But it was Emmaline who suffered from their disdain.
“You shall play soon enough,” Ariah whispered. “Just rest for now. Rest and grow big, healthy, and strong. Can you do that for me, ma petite?”
“Yes.” Emmaline nodded noncommittally. Then she sighed and stretched her cramped limbs. “I shall try my very best.”
Light footfall resounded as Miriam, Ariah’s younger half sister, bustled inside the drawing room. At her sudden appearance, Oliver clambered onto his feet with a groan, his old bones aching. His left back foot dragged unceremoniously across the floorboards. Arthritis had weakened his hind leg, causing it to gradually fall limp and immobile. Regardless, he waddled over to Miriam with a talkative bark and whipping tail.
Ariah propped a brow and narrowed her gaze; she had a suspicion Miriam had been eavesdropping from the archway. This theory was proven correct as her sister glanced at Emmaline and offered a sympathetic smile.
You must give it time. Things shall get better, Miriam’s gaze seemed to whisper to her niece.
Comely in a reserved way, Miriam was blessed with their father’s rich auburn hair, olive eyes, dimpled chin, and kind disposition. The latter of the four traits was rather surprising since she’d hardly known him. And, according to Miriam’s stories, her mother was a greedy, deceptively cruel spinster who’d fixed her sights on one thing and one alone. Thina Gamet had been quick with the switch, strict with the Bible, and slow with motherly affection. While other children spent lazy afternoons playing with dolls and fishing from streams, Miriam was confined to prayer and reprimanded by a harsh hand and even harsher words. Although Ariah had known Thina for only a brief period, she didn’t doubt the truth of her sister’s confession.
Miriam cleared her throat, collected the hem of her skirts, and hustled to the hearth. Oliver trailed behind her, the pitter-patter of his enormous paws deafening within the silence. “On my word, that f-fire is nearly black,” Miriam said, rubbing both palms together. “Mighty cold night, if I may s-say.” More silence weighted the air as Miriam rekindled what was left of the flames. The embers came to life with a vivid sparkle and ascended into the black abyss of the chimney. As little girls are wont to do, Emmaline’s eyes widened as she oohed and aahed at the spectacle. Overcome with a burst of affection, Ariah surrendered to a small grin and rose to her feet. In her absence, the chair eerily rocked back and forth in a ghostlike motion.
“What are you two d-d-doing awake, anyhow?” Miriam questioned.
Ariah’s heart grew heavy. Miriam’s stutter rarely faded and worsened when she felt burdened by anxiety. “Oh, neither of us could sleep.” Ariah arched her back and spared a moment to ruffle Oliver’s floppy ears. They were thinner than parchment and nearly translucent. He was not a pleasant thing to touch or look upon; his light gray fur was patchy, molted, and coarse – and Ariah adored him all the more for his ungainly flaws. The brute bore a gentle heart, and, even more, he’d gifted her daughter with two invaluable things: laughter and companionship. “Handsome, ol’ gentleman, you are,” Ariah said to Oliver. “The beau of all Paris!”
A gigantic speckled tongue rolled out of his mouth while he basked beneath the praise. Drool poured from his jowls and splattered onto the worn floorboards. Ariah gasped, picked up her skirts, and stumbled backward.
“Oh, Maman! Look!” Emmaline gripped her chest as giggles shook her body.
Eyeing the mess, Miriam sighed and paced over to the cupboard. The wooden door creaked open, revealing rows of copper tools caked with rust, shovels and picks, an abundance of medical supplies, cooking utensils, and meticulously stacked linens. Ariah couldn’t help but smile as her sister collected a rag from one of the suspended pegs. It was all very ritualistic and orderly – something that was infinitely comforting to a person who feared change.
“I must disagree,” Miriam replied at length. Brushing off her skirts, she gripped the torn rag between her fingertips. Kneeling beside Oliver, she proceeded to wipe up the slobber. Then she rose to her feet and returned the rag to its home inside the cupboard. “He may b-be old indeed, but he’s far from the likes of a gentleman. Lord as m-my witness, only hours ago, the wretch stole half my s-supper without a trace of s-shame.”
“Oliver, is that true?” Ariah inquired of the creature. “Why, you ought to be ashamed!”
