Salle Le Peletier’s ancient wooden door swung open to reveal his ward in all her loveliness. No longer the sultry fairy of an hour ago, she was dressed conservatively once again. An abundance of curls was tied back in an elegant knot, a dark cloak wrapped her body, and both cheeks were rosy from hours of exertion. Aleksender thought she’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment. Roses and wintertime flooded his senses as she whisked by.
Distracted and unaware of his voyeuristic presence, Sofia took no notice of Aleksender. Trembling within the bitter cold, eager to free herself from thoughts of him, she tightened the cloak about her body and rushed down the five cobblestone steps.
She did not get far.
By the second step, she knew she was far from alone. By the third step, she heard the muttered whisper of a cloak. By the fourth step, a masculine figure emerged from the shadows. The lean frame of his body blocked her pathway with ease. Sofia tilted her head as her eyes ran down the man’s form. The pounding of her heart returned to its normal pace. He was a complete stranger.
A top hat crowned his head, the fine material cushioned by a bountiful swarm of blonde curls, the burgundy smoking jacket striking in the night. Sparkling, green eyes bore deep into her own. The bulge of his Adam’s apple bobbed about like a buoy at sea as he swallowed.
Sofia cleared her throat and arched her fine brow. “Pardon me, monsieur.”
“Oh! Do forgive me,” he squeaked, awakening from some trance. Graceless and pitifully awkward, he removed the hat, curled it against his chest, and dipped into a slight bow. When he finally spoke, he stumbled over his words, sounding far more boy than man, eyes glowing with star-struck awe. “Mademoiselle Rose, I am quite possibly your greatest admirer.”
“I’m flattered,” Sofia said with a smile, complete sincerity in her voice.
“If I may say, I watch you as often as I can. Never could quite find the courage to make an introduction. But, after tonight …” He inhaled a long sigh and boldly inched closer to Salle Le Peletier’s prima ballerina. “Tonight, I knew I had to meet you. I would have never forgiven myself. I confess—your performance sent me to tears.”
“Thank you, monsieur. You are most kind.” Wearing a smile that could only be relief, he took Sofia’s hand in his own and guided her down the fifth and final step.
“I am Manuel. Manuel Dumont.” A new confidence empowered his voice. Manuel shuffled both feet as his fingers curled around the rim of his top hat, absently bending the luxurious velvet. “I was hoping, that is, if I may …”
Sofia smiled reassuringly, well aware of what he was about to inquire. It was charming. The young man’s declaration warmed her heart and temporarily lifted her from the prison of her thoughts. And no matter how fleeting, such freedom was a beautiful thing.
“Yes?”
“Mademoiselle,” he firmly proclaimed, the pale hue of his complexion reddening impossibly more. “Might I call on you sometime?”
“No.”
The single syllable resonated. Uttered from beneath a low, slick bass, it seethed with an authority that dared to be tested. Manuel merely rolled back his shoulders—perhaps in an attempt to gain an inch or two—and fumbled toward the lurking shadow. “Now, look here, monsieur—”
Sofia grasped onto his forearm and vainly struggled to lure him back at her side. It was no use. “Please, no—I beg you to forget him.”
“Leave us,” growled the disembodied voice, “now.”
Manuel straightened out his lapels and extended a pointer finger. As if compensating for some other deficiency, he angled his chin ridiculously high. “Say, I don’t know what you’re about, monsieur, but your interference is quite uncalled!”
Reluctant admiration welled inside Aleksender’s gut as the young man refused to back down and stupidly shuffled forward. Such valiancy would have made any mother proud.
“You speak big words for a little boy.” Aleksender’s shoulders quavered with dark humor.
Sofia wedged between the two males, movements uncharacteristically clumsy, as she attempted to erect a flesh and blood barricade. Aleksender’s erratic breaths misted the air, shrouding him in a fierce cloud. “Alek—please. Just stop this.”
Aleksender latched onto Sofia’s slender arm and moved her aside.
