The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Strange that I should spend my final breaths before God, after having spent a lifetime avoiding Him.

  Sitting there in mock confrontation—a cruel purgatory, indeed—I concluded that infatuation is the very least of my affection for you.

  But I am empty. I have nothing left to give.

  For all our sakes, forget these words. Forget our kiss. Do not wait for me. Life is too precious, and your soul too lovely to be wasted on an old fool in love.

  Always yours, Alek

  Tears streamed down Elizabeth’s cheeks. Witnessing the truth gave her no sense of closure nor bittersweet serenity. Instead, she felt only heartache. They were letters from Aleksender to Sofia, remnants of her husband’s scorned soul, all expressed through eloquent prose.

  And all of them were unsent.

  •

  Juliet slipped through the streets at a gentle and steady gait. Her hooves rhythmically clinked against the cobblestones, filling the darkness with a therapeutic and soothing melody. Snuggled against his chest like a soft kitten, Sofia was bundled in Aleksender’s cloak and cradled within his lap. Basking in her nearness, he massaged her slumped shoulders and rubbed heat into her bones.

  Sacred Heart seeped into view thirty minutes later. Aleksender dismounted in a reluctant and painfully lethargic movement. He tethered Juliet’s reins to a weeping willow and withdrew a bronze skeleton key from deep inside his pocket.

  The convent’s wooden door moaned as he entered. The house was deathly still, every foot draped in heavy shadows, every woman and child lost within sleep. Aleksender wandered through the blackened halls like a ghost—graceful, silent, and discrete—Sofia’s body safely against his chest.

  He paralyzed outside the dormitory. He couldn’t stir a limb. A dull ache lodged inside his throat. His heart thundered against his chest, well aware he was about to betray it.

  Aleksender inhaled a shaky breath and stared down at the slumbering angel with a haunting attentiveness. Her bosoms gently heaved, manipulated by long and sleepy breaths. Its slow, seductive rhythm mesmerized and comforted him. She looked so peaceful. So beautiful and so trusting. He vainly battled for an inner courage he no longer possessed.

  Aleksender ripped away his glove with a curse. His fingers reverently fanned through her chocolate curls, submitting their silky texture to eternal memory. The cruel gravity of their fate fell upon his conscience. And the feel of her body cradled to his chest was crushing his soul.

  Aleksender lifted Sofia and slowly bowed his face, pressing a chaste kiss upon her brow. He could have held her in his arms forever, just like this, and died the happiest of men.

  But it could never be. Alas—only weeks ago, his personal demons had nearly killed Elizabeth. In the end, keeping Sofia for himself would destroy her. No, he would not disappear completely—he could never abandon Sofia. The world was too cruel a place and she was much too fair a creature. Without a doubt, its weight would crush her spirit.

  He would always be there for her, he inwardly vowed, distant and unseen—her silent protector and dark guardian—a lighthouse amongst the jagged sea cliffs, guiding her destiny. But first, Aleksender would have to divide their two souls. And he knew it would destroy him from the inside out … a sacrifice he was willing to make. She would survive. She would flourish.

  Sofia was young and impressionable. In time, her perspective of the world would be reborn. He would exist as a half-remembered dream, no more than a delicate memory of the deep subconscious. In truth, their separation would be a blessing. It would be a godsend.

  Yes, she would become a beautiful, distant star—faded and shining amongst the horizon of his despair, placed far from his mortal grasp. It proved unfortunate that he loved the girl; it would have been easy to keep her as his mistress.

  Aleksender’s head sank forward as his lips ghosted across her pale cheek.

  For the last time, he inhaled her unique scent.

  Roses and the frost of wintertime.

  After a moment, he exhaled a rasped breath and surged forward, slipping soundlessly into the dormitory.

  Aleksender’s blood froze as he stopped dead in his tracks. A pale hand was coiled around the rise of his shoulder.

  He spun around in a startled motion and instinctively clutched Sofia nearer to his body. Sister Catherine’s ancient features glowed before him. Nearly unreadable, they were wrinkled and winsome, illuminated by a wavering flame. Anger and frustration overcame Aleksender. This would be Sofia’s infinite ruin.

