The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Many of the cuts and bruises were still fresh and gleaming. Her left wrist was secured in a Velpeau bandage—a clever contraption that had been fashioned together by none other than the renowned Dr. Alfred Velpeau himself. Her arm slung across her chest in a sort of hammock, keeping the broken limb immobile and sheathed.

  “The young student continued to weep, feeling very much alone. ‘Here at last is a true lover,’ said the nightingale. ‘Night after night have I sung of him, though I knew him not. Night after night have I told his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the hyacinth blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire. But passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.’”

  Sofia thoughtfully propped her elbow onto the floor and cradled the curve of her cheek. With an intuition well beyond her ten years, she observed Aleksender’s dark hair and the lines of anguish that had come to burden his fine brow.

  What made her guardian so very sad? After all, he was simply the handsomest, kindest, gentlest, most intelligent, most caring gentleman in the whole wide world. He deserved only happiness—nothing less.

  The rustle of parchment broke the quiet as Aleksender turned the page. Clearing his throat, he resumed, “The young Student looked up at the sky and murmured, ‘If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn.’”

  A strange and unnamable awareness chilled Sofia’s body. In the span of a heartbeat, an ominous haze seemed to envelop the entire drawing room. Aleksender’s voice softened to a delicate whisper.

  “’If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.’”

  Aleksender carefully shut the book and marked the page with a red handkerchief. Sofia sat up with a visible pout as an array of dark curls tumbled down and over her shoulders. He chuckled low, reading into her thoughts.

  “I daresay it is long past your bedtime.”

  “Just a bit longer? Pleeeaaase?”

  “Non, non. We mustn’t tire you for tomorrow’s lesson.”

  “Oh, poo!” Sofia rose to her feet. Tiny shoulders drooping, her lungs expanded with a sigh of defeat. “All right.”

  “That’s a good girl. Now go run along, ma petit, and one of the servants shall ready you for bed.”

  Sofia gracefully skipped over to him, smiling from ear to ear. She was positively delightful—a charming mass of uncontainable energy. And yet, as much as he enjoyed her company, he knew the chateau was not a proper home for Sofia. There were too many things he simply could not provide her. And then there were those haunted moments of self-loathing, pain and confusion—things a little girl should never have to bear witness. Yes, his mind concluded, he’d have to arrange other housing arrangements. Decided on the matter, Aleksender shook away his thoughts and eyed his darling ward.

  Sofia primly folded her good hand behind her back, just as her governess had instructed she should, and awarded his chin with a tiny kiss.

  Aleksender lifted a hand in a suave gesture; it vanished behind Sofia’s left ear for no longer than an instant. When he withdrew, a red rose was wedged between his thumb and forefinger.

  Magic.

  “A red rose!” she cried out, sounding very much like the Nightingale. “You found one!”

  Aleksender laughed with the entirety of his heart and tucked the bloom behind her ear. “And now that you have your red rose, ma petit, you may sleep soundly.”

  “I promise! Bonne nuit, Alek!”

  “Bonne nuit, little one.”

  A foreign sense of worth and contentment flooded Aleksender. Deep in his heart, he knew that saving Sofia had preserved him. And the revelation was a beam of light inside of his soul.

  Ah, on what little things does happiness depend!

  •

  The tender memory faded away as each cord of beauty twisted into something terrible.

  The windowpane’s rhythmic thumping. An unhinged latch. The subtle creaking of wood … approaching footfall. The whispered breeze of a frock coat. A weak protest, a silenced cry. The embrace of a gloved hand snaked around a slender throat. Applied pressure—the threat of crushed vocals cords. The splash of hot tears. A hissed command and unveiled threat. “Ferme la bouche …”

  The brilliant glint of a knife. A chuckle—devious, rich and full of mirth. A damp handkerchief, red and faded, coiled into a tight ball and draped over flesh. One last cry.

  Darkness—immovable and inescapable.

