And for the first time in so many years, Aleksender felt like he belonged.
Alas, all is fair in love and war.
•
Elizabeth de Lefèvre stood on the balcony and absently stared into the gleaming skyline. The lawn glowed, sprinkled with remnants of the early afternoon sun.
Elizabeth was thirty-one years old and perfectly lovely, boasting everything that high society could ever hope to offer. A tea dress of mint green complimented her fair complexion, the abundance of silks and satins draping behind her like a queen’s regal trail. Matching gloves wrapped her hands and arms, fastened in place with rows of delicate white pearls. Succulent honey blonde locks were meticulously pinned beneath her hat, the occasional tendril falling across her cheek in a fetching swirl.
Elizabeth sighed and gazed down at her wedding ring. Caressed by the surrounding light, the diamond glittered and gold shined. And yet, her world had never seemed darker than at that moment.
Then everything changed.
Elizabeth squinted and shaded her gaze from the sunrays. A handsome figure was approaching the chateau, the frame of his body appearing tall and sinfully elegant. Could it be? Could it possibly be him? Her heart did a little somersault at the thought.
Aleksender, her dear husband, had written to her on occasion—and she’d treasured both of his letters. True, they had been far from fluffy or romantic. For Elizabeth, the letters had served as much more than some mushy sentiment. Those letters had proved her husband was alive and well. Aleksender’s rather impersonal and vague prose had never bothered her much. After all, she was a far cry from a melodramatic and love-struck adolescent.
Or so she’d convinced herself to believe.
A gasp fled from Elizabeth’s lips as she gripped onto the banister with growing anticipation. The man’s complexion was an unusual and tempting shade—tan and wonderfully sun-kissed. He hardly resembled the Aleksender whom she had known and adored. Both in spirit and form, he seemed quite darker. But there was no question as to his identity.
Aleksender Raphael de Lefèvre had returned to Paris.
•
Aleksender’s chest constricted at the approaching image. Elizabeth sprinted over to him, alive and beaming, wearing a smile that was visible across the expanse of the lawn. One hand clutched at her skirts as the other secured a fluttering hat. Aleksender inhaled a deep breath and quickened his stride. Regardless, his was the walk of a dead man.
“Aleksender! Aleksender, mon amour!” she passionately called from afar.
Elizabeth outstretched both arms as they finally came together, their two bodies colliding as one. Her hat blew away, whisked off by the wind like some hostage tumbleweed.
Elizabeth grasped onto Aleksender’s shoulders with an impressive force. “Oh, Aleksender! I simply cannot believe my eyes!”
He dropped his satchel with a low groan and embraced his wife. A moment later, he discarded the rifle as if it were no more than an outgrown plaything. He sighed into her hair as a rush of guilt secretly consumed him. Aleksender’s body shook while he caressed her waist in tremulous motions.
Pulling back to kiss each of his cheeks, she cried out, “Look at you! You have never appeared better! A proper meal and you shall be good as new.”
She embraced him once more, nuzzling, cooing incoherent words into the warmth of his chest. Curls of gold came unfastened by his fingers. They tumbled down and over her shoulders in an enchanting flurry.
“Promise to never leave me again.”
“Forgive me.” Fatigue strained his voice, making it impossibly tight. Speaking far more than the obvious, he continued in a hushed murmur, “Forgive me for everything.”
Elizabeth sighed and brought her lips to his neck. She whispered against Aleksender’s skin, the soft brush of air teasing his pulse. “Believe me, dear. I already have.”
Aleksender knew he didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He’d never been a decent husband. Alas, he’d never been a decent man. Much like himself, Elizabeth was an heiress born to a noble family. Despite the longing to enjoy being young—to relish the simple joys of living, frolicking and causing unnecessary mischief—she was betrothed to Vicomte de Lefèvre on her fifteenth birthday.