Oliver’s oversized head merely lowered. Without another backward glance, he prattled back to the hearth, flopped down with an old man’s groan, and reclaimed his spot by the fire.
“Aw … you hurt his feelings, Maman. Look – he’s awfully sad!”
“Well, I’m very sorry, Oliver. I didn’t mean any offense. You know I can’t resist your charms.” Ariah rubbed both palms together, urging heat into her bones. Shoving away a fallen curl, she took a moment to observe her child. Emmaline snuggled against Oliver in a loving embrace, the nightdress hanging from her slender body in harsh and irregular folds.
Her eyes fell to half-mast while she gently fondled the wiry tufts of his coat. Then her breaths grew deep and regular as sleep nearly overcame her. “Can’t I stay here, Maman? With Oliver? Oh, please?”
Ariah’s heart melted into churned butter as Emmaline added with an irresistible pout, “See … he can’t climb onto the bed no more.”
“Sure, Emma, darling. Stay as long as you like. You and Oliver just relax by the fire.”
A rush of sadness overcame Ariah. She lowered to the floor and stroked her daughter’s back with tentative touches. Emmaline’s delicate rib cage rose and fell beneath her fingertips. Long-ago images of Emmaline roughhousing with Oliver bombarded her mind. Along with her strength and health, the illness had spirited away a part of her child’s youth. And that was one burden Ariah’s heart wasn’t fit to carry.
“Well. I could use some fresh air before the storm comes,” she whispered to Miriam. “Would you mind watching Emmaline for a moment?”
•
Ariah fastened the moth-eaten shawl around her neck and stepped into the black of night. An unsettling coldness instantly overcame her. With each passing day, disguising her tears with feigned smiles and empty laughter was becoming more difficult. And the outside world offered no comfort and only grim reminders of her family’s doom. To lose her daughter would be to lose herself; the very notion was unbearable and brought a choked sob from her throat. Cupping her mouth, she fought back the whirlwind of emotions and shivered in the frigid air.
Strings of lanterns dangled overhead while they fought to brave out the stormy weather. Cradled by the wind’s breath, they lolled from side to side, imbuing the walkways with a ghostly ambiance. Ariah shuddered as she recalled the image of a mutilated corpse hanging from those ropes – something that would forever be tattooed upon her memory. Only years before, such a thing had become a common occurrence. Now that blatant desperation had vanished and in its place stood an unsettling calm. Indeed, much like Emmaline’s fate, the city seemed to be trapped within a strange, surreal limbo.
Paris had never recovered from the Allies’ invasion the previous year. Even well after the Cossacks had traveled across the Rhine River and entered France, the citizens had brushed away the impending siege as an absurd feat. But the war quickly transformed into a harsh reality. Ariah’s heart had grounded to a dead halt when the desperate cries rang from the rooftops: “The Cossacks are marching on Paris! Our walls are about to collapse!” Seemingly overnight, the infirmaries swarmed with wounded men and women, starved soldiers roamed the streets, and Bois de Boulogne’s beautiful birch trees were chopped down to provide material for the barricades. And by the third week of March, the telling roar of cannons echoed in Paris.
Almost a year had passed since then, but the streets remained desolate, every crevice filled with broken souls. Tonight a damp gray fog blanketed the city, shattered only by the faint glow of oil lamps. Wary of the darkness, Ariah took care to stay beneath the comforting pools of light.
Thunder boomed once more, considerably closer now. She flinched at
the sound, then focused her gaze and struggled to discern the shadows around her. The night air was humid, thick to swallow. Fear bloomed inside her as the memories seized hold. And she vividly remembered them all –
The whisper of a dying man’s breath. Screams. Burning tears. The sensation of splitting, incomprehensible pain – followed by bone-chilling laughter.
Clutching at her tattered shawl, Ariah battled the temptation to return home at a fierce sprint; but a storm was indeed coming, and it would be days before the weather would permit her to leave the house again. Besides, the time had come for her to abandon the horrors of her past. She’d begun a new life, free from desperation and restraints. Now it was simply time to begin living.