  •

  Rue de la Paix was packed to its limits. The square was a perfect viewing spot for such destruction. The Vendôme Column was front and center, Napoleon’s lifeless stone features etched with blissful oblivion. Ladies hung out of their balconies and chattered amongst themselves. Days earlier, they’d coated the windows with paper and paste to help numb the shattering blow to come.

  Down in the street below, newspaper and pastry vendors rolled through the congestion, handing out goods as if they were party favors. A multitude of red flags lined the inside of the square, branding Place Vendôme as a place of liberty and freedom.

  The thunder of drums shook the ground. National Guardsmen from various battalions throughout the city had come together for this exceptional occasion. They stood at the foot of the column, passing cigars back and forth as the last preparations were carried out. Workmen drove wedges into the column’s sawed crevice, loosening the incalculable weight from the base.

  Members of the Commune arrived at the scene in heroic fashion. Propped on horseback, the men stationed themselves in a single-file line at the front of Rue de la Paix’s alley.

  It was Christophe Cleef who gave the signal.

  A number of marching bands issued the drum roll. In the midst of the excitement, a rather courageous man shoved through the crowd. He came beside Christophe and yelled over the music and jeers. “Can’t you leave it alone?” His plea was lost to the din. The horse gave an irritated whinny as the man tugged at its hanging bridle.

  Christophe narrowed his eyes and stared down at a face that wasn’t a day under sixty. “What are you doing? Out of the way! Guards!”

  “The column—can’t you leave it alone?” he repeated, a knot of desperation in his voice. “It has cost us all so much.”

  Christophe’s broad shoulders shook with laughter. “Yes—yes, it has, indeed. It has cost millions of lives. Now step aside if you care to keep your head.” Defeated, the man hung his face and did as commanded, vanishing back into the crowd.

  Christophe squinted against the blaring sunrays. On all sides of the monument, ropes were held by over seventy sailors. Muscles strained beneath the afternoon light as the greatest match of tug-of-war in the history of the world took place. As calm and as sure as ever, Napoleon gave a slight sway and glanced down at his executioners. The drums reached their crescendo and faded into a patriotic melody. Minutes later, applause erupted as the column gave way and crumbled at its seams.

  The Commune struggled to chasten their horses as Napoleon Bonaparte met his inevitable doom. He crashed down, smashing the cobblestones into rubble—lying before his people in a miserable wreck. In the force of his fall, an arm was amputated and his head cleanly severed from his body.

  Women spat upon the heap of stone that once was Napoleon’s face and cried nasty obscenities.

  In a single Monday afternoon, the Commune had sealed Paris’s fate. And now the entire world was crashing down.

  Christophe surveyed the riot and escalating madness. His heart triumphed. It was the birth of a new revolution.

  Caught in the excitement and flushed with power, he joined in the chanted cry: “Vive la Commune! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance! Death to the Empire!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  May 21, 1871

  La Semaine Sanglante, Day One

&nb
sp; “The Blood Week”

  Sounds of war shook Aleksender awake. He leapt from beneath the thick coverlet, panting and drenched in buckets of sweat. But alas—for the first time, the booming cannons and roaring firearms were not mere sentiments of his nightmares. He was not trapped within that twisted, internal limbo—that purgatory in which all soldiers go to die. These sounds of war were real.

  Very real.

  The army of Versailles was upon them. Civil war had finally claimed Paris.

  Aleksender stared off at the billowing drapes as he fought to catch his breath. Beside him, Elizabeth continued to sleep in peaceful oblivion.

  No, his mind confirmed. The rolling cannons didn’t inspire images of dismembered comrades, nor did they take command of his mind, tricking him to believe he was back in those bloodstained battlefields.

  No, it wasn’t war that claimed his thoughts. It was something much worse and inconceivably more disheartening.

  Bile seared Aleksender’s lungs and rose inside his throat. He could feel it. He felt it within his very bones. She was in terrible danger.

