The Frost of Springtime

by Rachel L. Demeter

  Even a blind man could see he was on the threshold of death. Both hands were cuffed and suspended midair. Resembling the sacrifice of Christ with uncanny precision, his limbs were outstretched and fastened tight—both arms embracing his dark fate.

  Two chained corpses rested on either side of him. Each one stared forward, seeing nothing. Indeed, their decapitated heads laid at his heels, strewn carelessly about, the stumps of their necks clotted with blood.

  The prisoner’s head collided with the stone wall as it fell back in a rush of despair. Blood leaked from the corners of his eyes, cascading down his sallow cheeks. They looked remarkably like crimson tears. And he was not alone. The Marquis de Boury was seated across the cell waiting for his fate to be sealed.

  The captor knelt on the ground and tore the prisoner’s robe aside. His flesh glistened, fresh punctures marring his body from head to toe. A pectoral crucifix dangled against the thin expanse of his chest. The gold was dingy and stained with blood, the beauty of its sovereign likeness tarnished beyond recognition.

  The captor clamped onto the pendant and lifted it to his eyes. The prisoner breathlessly struggled, groaning and battling his chains.

  A diabolical chuckle swelled the darkness. “Where is your God now, my good archbishop?” The captor heaved a melodramatic sigh, released the crucifix, and rose to his feet. He appeared as no more than a demonic silhouette, the hilt of his blade alive with a sparkle.

  Keys jangled as he crossed the cell. He unlocked the marquis’s cuffs, grabbed onto the scruff of his collar, and shoved him to the floor. Marquis de Boury was old—well into his seventies—and nearly unconscious. Unsheathing the weapon, the captor aligned it to his neck and held it beneath the arch of his chin. He slowly drew it away, engraving a faint line of blood in the sweat-lined skin.

  The archbishop shut his eyes and bowed his face in silent prayer. He murmured incoherent words of salvation for Marquis de Boury.

  The captor raised his blade in a majestic gesture and positioned it adjacent to the Marquis de Boury’s neck. After a brief moment of silence, he pulled his arm up and back—swinging the blade, full force, like a bat …

  •

  Deep rumbling and the roar of cannons echoed overhead like thunder. A blood-curdling scream shook the Commune’s base. Just as quickly, the sounds choked off and faded into dead silence.

  Sofia cringed at the familiar refrains and tugged at her restraints. Trembling, she cried out as the rusted cuff sliced her wrist. A stream of blood trickled down the slope of her elevated arm. Her curls were severely tangled and heavy with mud, her hairline clotted. The material of her chemise was stained, drenched in a mixture of blood, sweat and dirt.

  Sofia parted her chapped lips with a groan. Despite a few of the men’s half-hearted persuading, she had continually refused a drink of water. Disoriented, clearly drugged, and zoning in and out of consciousness, Sofia had proceeded to tell each man precisely what she thought of his pestering—a nasty charade that had earned her two ice-cold splashes to the face.

  But she regretted all of that now. Why had she been so very stubborn?

  Her tongue seemed to have grown to the roof of her mouth. Coated by a thick white film, it felt impossibly swollen and bone-dry. She had awakened in this hell a few hours ago—chained to the wall, shivering, and beyond nauseated.

  A thousand questions bombarded her thoughts, each one more desperate than the one before. What was the last thing she could bring to memory? Where was she? For what purpose? Who were those gruff brutes? Was she to be raped? And what, pray, had been the cause of all that terrible screaming? Was she to suffer the same fate?

  Was Alek in harm? She felt herself begin to panic. The music of bombs resounded every so often, causing all of Paris’s underground to tremble.

  “Monsieur?” The deep voice snapped Sofia from her whirlwind of thoughts. She inhaled a sharp breath and searched her surroundings.

  No one was in sight.

  With a tinge of fear and ache in her gut, she studied the wide selection of weapons that were ceremoniously arranged before her. Guns, daggers, and the like had been propped up against a parallel wall. They stood as the one proof she had not been abandoned and left down here to rot and die, only the sewer rats for company. Above the weapons, a crimson flag hung like a mural. Vive la Commune! was printed across its canvas, each letter prouder than the one before it.