Elizabeth had cursed both her family and blood. She wanted nothing to do with such a thing as marriage. She was a mere fifteen years! She wanted to live. Not love! But everything had changed the moment she set eyes upon her future husband. A curse had quickly transformed into a blessing.
In spite of herself, she’d swooned before the man whom she had passionately sworn to hate. From the bottom of his polished shoes, up to the top of his blackened hair, he’d been the picture of masculine perfection. Elizabeth had stuck up her nose, convinced that she was immune to such a breed of gentlemen. Surely, Elizabeth had vowed with a proud inward smirk, Vicomte de Lefèvre would be no different.
She could not have been more wrong.
It had taken only one dance. The first stirring of lust and love had swelled her tummy from the inside out. Elizabeth had accepted her fate with wide eyes and a maiden blush.
Aleksender had been as stubborn as they come and quite the rake, always throwing caution to the wind and never conforming to society’s mold. But his father had seen much more than his stiff exterior. Comte de Lefèvre had purposefully steered his son’s wandering eye, declaring Elizabeth Rousseau a proper match. And Aleksender would have done nothing to displease his father.
It wasn’t until he and Elizabeth had taken their vows that his resentment surfaced. Did he not deserve the same happiness—the same chance for love and true affection—as his parents had shared?
Any enjoyment between Aleksender and Elizabeth had rapidly faded. On their wedding night, he could not bring himself to consummate their partnership. He’d already stolen her youth. He didn’t love her.
As tempting as Elizabeth had been—a vision cloaked in chaste white, a quivering bud aching to bloom beneath his touch—he’d refused to take her remaining innocence.
That fateful evening, however, Elizabeth had recalled a story—a rather saucy story that her eldest sister had shared with her. Covered in a maiden blush, she’d run her wedded fingertip up her husband’s trousers seeking that impressive, hidden bulge with daring caresses.
Both hands had settled upon clasps that concealed a mystery—a mystery she was suddenly eager to unveil. Romantic ideas had flooded her thoughts in a thrilling rush. She was about to experience an epic moment, a moment shared between man and wife, a moment that would connect their souls forever.
That moment was shattered. Aleksender had peeled away her trembling fingers, kissed her knuckles, and wished his bride sweet dreams. The vicomtesse turned away from her husband and privately cried herself to sleep.
Mercifully, after a year or so of marriage, Aleksender and Elizabeth had developed a delicate bond. They understood each other. They understood each other’s families and the expectations that came with their bloodlines. They understood that they were, in fact, very much alike. And they were almost content.
But time is the most accurate measurement of truth, and, within time, Aleksender’s unorthodox ways only progressed. That strange emptiness that had lurked inside of him seemed to expand, engulfing him whole. Something crucial was missing inside his heart. Something foundational. Something existed as nothing more than a faraway dream.
And so, as blackened souls are wont to do, he’d searched for comfort in the wrong places. All of Paris’s finest whores couldn’t have filled his internal void. His detachment grew over the years, enslaving his spirit—until fate had given him the bright-eyed, lovely child whom he’d eternally sworn himself to. Aleksender had resurrected Sofia from her own ashes. Only then were his visits to Bête Noire less frequent—only then did the emptiness no longer shape his understanding of the world.
Elizabeth breathed deeply as if summoning the courage to speak. With a shallow exhale, she stepped back and stared into his eyes. “Aleksender, there is somet
hing I must tell you.”
Aleksender’s blood froze over. Time seemed to stand still. He could have sworn the wind was weeping. Heart banging against his ribcage, his mind spun.
“Your father … He fell ill shortly after your leave. He’s passed now. It happened only weeks ago—”
Comte Aleksender de Lefèvre collapsed without warning. He clutched at his chest, overcome with a fierce wave of nausea. One hand pushed against the pavement in an attempt to prop up his fatigued body. Elizabeth knelt beside him, caressing his back with delicate, slow strokes.
“Aleksender, please—listen to me. He was so proud of you. He loved you. He died with a smile to his lips knowing you would do great things. Magnificent, great things.”