Even so, she was neither simple-minded nor ignorant. She was a survivor. She’d learned to keep her back to walls, to trust no one, and to defend herself against unlikely predators.
Steeling her nerves, Ariah surged forward. She released her shawl and felt for her dagger. Sheathed in a leather cocoon, it was tucked beneath her skirts and securely in place – just as it had been for seven years. She eased her skirt up and ran her fingers over the hilt, keeping the weapon a thrust away. Granted, it bore a rather small blade – yet a swift slice to the throat could fell a man as easily as a greatsword.
A sense of empowerment rekindled her courage and fueled her steps. As if mocking her resolve, a harsh gust of wind drove through the trees and rattled the nude branches.
A run-down prostitute wandered the street in pursuit of work. Resembling a corpse with uncanny likeness, she was malnourished, her cheeks drained of any color. Face bowed in shame, an abundance of curls cascaded over her body like some secretive curtain. Her bodice drooped from slim shoulders in unflattering, irregular folds, flaunting her deprivation rather than her sensuality. Ariah’s heart sank as they locked gazes. Strained anxiety flitted across the woman’s haggard features; only her flaming red hair appeared alive. The prostitute secured the hood around her face and darted in the opposite direction.
But Ariah had seen enough to know she wasn’t a day over fifteen years.
“Wait. Please.” Ariah latched onto the girl’s shoulder and spun her around full circle. Then she reached inside her dress pocket and withdrew a handful of sous. Saying nothing, she gave a weak smile and deposited the coins into the prostitute’s trembling palm.
“Bless you!” Two sunken eyes widened in shock. Dark circles rimmed the prostitute’s vacant gaze. Her face, in all of its tragic glory, reminded Ariah of a death’s-head. Even her voice was frail and broken.
“You really must find suitable shelter,” Ariah insisted. “The weather is worsening by the moment, and these streets are nowhere for a young lady to venture alone.”
The prostitute’s gaze widened again at the mention of a “young lady.”
“I shall – I swear it! Merci.” The prostitute’s eyes descended to the silver cross that hung from Ariah’s neck – another precious keepsake from her childhood. Then the girl finally smiled, and in that moment, the weight of despair visibly lifted from her frail shoulders. “May the Lord keep you!” And without another word, the prostitute vanished down a nearby alleyway.
Rattled by the exchange, Ariah sprinted through the darkness. What if her own child had to resort to such desperation one day? The thought summoned a wave of panic and shook her to the very core. Non, she inwardly vowed – no matter what lay in their future, she’d always ensure Emmaline was well guarded. Well guarded, well cared for, and free of society’s corruption.
On either side of Ariah, crumbling buildings and ancient monuments towered out of the darkness. Through her eyes, they resembled demonic manifestations … monsters crouching among the shadows. Ariah winced as she realized the irony of her words to the prostitute; she, too, was venturing the very same streets without an escort …
A distinct coldness swept through her. In a vain attempt to generate heat, she rubbed both hands together and picked up her stride. Below her heels, a film of sleet hid the cobblestones and deafened her steps.
She crossed one of the stone bridges and surveyed her surroundings. Down below, the river was tinted an oily black. Infused with an evil intent, the dark surface swallowed every beam of moonlight and exuded a faint, melodic trickling sound.
Ariah froze in her tracks and wrapped all ten fingers around the stone banister. She turned her face into the breeze and allowed her eyes to drift shut. Her senses soared, claiming a life of their own. Even through the barrier of her kid gloves, the stone was rigid … colder than ice. The chill seeped inside her flesh, numbing her to the bone. As if conveying a dark secret, the wind seductively whispered in her ears and tossed curls about her cheeks. For a moment, she felt strangely at peace.
And then it happened. Something shifted.
Silence hung in the air like a bad omen. Not even the wind dared to breathe. Terror bloomed inside Ariah’s chest. Her fight instinct kicked into motion, as her eyes snapped open, taking in every shadow, every crevice, every light beam. She caressed the dagger through the material of her skirts and examined her desolate surroundings – missing nothing.
A dark form caught her eye. Staring into the black expanse, Ariah narrowed her gaze and leaned over the banister. The slight movement sent rugged juts of stone biting into her ribs. Jarred by the sight below, she grasped onto her shawl.
