Angel Hands (21 page)

"Mmmph." She made an impatient noise. She didn't want any more talking. She just wanted to sleep now.

A low chuckle reverberated in the warm chest beneath her cheek.

"Ever my Mireille," the voice said smilingly, and yet, it caught on the last syllable of her name.

Mireille...that's right. She was Mireille.

That was enough for now.

***

He truly tried to be humble, but part of him simply had to indulge in a moment of triumph. Was he not a god, waking Lazarus from death with his song?

Really, he only let himself feel that for the briefest moment. There was too much else to feel and think as he held Mireille in his arms.

She slept heavily, but normally, occasionally rousing to cough up sputum. Each time gave him more hope that this was a true turn towards life, expelling the liquid in her lungs, allowing for more vital air to fill her. Every so often, he touched her skin to test her temperature. She was warm with sleep, but not unnaturally so.

What heaven to run his fingers along her smooth temple, her slender neck, her soft hand. The weight of her head on his chest brought tears to his eyes. Her body in his arms was limp and wasted from illness, but still so very soft and alive.

He vowed to himself that no effort would be spared to make sure she recovered fully from this ordeal. He would return her to health...and hopefully to happiness as well, if she would give him the chance to do so.

A certain restlessness crept into Mireille's limbs, and he knew she was beginning to wake up. He pulled the cord for the maid and resumed holding his wife.

Wife.

The most beautiful word in all of human language.

Mireille grunted then snuffled, sleepily rubbing her face against his chest.

"Oh, God," she groaned. "What the fuc-"

"Language, Mireille."

His heart sank at the way she tensed in his arms. It was only for a moment, and she slumped against him again, as if the tension cost too much effort at the moment.

"You're here," she said blankly. "I was sick."

"Yes," he said, forcing his voice not to shake. "You have been seriously ill for almost four days now."

He wished he could see her face, but all he could do is feel her jaw clenching and unclenching against his chest.

"Why are you here, though?" she asked, her tone guarded.

Disappointment stung him as he realized that he was the only one who had experienced a great revelation of hope and love. Mireille's heart had not changed. Instinctively, words of dismissal formed on his lips, but something made him hold them back. Her heart would never change, and he would never have a chance to receive her love until he took the chance to give her love.

But, what words to use? If this had been an opera, the libretto would have flowed with ease from his lips. Life, though, required different lyrics.

"I am here," he said. "Because I could not bear to be anywhere else."

She was silent again, her shoulders tensed ever so slightly. He realized she was expecting words of mockery to follow, deflating the value and dirtying the sincerity of his statement.

"I...I feel guilty," he forced himself to continue. "I have not treated you well, not as you deserve to be treated. I drove you to exhaustion, which I believe caused you to fall ill."

She made a small sound of protest, and he hushed her, saying, "But, worse than my lack of care for your physical well-being, is my lack of consideration for your feelings."

The way she jerked slightly in his grasp revealed her surprise.

"Believe it or not, I have always respected you—no, it's true," he said, unable to repress a small chuckle at her weak snort. "I respected you for the characteristics which reminded me of myself—your determination, your wit, your discipline, and your will to fight. Yet, now, I realize that I respect you more for the traits you possess and I lack: honor, integrity, compassion. I did not think so at first, but now I know that of the two of us, you are, by far, the better person."

"H-have you been taking the laudanum instead of me?" Mireille croaked incredulously.

He laughed. How good it felt to laugh while holding his wife in his arms.

"No," he replied finally with a sigh. "I am all too sober. It is too soon, and you are still too weak for us to speak more of this. Any apology of mine could be dismissed as guilt, and any acceptance of yours would be tainted by relief."

She shook against his chest, and he held her tighter.

"There will be time," he said, lowering his voice to a soothing rumble. "God-willing, there will be time enough for us."

28. Of Faces and Facts

There was, Mireille felt, a distinct possibility that her husband was insane.

For the past two days, he had hovered over her, silently fussing over the fire, her blankets, the tea, her sleep, the baths—though, she had drawn the line at him attending her there.

Even though he spoke little, he constantly sought to catch her eyes, offering hesitant smiles and gentle touches when she turned to him. When he did speak, his words were kind.

Perhaps that was what unnerved Mireille the most. She was anxious and jumpy, waiting for the moment when the façade fell, and the game was revealed. It was impossible to relax around him, knowing that the next instant could bring a battle. Tired, weak, and irritable, she wanted him to leave her alone.

Yet, every time she opened her mouth to tell him to go, the hopeful look on his face silenced her. She studied him, searching his expression for telltale tension lines or flashes of a grimace, but finding nothing but a kind of trepidant honesty.

Sheets of rain fell outside her window, and she watched the jerky droplets of water on the glass. At least she was warm, wrapped in blankets and seated on a low sofa near the fire. Across from her, in a wingback chair that had apparently been moved into her room during her illness, sat her husband.

He was reading the newspaper, leaning slightly toward the fire to capture its light. It was a strangely ordinary and domestic act that sat oddly against her image of him as a powerful, devious trickster. Her eyes traveled the surface of his white mask, then over the rest of his face. This, naturally, led to examining his neck, broad shoulders, and chest.

Mireille yanked her eyes back up to his face before they went any lower. There was simply no reason to go...there. It was undeniable, though, that half her husband's face was handsome. The other half was unknown.

There was a split second when words of demand and command balanced on the tip of her tongue, but it was enough of a pause for her to remember his kind and civil demeanor to her. For however long it lasted, she owed the same to him in return.

"May I ask you a question?" she ventured quietly.

"Yes," he replied, though there was a faint sheen of tension in his voice.