“Now, listen here, monsieur!” The boy took a moment to secure his top hat, lest it tumble into the gutter. ”Unhand the good lady or I shall inform the gendarmes!”
Pure, impenetrable silence.
Then Aleksender surprised the both of them and did the unexpected. He laughed. Alas—he tossed his head back and roared out his amusement, stabilizing himself with the banister. He laughed till tears blurred his vision, and then he laughed some more.
“You are a monster.” Sofia’s whisper sobered Aleksender, anchoring him back into the moment. He brushed away his mirthful tears and inched over to the youth.
“Insolent, stupid, child.”
Manuel eased backward, one of Aleksender’s steps matching three of his own, skirting away like some unfortunate hermit crab—a poor hermit crab who was about to be boiled and poached—immediately regretting his gallant show of chivalry.
“Why, did you not hear? Nearly a fortnight ago a whore was gutted and thrown into the Seine without your gendarmes so much as blinking an eye.”
“What? No. I—I was unaware—”
“Please. By all means—go inform them. Inform them that the noble comte is about to take Paris’s precious ballerina against a wall.”
“How dare you!” Exasperated and pushed beyond her limit, Sofia held nothing back and full-on attacked Aleksender. Two tightly wound fists plummeted into his chest, one after the other—
“Are you quite through with your tantrum?”
Sofia fought to catch her breath and reclaim the slightest sliver of composure. She was far too angry to form a coherent sentence.
“And you,” Aleksender said, continuing to advance on the boy. “Where’s your bravado gone to so suddenly? Shall I take it you are through making a fool of yourself?”
Sofia grabbed hold of Aleksender’s cloak and twisted the wool between her fingertips. A pinnacle of emotions ignited her soul. “Stop! You hear me, Alek! Stop it now! Stop this, or I shall never forgive you for your cruelty.”
One step later and the youth found himself pinned up against the stairwell. The comte’s final worlds were nearly a whisper, making them all the more ominous. “Go. Go inform the gendarmes. Better yet, go inform the entire military of Versailles. Inform them and see if they give a damn.” Aleksender latched onto the scruff of Manuel’s shirt and hurled the boy onto the ground like a pup. He slammed into the cobblestones face first. A ring of blood blossomed, encircling his left knee and sullying the trousers’ fine material. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”
Sofia sank beside Manuel and draped a hand over the curve of his shoulder. The rugged broad cloth was ruffled and severely torn beneath her fingertips. Sofia took a breath and counted to ten.
God above, she’d never been angrier.
“God, I am so sorry for this. Are you badly hurt?”
“I’ll survive.” Retaining as much dignity as he could possibly muster, Manuel picked himself off the ground, collected the prized top hat, and smoothed out his smoking jacket. He swiped away a stream of blood with his cufflink. “You, mademoiselle—you will be all right?”
This—this—was the sort of man who was worthy of her love. Kind, patient and gentle.
“Mademoiselle?”
Still seated, Sofia glared at Aleksender and answered Manuel’s inquiry. “Yes. I’ll survive.”
“Very well.” Manuel was swallowed up by the shadows as he departed, each of his steps leaving Aleksender and Sofia a little more isolated.
Aleksender outstretched a hand after a moment of stillness, offering Sofia his aid. The stale gesture only irritated her further. Aleksender—a gentleman? She scoffed at the very notion. He was far from gentle! And much more monster than man.
“No,” she spat, shoving a swarm of loose tendrils from her eyes, “I need nothing from you.”
She rose to her feet and stepped dangerously close to him. Their breaths consummated in a duel of swirling clouds.
Aleksender reached out for her cheek only to have his hand whacked away. “Do not touch me. Don’t! Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Sofia—”
“You have no right! I am not ten years-old any longer! And I’m most certainly not some shiny toy, some porcelain doll, which you can play with at your leisure whenever the time happens to suit you best.”
Aleksender speared his fingertips through his hairline before attempting a reply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for Joanna to be there. I only wanted to speak with you.”
“You have done more than spoken. Now, I ought to be on my way. Do pardon me—” Aleksender blocked her body with his own, preventing any escape.