  •

  A resonating knock filled the chateau hours later. The sound was jarring within the silence. The first footman, who was presently disheveled and in his nightgown, greeted the horse messenger. Visibly jumping at the occasional explosion, he bristled to the front door with an uncharacteristic clumsiness.

  “Bonsoir,” the rough-looking messenger drawled, speaking before the footman could offer any greetings. “I hope le Comte may forgive me for bargin’ in at such an ungodly hour.” One of his hands vanished beneath the riding coat and withdrew a bundled piece of parchment. The footman glanced at both the messenger and his horse—absorbing the fact that neither was adorned with a proper delivery satchel.

  “Who sends you, monsieur?” the footman hesitantly asked.

  The man merely cleared his throat and continued with his objective. “I’ve a letter here.”

  Brows drawn together, the footman nodded and accepted the parchment from the messenger’s callused fingers. “Very well. I shall deliver it to him personally.”

  “See that you do. Tonight.” An unsettling grin stretched the messenger’s swarthy complexion as he mounted his horse. “I am told it’s of great importance.” He kicked the creature’s flank with a booted heel and tugged on the leather reins. “Dire importance.”

  •

  Aleksender hovered above his writing desk, the magnificent curve of his back slumped into a tight arch. Both hands were propped onto the counter, stabilizing his languid bodyweight.

  Alas, the world had tipped off its very axis. Tears he refused to shed stung his eyes and blurred his vision. The crinkled parchment was unfurled like two gaping wings, its unholy contents unveiled. Aleksender’s gaze ran across the familiar and nearly illegible writing for the hundredth time: Feel nothing? — C.C.

  Sofia’s red handkerchief had been pinned to the words. And the sentiment was drenched in blood.

  “Something told me I would find you here.” Elizabeth’s voice broke the silent din and startled Aleksender from his haze. “The letter—”

  “Is of no concern to you.”

  “On the contrary,” she spouted in quick reply. “It takes you from our bed.” Elizabeth fastened her nightgown’s sash and shuffled closer, careful and cautious. “What does it inquire?” She raised her hand, readying to sweep the raven locks from his eyes.

  Aleksender averted his face from her touch, every muscle tense and aching. “Let me alone.”

  “Why, Aleksender!” she gasped in disbelief. “You are crying!”

  He heaved a sardonic chuckle that made her skin crawl. “I keep convincing myself,” he absently rambled, speaking to no one, “that it is not my fault.”

  “What? What are you—”

  “ … cannot stop … replaying our parting words. Indeed. Those words shall follow me everywhere … into the grave … beyond the grave …”

  He laughed a terribly sinister laugh—the laugh of a true madman—and groped onto his chest in agony. “Far, far beyond the grave.”

  Elizabeth’s spine stiffened, chilled from the coarseness of his voice, the strange and animalistic detachment of his stare. “Please! I beg you. Stop this—”

  “Death is no escape,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “No! There is no escaping.” Aleksender proceeded to pace back and forth. He groaned like a wild, caged beast and neurotically speared fingertips through his sweaty hairline. “I shall have you know, it is far better to know nothing than to be nothing.”

  “Stop this!”

  “Feel nothing.”

  “Listen to yourself!”

  “Yes. The fool was right in that. I feel nothing. Nothing.”

  Aleksender’s body sagged against the wall as he exhaled a strained breath. Struggling to shut out the world around him, he pinched away the tears that burned his eyes.

  “The nightingale pressed closer to the thorn … closer … closer till it pierced his bleeding heart.” Aleksender raked his fingertips through the vast waves of his unkempt hair. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, tugging at his scalp with an escalating madness and desperation. Black threads were plucked with each little pull—as if he was testing his very ability to feel.

  “Bitter, bitter was the pain … wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the love that dies not in the tomb … a love perfected by death.”

  “You are mad.”

  His hands fell away and descended down to his sides. They curled into two clenched fists. Elizabeth eyed his predatory stance with a jolt of renowned fear. A flash of white teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled wide.

  Elizabeth knew that he was far from amused.

  “Ah, I am afraid madness is one luxury I’ve been denied.”