Aleksender was disconnected, perceiving Elizabeth’s voice through a strange and glassy filter. The whole world and everything in it seemed to drift away.
Despite being a devout atheist, he understood how Lucifer must have felt when he’d fallen from the bruised skies of heaven. Cold, forgotten and entirely alone. In a single morning, the weight of the world had fallen onto his shoulders.
And the weight of the world was no small burden.
CHAPTER FOUR
The afternoon was full of sunshine and smiles. Golden embers drifted into the air as the hearth crooned and cackled. A dozen or so sweet faces glowed brightly all around, each pair of eyes fixed ahead. Sofia sat front and center, the melody of her voice quirky and animated. The russet strands of her hair glowed, alive with metallic flashes of champagne and bronze.
She felt quite toasty—almost uncomfortably so. Indeed, it was a balmy day in mid-spring, and the fireplace was more for dramatic effect than any warmth.
Sofia was the eldest of the girls and had been ordained as “Sacred Heart’s storyteller” several seasons back. And it was a role she’d always been more than happy to fulfill.
Sofia brought the fairytale to life as she read from the faded pages. Reeking of antiquity, each one was tinted yellow and curled at the corners. “The nightingale flew over to the rose tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window. ‘Give me a red rose,’ she cried, ‘and I will sing you my sweetest song.’ But the tree shook its head.” Utilizing her skills as an actress, she shifted her tone to better suit the personality of a wise, old tree. “‘My roses are red,’”—as usual, a couple of the youngest girls giggled at the sound of Sofia’s comically gruff voice— “‘as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm had broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.’”
Alas, Sofia sounded remarkably like a tree. “‘One red rose is all I want,’ cried the nightingale, ‘only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it?’” Her voice hushed to a whisper. As not to miss a word, several of the girls scooted several inches closer. “‘There is a way,’ answered the tree, ‘but it is so terrible that I dare not tell you.’” Eyes wide and beaming, Sofia bookmarked the volume with her palm and addressed her eager audience. “Hmm. Shall I tell you?”
“Yes!” Miriam cried out, hugging her ragdoll impossibly tighter. “Tell me,” she protested, quoting the nightingale’s precise words. “I am not afraid!”
“Brave little one!” Sofia laughed and leaned forward, pinching Miriam’s cherub cheek between two fingertips. Lips puckered into a fierce pout, the child huffed and knotted both arms across her chest. Sofia merely grinned at the great show of insolence. The girl was picturesque and adorable beyond words. And Miriam’s genuine affinity was a treasured thing; aside from a select few, it was no secret that the majority of Sacred Heart’s residents were resentful of Sofia’s so-called “double life.”
Spirals of blonde curls cushioned Miriam’s pudgy face as she hotly asked, “Aren’t ya gonna keep reading or aren’t ya?”
“Oh, all right. Yes, yes—I shall continue.” Sofia cleared her throat and resumed the story with extra exuberance. “‘If you want a red rose you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins and become mine’ …”
She paused, strangely affected by the words. She’d known the tale for countless years, and yet, it felt as though she were reading it for the very first time.
Sofia’s heart took flight as she reflected on her reunion with Aleksender. Yesterday morning there had been something there. Like a palpable force, there had been something unspoken between the two of them. It was the way in which his fingertips had caressed her through the veil of fine silks. The way in which his face had bowed forward and carefully inhaled her essence. The way in which his heart had thundered against her own, and his unsteady breaths had brushed against her pulse, grazing her body like some secretive kiss.
Sofia’s mind raced at a dizzying speed. Her palms grew hot, humid and clammy. The pages stuck to the moist pads of her fingertips as she attempted to flip them.
Dieu! What sort of girl was she?
She was shaping up to be no better than her mother.
And what would Sister Catherine possibly think?
“Sofffiiiiaaaa?”
Sofia snapped out of her daze and anchored herself in the here and now. Expectant eyes bore into her own. She obliged with a small sigh and continued reading from the weathered pages.