“I have tried to shelter you, God, I have tried to shelter you from everything, from myself. I—”
“Perhaps, I don’t wish to be sheltered! I tire of you elevating me onto this pedestal!” Aleksender stared at Sofia as if she was speaking in a foreign tongue. “I am sorry if this kills you to hear, but I am not the delicate, little Sofia that you fantasize me to be. I am not a butterfly whose wings will crumple and fall at the slightest touch.”
“He wanted you in his bed,” Aleksender growled. “Damn it to hell if I would allow such a thing.”
“That is hardly your concern. You have no special claim on me. I am not yours to command. And besides, not all men are after the same thing.” The words were a painful jab and devastating for Aleksender to stomach.
“Ah,” was his cool reply—the figurative mask securely in place. His body slinked forward till their chests rubbed together. “But you are. Have you forgotten? I am your guardian and you my ward.”
“No. You know what you are? Jealous!” A long silence followed after. Sofia shook her head and inhaled a strained breath. “You are hurting me, Alek. I can only bear so much. Being around you. Seeing your face. Hearing your voice. I care for you. I care for you more than anything. But I can only endure so much.” The last of Sofia’s words died on her tongue. “As you said, things have changed between us. And you …” She took a step forward, voice lowering to a compassionate whisper. The heat of her breath fanned against his cheek. “I know you. You are better than this.”
Aleksender gazed deeply into her eyes, entranced and unable to turn away.
“What you’d said about Versailles—that was the first time you’ve mentioned the war since your return.”
“Some things are best left forgotten.”
“Forgotten? How—”
“I try to remember the war as a distant nightmare.”
Sofia’s fury equaled her pity, and her love overshadowed her hatred. She clasped onto one of his hands and brought it up to her cheek. He’d begun to tremble. “You cannot do that to yourself. You cannot shut out the world. It will only destroy you from the inside out.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
The timbre of his voice dripped with pure mirth. She flinched as Aleksender snapped his hand away, his emerald eyes blazing.
As if overcome with sudden agony, Aleksender stepped backward, swept a hand through his hair, and cleared his throat. “It grows late. They shall wonder where I am. And you’ll be expected back. I—”
His eyes said everything.
“Come—come with me.”
Aleksender shot her a questioning look.
“Please?” Sofia smiled, took hold of his gloved hand and ascended the stairs. The wood creaked beneath the soles of her feet, echoing in the night. A stream of light split the black as the door creaked open. “I want to show you something.”
•
All of Aleksender’s worries momentarily fell away as he ventured through the theater’s widely spread wings. The hustle and bustle was strangely intoxicating and, even more, wonderfully distracting.
Beyond the stone walls and bleak alleyways, Salle Le Peletier was alive with activity. Countless stagehands, carpenters, riggers, seamstresses and maids buzzed about, sharing stories and laughs as they labored. Voluptuous furls of steam rose into the air, spewing like the breaths of a fairytale dragon. Men whistled in harmony and drained their beer bottles. A flock of spinsters delighted in the latest scandals, cackling amongst one another with the audacity of hens. Towering, faux trees were wheeled aside as La Sylphide’s forest gradually transformed back into that of a plain stage.
But there was nothing plain about Salle Le Peletier.
Smiling wide and shouting greetings here, there, and everywhere, Sofia appeared to be entirely in her element. Every so often a crew member would call out to her and offer his congratulations. Indeed—for all the attention Aleksender was paid, he might have been a ghost rather than the noble comte. And he could not have been more satisfied with such treatment.
Many single-stemmed roses were strewn about, carpeting the brandished floorboards in a colorful array, each one representing a patron’s adoration. In light of the prima ballerina’s stage name, roses had predictably become the most common token of gratitude over the last season.
Sofia knelt to the ground and fetched several of the fallen flowers, tucking them inside her cloak. Aleksender leaned against one of the wooden columns and threw her a curious sideways glance. “Don’t mind me.” She blushed a shade of scarlet that rivaled many of the roses. “See, I like to collect them after performances. They make lovely bouquets and just smell beautifully.”