  A stream of blood ran down his cheek as it seeped from a cut on his forehead … a cut he’d inflicted upon himself only minutes ago. Aleksender turned to stone, exhausted from his self-mutilation.

  Elizabeth’s pulse raced as he stared blankly forward, unblinking and unmoving.

  She struck Aleksender across the face in an attempt to reel him back into reality. The beginnings of a thick beard stung her palm. The sickening crack of flesh against flesh resonated within the silence.

  Aleksender didn’t stir a limb.

  “Only one person could draw such agony from you. Your little whore!” Aleksender caught her wrists midair as Elizabeth made for another strike. His long fingers coiled around her skin like twin serpents, eyes seething.

  Her voice was perfectly calm, a grim and knowing smile tugging at her lips. “I will scream. I shall gladly wake every servant.”

  She gasped as a low growl reverberated against her. His hold intensified, strangling her very blood flow. Heavy breaths fanned against her flushed cheek, branding her forever.

  “I defy you to say her name.” The tone of Aleksender’s threat mirrored the serenity of her voice. But his words bore a jagged edge.

  Aleksender enveloped her wrist impossibly tighter; Elizabeth flinched free with a cry. Her eyes fell to her trembling hand. She absently fondled her wedding finger and caressed the cold trinket.

  “How I had tormented myself! So many nights I’d lie awake, imagining you with all those whores … wondering where I went wrong.”

  “And now?” His voice was a deep, tentative whisper.

  “I pitied you then. Always distant, never complete. I pity you now … an old fool in love.” Aleksender tensed as she recited the very words from his letter.

  She shook her head. “But even more I pity myself for believing you might have changed.” Elizabeth collected the note from the writing desk’s sleek surface.

  He shook his head as a rush of guilt overcame him. “I wish I could change. For fifteen years, I’ve wished for it every day. Even more, I wish I could be the husband you deserve.”

  “Yes, well, more often than not, I fear wishes are wasted breaths.” Fingering the sullied material, Elizabeth l
aughed beneath a strained breath. “Sofia’s handkerchief? She truly was made to dance. I would often watch her from our box, completely taken away. Beautiful. Strangely incomplete.” She set down the note and gazed into the haunted depths of Aleksender’s eyes. There, she found the remains of a long-suffering soul. After a moment, she took his hand with a weak smile. “I see now. You are both equally trapped. And I wish it were in my power to free you.”

  •

  Aleksender returned to his study, brandy in hand. Memories bombarded his consciousness as he slowly slipped into a blissful, drunken stupor.

  But he found no peace. There was no sleep. No dreams. There were only nightmares. Within himself, a symphony of soul shattering screams and bombs exploded behind his shut eyes, a wailing babe, the hum of a distorted prayer … the seductive glint of a knife.

  Then he simply descended into black oblivion. Tucked inside that darkly comforting void he was silent and complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  May 22, 1871

  La Semaine Sanglante, Day Two

  Countless bones and skulls were piled on top of each other, collectively forming a gruesome wall endless in length. Composed of winding tunnels built entirely from death, such a hell was not for the faint of heart. The underground catacombs were an astonishing and grotesque work of art—constructed from over six million human skeletons—residing as a labyrinth of ultimate despair. A warning to ward off trespassers was engraved across one of the low archways: Beware the Empire of Death!

  The drone of repetitive dripping echoed, chilling and naturally amplified. Clutched within the grasp of a bloated hand, a lantern swayed midair, highlighting each of the grinning skulls.

  Heavy steps resonated as the man entered a makeshift holding cell. The illumination came to an abrupt stop and glowed like a diva’s spotlight; it encircled a prisoner who was cloaked in shadow and slumped against a far wall. At the sound of steps, the man’s face lolled forward and eyes squeezed shut. The bruised line of his jaw seethed blood. A formal cassock robe fluttered around his form, the abundance of drapery falling in lush white folds. Accenting the fatal severity of his condition, they hung from his beaten body like loose skin.