  The rhythmic clink of approaching boots anchored her attention. “Monsieur?” came the rugged voice once more—now sufficiently closer. “Is all well?”

  “Daft idiot! I have been absent little more than two hours. In Christ’s name, what have you done?” Sofia’s ears pricked and eyes widened. That voice! She knew that voice …

  “Carried out the orders, monsieur.”

  “Orders? Whose orders?”

  “Maurice—Maurice Lupont. He—”

  “Maurice Lupont? Fool! You answer to me and only me!”

  “Yes. Yes, ‘course, Monsieur Cleef.”

  Cleef—Christophe Cleef. Her dark stranger. A veteran of war and Aleksender’s dearest friend.

  A dozen or so men surrounded Christophe, enveloping him within a loyal ring of followers. Tan, gruff, and clearly members of the working class, they appeared ready for anything. It seemed that the Dark Ages had returned to Europe, and lawlessness was king. Only through the embrace of death and decay would things again be righted. Only after conditions worsened would they be allowed to heal.

  Regardless, Sofia’s heart sang in swift relief. Surely, he meant to aid her from this mess!

  Surely, the noble Christophe Cleef was not the enemy?

  •

  “You did this to me.”

  Brimming with a devil-may care attitude, Christophe eased toward the small and helpless voice. His lost humanity resurrected as he was struck with the faintest trace of pity. Chained and defenseless, the chit resembled a virgin sacrifice, entombed within a crypt and strapped to the altar. But no—he knew this girl was no blushing virgin. Chastened by the thought and returning to his sardonic nature, Christophe exhaled a breath that he hadn’t known he was holding. Grinning wide, he knelt beside her and thoughtfully cocked his head.

  “Well. Not entirely.” Blue eyes pierced the dark as Sofia peered up at him. She was emotionally and physically drained, half- drugged, and weaker than a baby fawn. There was little to no fight left in her. “Could not have done it without Monsieur le Comte’s cooperation … or, shall I say, lack of …”

  Sofia revived with a bolt of energy. Blood crept down each wrist as she tugged on her restraints. “N-No! What have you done! That screaming—was that him? Where is he? Where is Alek? Answer me! Answer me now!”

  Christophe lowered himself to his knees, almost in slow motion, eyes softening. He pressed his index finger to Sofia’s lips, demanding silence. She jerked away and inhaled a strangled gasp. The back of her head collided with the wall in an attempt to escape his touch. Her breaths grew shallower as Christophe cradled her cheek in his palm.

  “No, please. Don’t touch me. Just leave me alone.” Her voice sounded far away, distant and surreal, spoken through the filter of some lucid nightmare.

  “Shh. There is nothing to be afraid of. You are under my protection now, my little Sofia.”

  My little Sofia.

  He withdrew a cigar and matches from his coat and lit a smoke. Sofia eyed the blazing tip with an unnatural fear and shrank against the wall. Sweeping away the tangle of curls, Christophe clenched the cigar between his teeth and laid a hand upon her shoulder. The countless burns were painful to behold. He gave a dull grunt as he snuffed the cigar with his heel.

  “Christophe …” Their eyes joined together at the whispered sound of his name. “I know you. I know you are a good man. I know you have a soldier’s heart.” A dull silence weighed heavily in the air. Burned by her words and rendered speechless, Christophe swallowed deeply as his hand fell from her skin.

  “Please … Why are you doing this?”
>
  “I was left no other choice.”

  His words were no more than a tragic sigh. For an iridescent moment, Sofia believed it had been the wind weeping.

  And it was weeping for the three of them.

  •

  Aleksender lay in bed, sleepless and still. His mind and body felt numb and detached. He was soulless … far more dead than alive.

  A tentative touch whispered across the unfertile terrain of his back, stroking the various crevices and scars. After a moment Elizabeth’s voice broke the silence. “What happened to you?” The words were soft, serene and empathetic. How could they be any different? He was broken.

  What dark secret was locked in his heart? What was eating away at his mind and body—consuming her husband from the inside out?

  The questions were a conundrum and the answers a paradox. And Aleksender found that all his frustration, guilt, love and sadness could be eloquently expressed through a single word: “Defeat.”