She drew in a breath and said, "Please...please do not think I ask in order to embarrass you, nor have I ever judged you on your appearance. I know that you wear a mask to hide some kind of deformity-"

"Yes." The word was hard and defensive, but she took it as a positive sign that he was still in the same room with her. She adjusted her tactics and continued.

"I will not ask you to remove it," she said, noting the surprise in his eyes. "But, would you explain it to me? Is it a medical condition, or have you had it since birth?"

His expression was wary and a little confused. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, meticulously folding the newspaper as if to buy time.

"I was born this way," he said finally. "The...disfigurement has never changed."

"I see." She couldn't help but be thrilled that he had actually chosen to answer her honestly. Perhaps it was worth risking another question. "Does it pain you?"

"No, not as such," he replied quietly, avoiding her gaze. "There are times, especially in the summer, when the skin becomes inflamed under the mask. But that is all."

Mireille nodded. His obvious discomfort, yet effort to be honest, touched her. He had respected her right as his wife to know something more about him. She wondered if a gesture of respect on her part might bring her a step closer to understanding his strange behavior of the past few days.

"I promise that I will never ask you to remove your mask," she said, putting every ounce of truth she possessed into her words.

"Never?" Incredulity filled his voice.

"Never," she affirmed.

"You are not curious?"

"Of course I am, but not at the cost of your dignity. To demand that you reveal yourself would be cruel."

"Cruel..." he gasped.

"I would never be cruel to you over your appearance. You cannot help that. However, you may confidently rely on the fact that should you act like an unmitigated ass and lunatic, I will immediately call you out."

She was smiling by the time she finished speaking, hoping her gentle barb would spark something in him.

She had not expected him to bury his face in his hands and shake, a single sob breaking out from his control.

Mireille stared at him, shocked to her core. Bent over his knees, his face hidden in his hands, he continued to shake. Rapidly going through her memories, she realized she could not recall a single instance of him showing anything other than dominance, control, and a few bouts of rage. But never this broken boy side.

Uncertain and uncomfortable, Mireille eased off the sofa and knelt by his feet. It felt incredibly strange to reach out and touch him. She knew that this was the first time she had ever initiated the contact between them. Warily, she lightly placed her hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his knee to help her balance.

He started and raised his face, blue eyes burning bright with tears.

"I do not deserve you," he whispered.

The oddest lump formed in Mireille's throat, but she rallied, hoping to drive him from sentiment to snap.

"Unfortunate as that may be," she retorted with a smile. "It's your own fault you cannot throw me over for some less-deserving woman. After all, you're the one who insisted we marry."

His expression twisted, and the corners of his mouth down.

"About that," he said, abruptly sitting back and looking away from her.

Her heart began pounding inside her chest.

"Yes?" she demanded breathlessly.

He glanced back at her, his eyes full of pain. He hung his head and sighed.

"Our marriage is another wrong in the catalog of evils I have done to you," he said.

She watched his fingers dig into the armrests.

"While there is a marriage license, paid for, signed, and recorded at the
mairie
, there was no wedding."

She gasped, rocking on her knees in shock.

"So, you see," he said, a sad smile on his lips. "You were right to question your lack of memories."

Mireille's mind went blank as she absorbed his words. She saw him lift his chin and square his shoulders, his jaw tightening.

"It was not fair to you," he said, and the strain in his voice made her wince. "Therefore, I must release you from this sham of shadows. You are free, Mireille, free from me and our marriage."

"H-how?"

He laughed humorlessly. "Money procured the arrangement, and money can dissolve the arrangement. All it would take is a few thousand francs in the right hands to accidentally 'lose' our marriage license."

Tears stung her eyes, but for the life of her, she couldn't explain why. She was free! The key to her cage lay in a single word. Yet, she couldn't remember what that word was.

"You would be Mireille Dubienne again," he continued. "Or, whatever name you chose. I would help you. I will give you money and help you make all the arrangements you desire for whatever you want to do next. You have only to ask. Of course, should you not want my help, I will respect that, too. Though, I admit, I would feel better knowing you were provided for and taken care of."

He turned back to her, and she saw that the tears in her own eyes matched his. Tentatively, he took her hand from his knee and wrapped it in both of his.

"I only ask one last thing from you," he said. "Stay here for a few days more, until you are truly recovered and rested. I cannot undo all the harm I have done you, but at least allow me to make amends for the illness I caused you. Will you stay?"

She nodded numbly, barely registering what she was agreeing to. Her head was spinning, and she suddenly felt physically weak.

He had closed his eyes and shuddered at her acquiescence, but then, he opened them and looked closely at her, now frowning.

"Oh, sweetheart," he said. "Forgive me. I am thoughtless to leave you on the floor like that! Let me help you into bed."

He stood and swept her into his arms, and the heat of his hands burned her through the layers of her robe and nightgown.

"No," Mireille said impulsively. "Not the bed, please. I'm tired of being in it all the time."

He waited in silence for her reply.

"Could you...could you sit back down on the chair?" she asked, suddenly shy. "You are very warm. I...I would not be cold."

His quick intake of breath thrilled her. He stepped over to the sofa to grab a blanket, then settled back down in his chair. Cradling her snug against him, he wrapped a blanket around her.

She scooted herself in his lap until she was comfortable. Fatigue was creeping up on her again. Though she made a note in her mental agenda to discuss the whole mess of her marriage further and in great, excruciating detail, she was content, for the moment, to let herself rest against him.

A small, smug smile played on her lips. She was right. He was very warm, and she was not cold.

29. Of Angels and Hands

Two days passed.

Could a heart grow and break at the same time?

It seemed eminently possible.