“I wouldn’t have ever guessed,” Aleksender wryly stated as the surrounding aroma overwhelmed his senses. Sofia came to her feet, edged onto her tiptoes, and tucked a yellow rose behind Aleksender’s left ear. The brilliant hue was magnificent against the deep black of his hair.
“How very dashing you look!”
“Glad you think so, chérie.” Aleksender harnessed back a grin, removed the rose, and tucked it within his coat for safekeeping.
Salle Le Peletier’s cheerful nature disappeared in the following silence. The commotion of the theater finalized for the evening as the men and women each took their leaves. One by one, the gas sconce lanterns winked into darkness, footsteps faded, and quiet descended. An eerie calm washed over Salle Le Peletier as only a few lights and laborers remained for the night.
Body heat radiated all around as Aleksender stepped intimately near to Sofia. He bowed his face and allowed his breath to waft across her cheek. “Sofia,” he murmured in a low tone, “tell me—why are we back here? Where are you taking us?”
“No questions.” Warmth surged through her veins like a wildfire. She ignored his inquiry, pushed past his body, and continued to stroll about. “See, I’ve made it a bit of a habit, gathering flowers after the curtain call. I do admit I’ve managed to earn the nickname ‘flower girl,’” she said with a faint blush. Losing herself in a wilderness of ghostly props and shadows, Sofia inched deeper backstage and signaled him to follow. A wooden stairwell lined the furthest wall, its slim frame ascending into pure blackness. The thing looked dangerously flimsy and anything but dependable. Sofia slowly turned to Aleksender. She offered her hand and an achingly sweet smile.
He took two generous steps back. A flash of pain creased his brow. Only two people knew of his fear of heights. Sofia was one of them and the other was dead. “You know I cannot.”
“Of course you can.”
Aleksender glanced up and stared into the dark void. The black seemed to go on forever. “The roof,” he breathed. “You mean to take us to the rooftop?”
Sofia lightly placed a hand on his forearm and gave a gentle squeeze. “Please, Alek. Just trust me.”
And so they ascended the winding stairwell, climbing higher and higher, soon reaching the rafters, catwalks, elevated platforms, endless flies and wooden beams. On either side of them the massive curtain was securely tucked in for the night, the heavy drapes mimicking a pair of colossal, sca
rlet wings. Aleksender and Sofia continued to venture upward as the combined weight of their bodies shook the opera house from its nightly slumber. Aleksender felt seasick as the stairwell swayed back and forth, the ancient carpentry manipulated by the slightest of movements. Low moans, groans, grumbles and creaks resounded with each step they took. The building seemed to possess a life of its very own, and it was an angry beast waking from a long hibernation.
“Can you hear it?” Sofia drew to a halt nearly thirty feet up. “The theater—” she exclaimed, imaginative as ever. “She is speaking to us.”
“Is she now?”
Aleksender glanced down and came close to losing his breath. Beneath his heels, the theater was clearly visible through the wooden cracks. A million miles away, it glowed softly and surely beneath them. And they were not getting any closer. There was no turning back. For better or for worse, wherever this twisted pathway may lead, there was nowhere to go but onward.
Sofia and Aleksender continued their endless ascent in silence, with only the theater’s laminations for company. Every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder and offered Aleksender a reassuring smile. The small gesture empowered him far more than he dared admit.
“Almost there,” Sofia said as their destination finally slipped into view.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Salle Le Peletier’s rooftop was the ultimate hideaway and sanctuary. The frail lights of Paris winked against the horizon, peppered amongst a sea of inky black and shining like constellations. Aleksender and Sofia breathed in the crisp, spring air and wandered near to the rooftop’s edge.
Aleksender gazed down at the quiet streets below without hesitation. His fear of heights had miraculously melted away. On this night, within this moment, he felt empowered and invincible. The nightmares, Christophe’s disdain, the war, his father’s death—they all faded away. Placed high from society’s reach, he and Sofia were perfectly alone, yet far from lonely.
The Frost of Springtime Page 13