  •

  A shaft of light split the floor as Aleksender eased into his father’s study. He turned the knob of a kerosene lamp and flooded the room with a warm glow. Nostalgia filled the darkest and most delicate crevices of his heart.

  This had been his father’s most treasured room. The smell of brandy and whiskey still hung in the air. Aleksender inhaled his father’s memory with a heavy heart. He hadn’t dared step foot inside Philippe’s domain since his return from the war. The memories, the resentment for his loss, had simply been too great.

  Now he felt only contentment within his father’s presence among his belongings and precious keepsakes. Philippe de Lefèvre had been a connoisseur of knowledge and the arts. Telescopes, globes and other worldly trinkets filled his study like toys fill a nursery.

  Aleksender wandered over to a towering bookshelf. Stroking his father’s memory, he ran a fingertip across the dusty bindings, leaving railroad tracks wherever he touched … Descartes’ Mediations on First Philosophy. Novels of all genres. The Happy Prince and Other Tales.

  Oscar Wilde’s masterpiece protruded farther than the others; it seemed to beckon Aleksender’s attention. He obliged as he breathlessly slid the slender book from its home in the shelf. Dust clouded the air as he tossed it open. A folded piece of parchment was tucked inside, bookmarking page thirteen—the beginning of The Nightingale and the Rose.

  Aleksender unfolded the note, instantly recognizing his father’s elegant penmanship.

  Dearest Aleksender,

  I fear I may not live to see your return.

  It is for this reason I’m compelled to write you. I meant to tell you the truth years ago, but could never quite find the courage. Now, I fear that time has run out. I shan’t tell you here, nor do I need to.

  Above all things, I owe you an apology. I only wished to protect you and your brother. I yearned to replace the darkness with beauty. But the truth has always been there, buried beneath the surface of your consciousness, clawing to break free. I have seen it in your eyes.

  Perhaps it is time that the illusion is lifted. You need only to look inside of yourself.

  I love you dearly, my son.

  The wailing babe, glinting knife, sloshing water—the shattered memories simultaneously bombarded Aleksender.

  He remembered. A grand crash resounded. Aleksender collapsed to the floor as his legs failed him. Barely able to breathe, his entire body convulsed, eyes seeing varying shades of red. Beads of sweat poured from his hairline and slid down his flesh in strides, the salty liquid distorting his vision.

  Elizabeth found him in this state—curled up on the floor like a young boy, shuddering, a volume of incoherent words slewing from his lips.

  “Aleksender!” He latched onto her forearm as she knelt to help him up. His gaze was wild and detached; it seemed he was watching something unfold within his mind.

  Yes. In a single rush of despair, he remembered everything.

  Those loose puzzle pieces, which had longtime floated inside of his awareness, came together in a glorious epiphany. The terrible memory was at last unveiled—a memory Aleksender immediately wished had stayed forgotten.

  “Aleksender, speak to me! Please! What—”

  “I remember.”

  “What? What do you mean? What happened?”

  Staring down at his father’s words, Aleksender sagged against the bookshelf, the frantic beat of his heart booming in his ears.

  “I killed her. I killed my mother.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Twenty-six years earlier …

  Comtesse Victoria de Lefèvre paced through Paris’s sleeping streets. Her heels melodically clinked as the elegance of her beauty contrasted against the vast night. A little boy of ten years clasped her hand as he struggled to keep up stride, three of his steps matching one of her own.

  “Maman,” Aleksender piped, a full-blown pout fixed upon his lips. “My feet are sore. I’m cold. And my tummy hurts something terrible.”

  “Hush now, my son,” came his mother’s soft reply. “We are nearly there.”

  Aleksender’s chest constricted into a tight ball. Her composure was strangely haunting.

  Victoria had always been prone to elaborate tantrums; more often than not, Mother appeared to be composed of two separate personalities—one being society’s darling and its counterpoint a rather melodramatic fool. Both individuals were susceptible to the consequences of extreme emotion. But Aleksender had never witnessed anything quite like that evening. She’d been sobbing since dusk, madly pacing Father’s study and whispering biblical passages through freely flowing tears.

