by Marian Tee
But Mr. Temps only stood there, watching his young master run to the woods on all fours, spurred by the blood of predators that ran through his veins.
Everything would change now, Mr. Temps thought bleakly.
And he was right.
When the master came back, he no longer thought of himself as Aurélien, no longer thought of himself as human – or someone who had the right to love…and be loved.
All that was left was the side of him that could cause inhuman destruction –
That part of him that had killed all those men, mercilessly, savagely –
All that was left was La Bête Sauvage, and it believed in its destiny to live alone.
Maison de Sauvage
Arabella
Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris
“Perhaps you do not understand the kind of trouble you are in, Mr. Blume. Silence does not save you from facing charges. If you persist in refusing to answer any of our questions, you leave me no choice but to contact the police.”
The security chief fastened his gaze on my father, visibly willing the older man to speak. But Maurice, for all his mild-mannered ways, could also be stubborn if he wanted to be – and by the stoic set of his face, I knew that was exactly how he intended to conduct himself.
The other man waved a hand in my direction. “Do you know why we asked for your daughter to come to Paris? So that you can take a good look at what you will be losing – for the rest of your life – if you still choose not to speak. You will not be there to walk your daughter down the aisle. You will not be there when your daughter gives birth to your first grandchild. You will not be there if something awful happens to your daughter---”
Maurice blanched, and I cried out at the same time, “Sir!” I knew the security chief was only doing his job, trying to get my father to speak, but those words were too much.
The security chief took a deep breath. “Let me ask you one final time, monsieur. Will you explain yourself to us?”
Maurice slowly shook his head. “There is nothing for me to say.”
Even though I had already expected it, I still couldn’t help inhaling sharply. Perhaps Maurice believed MDS was only bluffing, but I was terrified it wasn’t so. I tentatively touched his sleeve, and my father immediately turned to me. The regret in his faded gray eyes was unmistakable, but so was the resolve in it.
And my heart sank.
He was not going to change his mind about this, even if it meant getting arrested.
The thought filled me with terror, but I willed myself to stay calm, knowing that my hysterics wouldn’t get me anywhere. I let my gaze roam the interrogation room, with its stark white walls and sparse furniture. Was this a symbolic choice of décor, a way to remind someone about how everything was black and white when it came to crime?
Turning to the security chief, I began, “My father didn’t actually get to steal anything---”
The other man only raised a brow. “You strike me to be an intelligent young woman, mademoiselle. Do you truly intend to waste both our time by pursuing this line of argument?”
“I understand what you mean, monsieur. And yes, the attempt in itself may be considered a crime---”
“It is a crime.”
I ignored that, continuing emphatically, “But still, sir. May we not also consider the fact that my father has been a hardworking and loyal employee all these years?” I gestured to Maurice, saying feelingly, “My father is old---”
Maurice started shaking his head. “Arabella, enough.”
But I ignored him, too. “My father will be turning sixty-five this summer, sir. Sixty-five! Is it truly an act of justice to sentence him to imprisonment for a single lapse of judgment for just one moment of weakness? He will not survive prison. We all know this---”
“Enough, mademoiselle.”
The hard note in the security chief’s voice was impossible for me to disobey, and I reluctantly fell silent.
“Your words are moving, and yes, I do also see a point, but there are rules that even I must follow, at the risk of losing my job. However---”
I held my breath.
“I am willing to give your father the benefit of the doubt. I will even go as far as say I suspect that someone has lied, convinced, or even blackmailed him to attempt this crime. But as long as he does not talk…“
His words hung painfully in the air like an axe about to fall.
I turned to my father one last time, but he only shook his head at me.
No, he would not speak.
As we walked out of Maison de Sauvage, I told my father with determined cheer, “We must look at the brighter side of things.” I flicked one finger out, saying, “Consider, Papa. They could’ve detained you, but they let you walk out freely. Doesn’t that mean they think well enough of you?”
When my father remained silent, I curled an arm around his, saying, “Point number two: I have finally joined you in France, and you didn’t even have to spend a single penny for my flight!”
As we crossed the road, I peered at his face, asking suspiciously, “Or perhaps that was your plan all along? Not to speak until they flew me over?”
A smile slowly broke over Maurice’s face, and my heart squeezed painfully. Oh, thank God! Wanting to see the smile remain, I returned his smile and asked, “What do you say we forget our troubles for a while, Papa?”
His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“We’re here, in France, like we’ve always dreamed of. So may we not be tourists for a day?”
There was a moment of silence, and then my father said, “You’re right.” He ruffled my hair. “Tourists we will be.”
“Great. Where’s our first stop?”
“Where else?”
And so off we went to Bibliothèque Nationale de France, and oh, it was beyond my wildest imagination. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine my father and I had a different life. We had all the books in the world to read, all the art we could enjoy, and we were happy and safe.
“Arabella?”