“‘Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,’ cried the nightingale, ‘and life is very dear to all. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?’ So she spread her brown wings and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove—”
Above the mantle, the cuckoo bird emerged from his whittled home and chimed in the hour. The melody, normally so cheerful and full of life, held an ominous edge. It was something Sofia couldn’t quite place her finger on.
“Oh, listen!” Miriam cried out as she clasped both hands together. “He’s singing for us! Just like the nightingale!”
Whitney, a girl who was a few years shy of Sofia, threw the child her most condescending glare. “Don’t you know anything?” she scoffed, flicking a carefully spun braid over the curve of her shoulder. “That’s a cuckoo bird. Not some silly little nightingale.”
Sofia narrowed her eyes and shot Whitney a disapproving glance. “Whitney! You must apologize!”
The girl looked away and lifted her chin at a defiant angle. “Who are you to order me about?”
Sister Catherine bustled into the room, cued by the singing cuckoo clock. The thick material of her skirts rustled with every step. Sofia greeted her with a wide smile and delicate nod of her chin. Despite Sister Catherine’s severe nature, she’d grown to adore the head nun with a fierce affection over the years.
“Come, girls!” She huffed, smoothing out the grim material of her habit. “You must return to your studies. There shall be time for fun and games later.” With a unified groan, the children of Sacred Heart climbed to their feet and flocked into the adjoining school room. “That includes you, too, Whitney.” Whitney released an irritated sound and followed suit with mutinous steps.
Sofia laid the book in her lap and surveyed the German cuckoo clock. The creature had vanished back into its home, leaving the rest of the world in lonely silence.
Sister Catherine fetched a poker from the mantel and crouched in front of the hearth. She muttered incoherently beneath her breath, stabbing at the logs with an uncharacteristic aggression. The effect was highly comical. Sofia bit her lip and harnessed back a grin.
“Must they always insist on lighting this wretched thing?” Fiery sparks crackled and ascended into blackness. Sister Catherine sighed and shook her face,
burying the embers with the little copper shovel. One by one, they suffocated and lost their customary glows. Beads of sweat formed along the border of Sister Catherine’s wimple as she labored. Suspended midair, the crucifix dangled in free-fall, tossing luminous shades of orange and red upon the carved mantle. Sofia gazed at the glowing emblem, strangely transfixed. “On my word, it’s close to an oven in here!”
Sofia came to her feet with a laugh and gently touched the nun’s shoulder. “Here—allow me.” She stole the poker from Sister Catherine and rolled a log onto its side. A solid thwack was followed by the groan of splintering wood.
Sister Catherine dabbed at her brow and claimed a seat in the ancient rocking chair. The cozy sound of a repetitive thump, thump, thump filled the room, warming Sofia’s insides.
“You remember that feeling I had?” Sofia began conversationally. “A couple days ago—about Alek being alive … being near?”
“Yes. Yes, certainly I do.”
Sofia glanced over her shoulder with a beaming smile. Sister Catherine clutched onto her chest as it quaked with lighthearted laughter. A blend of soot and ash shadowed Sofia’s nose and cheekbones.
“Come—come here, petit.” Sister Catherine signaled Sofia over with a wave of her hand. “My, aren’t you a sight.”
Sofia set down the poker and knelt beside her. One of the nun’s wrinkled hands steadied Sofia’s chin—the opposite wetted her thumb pad. A deep crinkle warped Sofia’s nose as the soot was washed away.
“Now,” Sister Catherine smoothed down her habit and folded both hands in the cushion of her lap. “What was it you were trying to say?”
“My feeling—it came true, Sister Catherine! Alek has returned! He arrived only yesterday.”
The nun’s eyes widened at the news. It wasn’t the first time Sofia had predicted such things. And it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Blessed heavens!” She clasped a palm to her heart and crossed herself in a graceful movement. “Day and night, I have prayed for his return.” Silence pressed between the two of them.
The Frost of Springtime Page 4
