no help.