I opened my eyes and saw Maurice, a book already in his hand. “Perhaps you would like to read this?” he asked cheerfully.
“Of course, Papa. I’ll do my best.” We found a table to share, and I opened the book and started reading. When I managed to read a couple of lines perfectly, my father patted my head, just like he did when I was a little girl. “Very good, Bella. You make me proud.”
I nodded and ducked my head, not wanting him to accidentally glimpse my tear-brightened eyes. Me, too, Papa, I thought fiercely. I was proud of him, had always been, always will be. He might not be a perfect father in other people’s eyes, but he had always done his very best for me, and he had never once acted like I was a burden on him – not even when Mama left us.
We continued with the tourist trail for the rest of the day, snacking on bread and cheese while we talked about history and the arts, books and music, and all the things we loved. With every attraction we visited, we would find a quiet corner to sit and sketch en plein air. The Arc de Triomphe, the Notre Dame, Palais Garnier, and even Cimitière du Père Lachaise, where Oscar Wilde was buried – we used whatever scraps of paper we could find scattered around us. The backs of leaflets, discarded receipts, anything was fine, as long as we could use them to make these moments last forever.
It was glorious and fun, but by the time dusk fell and we were standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, my heart was close to breaking and I had to busy myself taking photos to avoid my father’s gaze.
“Arabella.”
I quickly wiped the tears away before turning to look at him. “Yes, Papa?” I even managed to smile, but then I saw the look in his eyes.
Ah. He knew. He knew I had been crying.
And Maurice said gently, “There are things you cannot hide from a father.”
I bit my lip hard. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He patted my head. “You are as bad a liar as you were when you were a chi
ld.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I dared not meet his gaze this time, knowing that I would break down if I did. I turned to face the Eiffel Tower again, and so did Maurice.
“Arabella?”
“Mm?”
A pause, and then Maurice said hoarsely, “I’m sorry.”
“You never have to say that to me, Papa.”
“Do you hate me now?”
“No!” I turned to look at him, and the tears that I was doing my best to hold back started to fall the moment I saw my father’s face.
It reminded me of the day he told me that Mama had left us for good, and he blamed himself for it.
“Papa, no,” I whispered. “Why would you even think that?”
“Because I know how these things work,” Maurice said heavily. “They will say things about me, make it seem that I am worse than a crook. And people would say things about you---”
And slowly, I began to really hear what he wasn’t saying without the words.
It was just like what happened when Mama left us, and Mama had made it seem like it was all Papa’s fault.
“They may blame you, too. They may make it seem that you had something to do with---”
“I don’t care!” I shook my head hard, saying feelingly, “I have never let what other people think of me shape my decisions, Papa. And no matter what they say - it would never make me hate you,” I said fiercely. “Never. Not even if the whole world thinks you’re a m-monster, I will always trust and love you, Papa. Because I know you.” I gripped my father’s hand and squeezed it hard. “And I believe that things will still make a turn for the better. I believe that with all my heart, so please don’t lose hope yet.”
I closed my eyes.
Please let it be true.
Please.
Please.
I cast my prayer to the heavens and offered my soul with it, not knowing that God wasn’t the only one who was listening.
The next morning dawned bright and clear, too lovely a day for a dear old man to be sentenced for a crime that didn’t actually happen. I asked what I could do to help with breakfast, but Maurice shook his head and insisted on doing everything on his own.
Wanting to help, I went out to water the plants in his tiny vegetable garden, a luxury he could afford since he lived an hour away from Paris.
After watering the plants, I went on to unclip the dry clothes from the clothesline, all the while doing my best not to think of how today was like that day, too.
But it was impossible.
The day Mama walked out on us, both of us had acted like nothing had changed. Papa had still gone to work, and I had still taken care of the chores at home. Both of us had believed that if we kept acting everything was still okay, then it would be so.
And it had.
So let this day be the same, God.
Let it please be the same.
The heaviness in my heart had hardly dissipated when I was done folding the laundry, and for some moments I simply stood there, unable to make myself go back inside the house. The silliest part of me wished that if I could find the strength to stand still forever, then time would stop with me, and my father would never be taken away.
I looked up at the unending sky, wondering, wishing, praying – Was there nothing I could do for Papa?
I waited for even the smallest sign, but there was nothing. Not even a gentle breeze to touch my skin, not even the faintest chirp of birds to whisper an answer. Telling myself that it was pointless to delay the inevitable, I was about to turn away when I hear Maurice call out from his house, “Could you check the mail, Bella?”
“Will do!” I managed to keep my voice steady as I answered him. It really was just like that day, I couldn’t help thinking, and was there anything more normal than checking the mail?
Maurice’s mailbox was the charmingly vintage tin type, and a smile curved on my lips at the sight of it. The smallest pleasures of life, I thought, should always be enjoyed. I took the mail out and absently went through them.