Her immediate instinct was to run far from here. But the soles of her feet remained securely in place.
The shape was barely decipherable and half-submerged in the water. What could it possibly be? A wounded animal of some sort? Surely not a person? It was a terrible thought – but, then again, times were terrible in Paris.
It was a victim. She was sure of it. A victim of something unutterable.
Overcome with a macabre blend of curiosity and concern, she eased from the banister and crossed the bridge.
The shadowy figure materialized with each of her steps until she saw the thing for what it was.
A man.
Ariah’s first thought: he’s surely dead.
Paralyzed with fear and an unnamable emotion, she mutely inched forward. Lying along the bank, the man floated face down, water lapping around the broad expanse of his shoulders. The sleek material of his greatcoat branded him as an esteemed military figure. Resting on the embankment, the right side of his face was visible. Mon Dieu. In her twenty-two years, she’d never beheld such haunting beauty.
Jet-black waves, rich and flowing, framed the chiseled lines of startling features. Day-old stubble peppered the stubborn curve of his jawline and shadowed sculpted cheekbones. Apparently he’d collapsed and attempted to scramble free of the water before losing consciousness. His head rested against the pavement, and his mouth was half-immersed, the water meeting his lips. His body was large, solid, strong. A worn satchel hung from his shoulder. It floated beside the embankment, its contents safely fastened within the leather casing.
Breathless, Ariah eased forward till she stood no more than a meter away. She swallowed, sank to the crutch of her knees, and tentatively swept back the man’s sodden forelock. Fingertips trembling in time with her heart, she cupped his chin and lifted his face from the icy water.
A dull scream roared inside her throat. Despite the cold, both palms grew heavy with perspiration, plastering cotton to flesh. Mon Dieu. Nearly half of his face was missing.
A crude hole gaped where his left cheek should have been, and the flesh was twisted into nothing more than a bloody pulp. Shredded skin sagged from his face in gruesome strands. The wound stretched centimeters below his eye to the corner of his left lip. Vivid bruises spanned the hole’s perimeter like vaults into hell. Several teeth had been blown away, leaving his gums swollen and gushing. And his cheekbone was cleanly shattered. It protruded, stabbing through the torn flesh at sharp, irregular angles. Bile welled in Ariah’s gut and rose into her throat. The sight was unbearably painful – even to look upon.
God above, what had happened to this poor soul? Tears for
med in the corners of her eyes. A thousand scenarios flashed through her mind, each one more gruesome than the last.
Was he possibly still alive? Holding her breath, she pressed two fingertips along the side of his neck. In a weak response, his pulse thrummed at an uneven and dangerously slow rhythm. Ariah crossed herself in a clumsy movement and rewarded her necklace with a grateful squeeze.
Yes, he was alive, at present, but without her help, he’d be dead within minutes.
Ariah knew she ought to turn away. For the sake of her little girl, propriety, and maintaining the delicate balance that had become her life, she ought to regard this night as nothing more than a bad dream … a distant memory of the deep subconscious. Morning’s light would illuminate her wisdom and burn away the tragedy she’d witnessed.
Involving herself in this mess would be pure madness.
But compassion muddled all hope for logic, and Ariah found herself wrenching the man’s body from the river’s blackened depths.
And such a thing was no easy feat. The man was built like a warrior – composed of pure muscle and brawn. A resounding coldness swept through her body as she tossed her ratty shawl aside. Then she stripped away her kid gloves and tucked them within her dress pocket. A sudden breeze whispered through the trees’ branches. Shivering, she massaged her bare arms and urged heat into her bones.
Ariah removed the soldier’s satchel and slung it across her body. The strap hugged her curves in a lethal grasp and chafed at her neck. Water oozed through her dress in a slow, agonizing burn, causing her insides to grow numb and heavy.
Turn away now, her mind urged once more.
Non, her heart insisted with its characteristic stubbornness, fate has already been sealed. For better or for worse, there was no turning back.
Shoving away her discomfort, she eased her arms beneath the man’s muscled limbs and took hold. Water bit into her flesh like a thousand jagged teeth. It was so cold – so unbearably cold.
Finding Gabriel Page 2