  Without a doubt, her “scandalous” behavior would cast her from the convent. As it was, her unusual lifestyle was already in question—the odd combination of dancing and living in a convent home.

  And the people of Paris—those malicious creatures whom delighted in scandals—were not ignorant of her origins. The ugly truth was widely known, though scarcely spoken. Sofia was a scorned bastard child, the shunned daughter of a lewd and arrogant woman, and destined for the life of a gutter whore. But, above all the things, she was a remarkable dancer and the beloved ward of le Comte de Paris. And that had always outshone her beginnings. Like himself, it seemed that Sofia had been born from contradictions.

  And now, her dignity would be destroyed. His weakness—his desperation, reckless obsession, and installable need—had corrupted the one thing he loved more than anything else. Ladies had been damned for far less.

  This time he wouldn’t be able to rescue her.

  Yet, Sister Catherine’s eyes held no scorn, anger nor condemnation. Instead, Aleksender only found a deep compassion and understanding. A soulful blend of wisdom and sadness radiated from her stare. Gazing down at Sofia’s smiling, sleeping face, she bowed her head in a regal motion. In that moment, Aleksender knew that Sister Catherine saw everything. And she shared in their tragedy.

  Aleksender’s mouth parted in speech. Sister Catherine pressed an index finger to her lips, demanding silence. She signaled him to follow with a graceful nod of her head. Clutching the silver candle-holder in her palm and lighting the way, long shadows and solemn silhouettes were cast upon the plaster walls. Only the faint rustle of Sister Catherine’s matronly skirts penetrated the din. Aleksender wondered where she could possibly be leading them—though dared not ask.

  Sister Catherine paused in front of a wooden door. The latch gave a defiant moan as she lifted the metal and nudged it open. She gestured Aleksender inside with an insistent wave of her hand. He entered the cozy chamber, obliging without further thought.

  He nearly lost his breath, in awe of the room’s pure and simplistic beauty. Several prayer candles had been placed atop the nightstand, bathing the walls with their collective, orange glows. The humble bed was meticulously turned down. Heaps of cotton had replaced the stiff covers. And a porcelain vase of fresh blooms was centered nearby on a small end table, each rose vibrant and full of life. The revelation was remarkable.

  Sister Catherine had planned for this moment. He nodded in silent gratitude as she slipped into the shadows.

  Aleksender inched toward the bed and spread Sofia’s unconscious body across the mattress. Glancing down, he pulled up the coverlet and carefully tucked her into bed—just as he’d often done when she was a girl. A wave of nostalgia weighed heavily on his heart.

  This was no child. Aleksender tentatively sunk to his knees and crouched at the bedside. Sofia’s complexion was wonderfully rosy, curls unruly, and lips swollen from his kisses. She was exhausted, the poor dear, and wildly disheveled—flushed from the throes of their recent passion. Every curve of her body was bathed by the candlelight. The slight arch of her bottom. The delicate curves of her hips. The endless length of her dancer’s legs …

  His stare settled upon her tranquil features. She looked so young, so angelic. Propped on both knees, he inched closer to the bed and its offering.

  “Sofia, I want you to know …”

  An onslaught of tears clogged Aleksender’s throat. His speech was constricted, overflowing with emotion. His head fell forward a
s his voice shattered. Aleksender turned from her with a strangled sob and pressed a balled fist against his mouth.

  Both eyes blinked shut as he imagined a life without Sofia. Without her, the emptiness would return.

  “I cannot endure losing you. I cannot …”

  He grasped at his heart and massaged his chest, attempting to ease the pain within. His other hand brushed over her array of curls, stroking her head in repetitive and soothing motions.

  “I love you. I love you so much.”

  Shaking his head, he leaned forward and tremulously whispered, “I care for you, painfully much … far more than myself. For that reason … for that precise reason I must let you go. I must …”

  Aleksender draped his cloak over Sofia as he tentatively rose to his feet. His body was languid and unsteady. Clutching onto the bed-frame, his gaze rose to the vanity. In the reflection, he locked eyes with himself. It was a powerfully introspective moment. Moonlight bathed his features and gentled his appearance. Regardless, the truth of his character remained illuminated.