Bills, more bills, and---
My eyes widened.
One of it was addressed to me.
Arabella Blume
It was a very old-fashioned letter, its cream-colored paper stiff and textured, and sealed close with blood-red wax. I ran my fingers uncertainly on its rose emblem, wondering why it was so familiar.
Breaking the seal, I unfolded the letter, and as the letters slowly took shape and turned into words, my heart started to beat faster and faster.
Your company is requested in a private discussion regarding your father’s circumstances. Please present yourself at the address below at five o’clock p.m. today.
The letter fell from my fingers. Now I realized why that rose was so familiar. It was the exact same rose used to symbolize the House of Sauvage, my father’s accuser.
Into the Woods
It had been three days since Arabella had received the letter, two days since she had returned to the House of Sauvage, and one day since she had signed the contract they offered her.
And now she was here, Arabella thought numbly, her life forever changed. She glanced at her watch as the helicopter hovered over an island with rugged cliffs and woods that seemed to go on forever.
She mentally calculated the time it took to reach her destination as the helicopter started to descend. Thirty minutes, she thought. She was still in Europe then – maybe still in France even – but as for her exact location?
Pushing the mouthpiece down into position to make sure she was heard over the helicopter’s noise, Arabella asked, “What is the island called?”
The two pilots only answered her with polite smiles. Either they didn’t speak English, or they had been instructed to pretend otherwise.
A tall, bespectacled gentleman with silver hair and a benign-looking smile was waiting for them by the clearing, dressed in what could only be called…a suit. As the second pilot helped her out of the chopper, Arabella couldn’t help taking a closer look at their surroundings. There was nothing but woods around them. The wild and tangled type, the kind someone like the Blair Witch would absolutely adore.
And the old man trekked through it in a coat and tie?
It was all too strange, but the deafening sound coming from the chopper interrupted her thoughts. She whirled around and bit back a gasp. The pilots were already back in their seats, readying for takeoff.
No! Please! Don’t leave me! She wanted to cry the words out, wanted to run and beg the men to take her with them. But she could not.
In a few moments, the chopper was back in the air, its large, formidable-looking blades whipping in circles.
And now there was no going back, Arabella thought. From here on, a man named Aurélien Sauvage owned her, for the rest of her life.
Mr. Temps watched in silence as the young woman silently but visibly struggled to accept her fate. His sympathy was with her, but his loyalty was with his master, and the latter’s orders to the household were quite clear.
Do not speak of the past. Do not interfere. And above all costs, do not let her leave.
None of it explained why Arabella Blume had come to join them on the island, but all of them had known better than to ask. Some things were better left unsaid. It was easier to pretend blindness that way.
After a sufficient time had passed, Mr. Temps stepped forward and said quietly, “May I help you with your belongings, mademoiselle?”
The young woman turned around with a shake of her head. “I only have this.”
“It is my honor to be of service, Ms. Blume.”
That he knew her name clearly astonished her, and Mr. Temps took advantage of her surprise by successfully prying the leather valise out of her hands. What an interesting piece of luggage, Mr. Temps thought. It was decidedly vintage, but not at all priceless. And it was very, very small. How could all of her belongings fit in it?
“You know my name,” Arabella said suspiciously. “Are you
---” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Are you Aurélien Sauvage?”
“No, mademoiselle. Please call me Mr. Temps. I have been serving the Sauvage family as their butler for almost three decades, as did my father in his lifetime and his father before him.”
“I suppose that’s nice,” Arabella allowed politely, “but it doesn’t really make me feel any safer.”
The butler acknowledged her words with a regal nod. “Understandable, mademoiselle. All the same, let me assure you that the staff has taken great care to make you feel most welcome.” Mr. Temps waved towards the direction of the woods. “If I may lead the way?”
No, you may not. That was what Arabella wanted to answer, but she was nothing if not practical and even if the old man was to let her stay, that would only lead to her death by starvation or God knew what.
Following Mr. Temps into the woods, she mentally prepared herself for a challenging outdoor battle, but it took only a few steps for her to realize that the woods were nothing but a smokescreen.
So that’s why the butler could walk around in a suit, Arabella thought with an inner grimace.
Hiding underneath the woods’ canopy of autumn leaves and meandering branches was a beautiful cobblestoned pathway that snaked down a sloping garden landscaped to perfection. There were flowers of every season and shade, bushes sculpted in the shape of unicorns and fairies, and here and there were stone benches resting under ivory-covered trellises. If her heart weren’t filled with so much pain and fear, she would have thought she had stumbled into Eden.
“It’s impressive, is it not?”
“Mm.”
Mr. Temps hid a smile. Did the young woman not realize how her eyes were practically shining as she took in their surroundings?
After telling herself to get over how beautiful the place was, Arabella worked hard to memorize everything she saw, hoping but failing to find some kind of escape route.