  And now, not two hours later, she resembled the picture of serenity—perfectly calm, perfectly content.

  The calm before the storm.

  A humble home rose into sight as they rounded a corner. Constructed from a fortress of sleek bricks and slate, it was inviting and wonderfully storybook. Beguiled by the sight, Aleksender’s lips curved into a smile.

  “Are we here?”

  Victoria stopped to smooth down her bright and bubbly skirts. “Indeed. It’s awfully drab, is it not?”

  “Non! I think it’s purty.” The sanctuary was as charming as can be. How could Mother perceive anything other than its beauty?

  Shaking her head in disapproval, Victoria exhaled a sigh that marked her aggravation. Raven coils cascaded down and over her cheeks, each one falling in a bountiful swirl. She bent forward and gazed into Aleksender’s eyes. “You have much to learn, sweet thing.”

  Once more, the chime of heels resounded as she resumed pace and headed for the structure’s entrance.

  “Where are we, Maman?”

  Silence was her response; she fished a skeleton key from inside her bodice and turned the lock with a startling click. As if in warning, the door gave a defiant creak as mother and child entered.

  In contrast to the cheery exterior, the inside was empty, lonely, and nearly pitch black. Shadows snaked through the corridor and crept up and down the plain walls. Aleksender rooted his shiny boots into place, emerald eyes widening.

  “I-I don’t wanna, Maman. It’s frightfully dark.”

  “Why, there is nothing to fear, amour.”

  Of course there was not. He was being more than a bit silly. Sobered by her words, Aleksender squared both shoulders and bravely followed after his mother, a surge of comical male pride empowering each step. He raised his chin and stiffened his upper lip—just as Father had often instructed him to do so—pushing aside the terrible premonition that had inflamed his gut.

  “Why we here? Where are we?”

  “You mustn’t speak, chérie,” Victoria gently chided. She splayed a fair hand upon Aleksender’s lower back and gave a firm nudge. Gesturing a nearby chaise, she murmured, “Be a good boy and go rest. I shall be but a moment.”

  “But why? Why must you leave me?”

  “Please—no more questions. I will call out for you.”

  Steps dragging and mutinous, Aleksender obliged with a small grumb
le as he ushered himself further into the home. He plopped his bottom onto the chaise and watched with growing uneasiness as his mother’s silhouette was swallowed up by the shadows. The flesh on his arms tightened and crawled. The endless corridor resembled a mouth into hell.

  Several minutes of eerie silence crawled by. Bored out of his mind, no longer afraid of the engulfing darkness, Aleksender swung both legs back and forth, to and fro, animated with youthful impatience as he awaited the sound of his mother’s voice.

  After ten minutes it finally came. “Aleksender, dear.”

  “I’m comin’, Maman! I’m comin’!”

  In a burst of energy, he leapt down from the chaise, brushed a swarm of locks from his eyes, and sprinted in the direction of her calling.

  Hollow footfall pitter-pattered against the floorboards with the audacity of a drum roll. The home was exceptionally small, allowing Aleksender to reach his destination in moments. Light oozed from under a partially open door panel, beckoning him inside. He followed after the illumination and his mother’s gentle voice—quickly finding that the shaft of light had been far from holy.

  The bedchamber was distinctly feminine. A cluster of candles was arranged on the vanity, emitting a collective glow. An oval bathing tub lined one of the far walls, all copper and finely sanded oak wood. And a water basin sat at the tub’s heels, tin lips gaping with the charm of a Glasgow grin, a film of rust marring its appearance.

  Both of Victoria’s hands were demurely folded and clasped together, presenting the pretense of a lady. The front of her gown was damp, her coiffure uncharacteristically disheveled and thick with sweat. The beauty of her eyes was dull and tarnished as she gazed hypnotically forward.

  A Windsor-style rocking chair was stationed directly in front of her. And, within that chair, was a woman’s slumped form.

  She was unconscious, each slender limb falling unceremoniously at her sides. A drenched scarf was wrapped around her head like a bandit, its fine silk covering both her mouth and nose. The sullied material polluted the air with a musky scent … a potently foul scent.