  “You deserve much more, so much more than I could ever give.” He tucked the cover beneath her chin and tentatively leaned forward. His lips brushed across her forehead in a transient caress.

  His emerald gaze descended to her lips. Her mouth parted—murmuring some dreamy nonsense. She was smiling softly in her sleep, relaxed and content, lost to the beauty of her dreams. In contrast to her serenity, Aleksender’s breathing was labored, harsh, and uneven. Every emotional barrier, every defense and every barricade, had crumbled.

  Aleksender freed his soul. For the first time in years, he let himself cry. Tears cascaded down Aleksender’s cheeks without shame. He sank to his knees and sobbed into the auburn silk of her hair, drenching them with his unrequited tears. He wept for the both of them. He wept on behalf of their star-crossed love.

  For the first time in countless years, he wept.

  “I shall watch over you always.” Aleksender stroked her ivory skin in a reverent touch. His lips pressed against the hollow of her ear, whispering upon the fine cartilage, entire body convulsing. “Even though you won’t see me, I will be there for you. And that shall never change. Never. I have nothing to offer you. Nothing but my protection.”

  His eyes drifted shut as he whispered the eternal vow against her skin, voice beautiful and soothing—words spoken like a lullaby. “Goodbye, my little Sofia …”

  Tears blurred Sister Catherine’s vision. She watched Aleksender and Sofia’s exchange from the shadows, much like she had done for the past nine years. Sister Catherine inhaled a shaky breath and mumbled a prayer from the archway:

  O, God, whose love restores the brokenhearted of this world, pour out your love, we beseech you, upon those who feel lonely, abandoned, or unloved. Strengthen their hope to meet the days ahead; grant them courage, bless them with the joy of your eternal peace. Amen.

  Aleksender had committed adultery. He’d taken a young girl’s innocence—the innocence of a girl who perhaps stood on the precipice of nunnery. And yet within their shared adoration, she perceived only beauty. Without another backward glance, Sister Catherine brushed away her tears and vanished into the shadows.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “I sleep but my heart is awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking: ‘Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my flawless one. My head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night.’ My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening; my heart began to pound for him. I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles of the bolt. I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left; he was gone. And my heart sank at his departure.”

  — Song of Songs 5

  A strong pair of arms held her tight. Lips whispered sweet promises into her ear. Fingertips sifted through her curls, deft and tremulous. An uneven heartbeat drummed against her ribs. Shallow breaths wafted over her flesh. Warm tears fell upon her cheeks, mingling with her own.

  Her dark guardian stood before her, blending into the blackness of night. His silhouette sank into a deep curve as he arched over her form. He whispered a soft goodbye against her cheek.

  A sob was wrenched from her throat. “No … please do not leave me.” Sofia’s arms thrust forward, grasping at emptiness.

  Her protector turned away in a fluid motion and vanished into the night. His cloak fanned out in a divine spectacle—appearing as no more than two blackened wings.

  Sofia woke with a start. Smoke from the candle’s flame swirled about, pasty against the expanse of black. The events of the previous night rushed through her thoughts as she fought to regain her composure.

  Sofia blushed at the memory, palms cradling her flushed cheeks. But where was she now? It was dark as pitch. Regardless, Sofia knew she’d been left alone. She would have felt Alek’s very presence.

  Had it all been a dream? No more than some wicked fantasy? No—her body confirmed, sore and aching in her most feminine areas. She had been branded by his affection forever. And their union was something she’d never regret.

  At the opposite end of the chamber, faint shafts of moonlight shined through a window. Sofia stumbled from the bed and eased toward the teasing illumination. Sweeping the curtain aside, her eyes widened with a sudden epiphany. Indeed, this room was Sister Catherine’s chamber—a bit overly lavished at present, but unmistakably the head nun’s sleeping quarters.

  Sofia clasped onto her heart. Her lashes blinked shut, harnessing back tears she refused to shed. Behind shut eyes she saw him, heard his voice. Somehow, someway, Aleksender’s parting words echoed the chambers of her mind.

  I care for you, painfully much … far more than myself. For that reason, for that precise reason, I must let you go. I must …

  He was gone.

  •

  The drawing room was cloaked in silence. Aleksender sat in one of the oversized armchairs, posture straight as an arrow, resembling a king before his throne. His mind was numb as he stared into the blazing hearth. The fireplace seemed to mock his infernal misery. It chanted incoherent curses, whispering promises of eternal damnation. Demonic manifestations flashed across the crimson walls, welcoming Comte de Lefèvre into hell.

  But he was already in hell.

  Aleksender clutched onto his half-empty bottle of brandy, dangerously delirious and teetering on the edge of sanity. Despite the hearth’s warm blaze, he felt cold, lifeless, entirely alone.

  Aleksender’s mind reeled, thoughts garbled and pensive. He was drunk on brandy and despair. From head to toe, his body trembled with pains he hadn’t known to exist. Alas, the horrors of war were incomparable to this agony. Letting her go had been the most painful thing he’d ever endured. Sacrifice was no easy feat.

  Aleksender chuckled low as he sardonically praised his fallen comrades, “I applaud you, my good men.”

  You have a soldier’s heart …

  No. He had nothing.

  He jolted to his feet and stormed to the hearth. “Damn! Damn it all to hell!”

  Aleksender hollered an animalistic cry. The bottle broke into a million little pieces as it was chucked into the fire, shattering against the logs. The flames brilliantly exploded—fueled by the alcohol and Aleksender’s madness. Unable to sustain his weight, he groaned and collapsed to the crutch of his knees. Aleksender vainly hugged himself, aching for comfort. Glazed eyes stared forward as he rocked back and forth, to and fro, behaving like a frightened and forgotten child.

  •

  Manipulated by the invasion of masculine body weight, Elizabeth tensed as the mattress dipped inward and sank into a heavy curve. Every inch of the bed trembled. Aleksender was quivering from head to toe, his teeth chattering like tin cymbals. She felt his ragged breaths draw intimately close. They wafted across the back of her neck, piercing the air in strained clouds.

  An abundance of heat radiated all around, molding the contours of Elizabeth’s body. It seared the barrier of her lacy chemis
e—an unpleasant and unwanted assault upon her senses. A damp hiss of air impaled her neck, her back, each of her shoulders …

  “Elizabeth …” Aleksender’s voice was no more than a tragic whisper and nearly inaudible. “Please, I need you.”

  A powerful humility and desperation laced every syllable. Elizabeth almost found herself pitying the lovesick fool.

  Almost.

  “Cold,” came his detached murmur, “I feel cold. So … numb.” Yes—Elizabeth knew all about that coldness; it was a coldness that was unshakable and bone-deep, over fifteen years in the making. Deft fingertips wisped down and over the inside of her thigh. “Please. Just hold me.”

  In wordless response, Elizabeth latched onto Aleksender’s trembling hand and forced him away with a dark pleasure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s memorial fell upon an overcast Sunday afternoon. The sky was bruised and tucked beneath a blanket of lush clouds. Hiding beneath finely carved wings and ornate alcoves, stone angels wept as they shed mortal tears. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the tall oaks and maples, offering slim portals into heaven.

  Filling the air with conspicuous whispers and sideways glances, Parisians of all pedigrees infested the winding cobblestone walkways. They huddled nearby Comte de Lefèvre’s mausoleum, standing as close as the gendarmes permitted. Hilts of brilliant silver, which adorned the gendarmes’ swords, clashed against their navy uniforms.

  Ravens perched atop swaying boughs and cold tombstones, staring down, slickly attired in their black mourning coats. Stationed upon a hilltop, Richard, Aleksender, Elizabeth and a few others stood before Comte de Lefèvre’s grandiose mausoleum. The glorious stone structure dwarfed everything in comparison.

  A pastor read from The Bible in a monotonous tone, “The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters …”

  The drawled words were entirely lost to Aleksender. His head bowed forward, thoughts consumed with his recent losses. And, alongside each of those dark thoughts, he felt the penetration of Elizabeth’s eyes.