The Frost of Springtime (30 page)

In the end, his vulnerabilities would inevitably be his downfall.
Christophe Cleef was in obvious need of comfort and companionship. And, much
like an avalanche, his façade was gradually crumbling away and revealing the
damaged soul beneath. It was only a matter of time before he caved. Something
that felt remarkably like pity slammed against Sofia’s conscience. Surely she
was going mad. He was a murdering monster—nothing more!

Wasn’t he?

“So what are you going to do? When you see him, I mean?” Her voice was
perfectly casual, perfectly conversational.

The chain slipped through Christophe’s fingers as his brows knotted
together. The dog tags swung like twin pendulums. Shaking his head, he bellowed
an eerie laugh. “Strange. Truth
be
told I haven’t even
thought on it.” Two of his fingertips pinched the necklace and glided down the
cool metal in a tentative caress. “I suppose it shall depend on him.” He sighed
and stared off, eyes settling on Sofia’s ankle cuff. A twisted smile curved his
lips—a smile that took Sofia back to that afternoon in Père Lachaise.

For a fleeting moment her dark stranger had returned.

“It seems we’re both imprisoned by chains,” Christophe said. He cupped
the dog tags within his palm and held them tight.
“Except
mine are harder to break.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE

May
25, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day Five

Paris was burning.
In a mad fit of revolutionary fervor, the rebels had set fire to the Palace of
Tuileries, Hotel de Ville and the Council of State. Debris rained onto Paris
and monuments exploded as they were gutted from the inside out. Black smoke,
swollen and sinister, ascended, clashing against a paisley spring sky. Ashes of
all forms littered the ground and fluttered through the air like snowflakes. A
murky, yellowish haze poisoned the atmosphere and swallowed up the city. In the
midst of this apocalyptic despair, the Commune’s red freedom flag flew high and
proud.

A small secretary’s desk was arranged on one of the far ends of Rue de
la Paix’s alleyways.
Versailles soldiers stood by, rifles
cocked and ready, as they questioned handfuls of Parisians by the dozens.
The citizens had been rounded up like herds of cattle—and each “insurgent” was
to be systematically butchered and thrown into the gutter. Men, women and
children were lined up against the stone wall and tied at the wrists. Two
soldiers patrolled the rebels. They walked the length of the alleyway, maintaining
a semblance of order.

Speaking in a unified voice, the citizens of Paris chanted a war cry:
“Vive la
Commune! Vive la Commune!
Vive la Commune!”

“Shut your filthy mouths!” The hollers only intensified. One of the
soldiers slammed the butt of his pistol across a man’s face. Blood erupted from
his mouth and curled around the slope of his jaw.

“Never!
We will never be
quiet!” cried a young woman of nineteen years. She stood several feet away,
frail body defiantly erect. A little boy clutched onto the hem of her skirts
and hid his face within the filth-ridden folds. “Wretched sod!” she said. “You
are scum!
Scum!”

The Versailles soldier grasped onto her shoulder with a muttered curse.
In response, the little boy cried and leapt forward. The other soldier restrained
him, shoving him flush against the wall. The crowd went wild at the show of
villainy.

“Maman!
Maman! Where you
takin’ my Maman?” he shouted as his mother was dragged away without mercy.

Hands tied at the wrists, she lost balance and fell face first into the
cobblestones. Blood clotted her hairline and streamed down her cheeks like
scarlet tears. The soldier latched onto the scruff of her dress and yanked her
onto her feet.
“Up with you!”
The rifle’s nozzle came
down against her back—a nasty trick that sent her straggling forward. “Come
along, whore.”

The woman—who, indeed, was a whore—spun on her heels and spat in the
soldier’s eye.

“Try that trick again, putain,” he sneered, “and I shall personally
take care of your son.”

“Monster!
Murdering
monsters, the lot of you!”

And with that, she was brought in front of the secretary desk to
undergo a mockery of a trial. “This one’s worse than the whole of them,” the
soldier said. “Got the rest all riled up. You can hear ‘em now.”

Nearby the drone of angry cries and lewd obscenities filled the
alleyway. Not seeming to hear them, the seated gentleman nodded. Eyes fixed on
the parchment before him, he drawled, “Name?”

The rifle was shoved into the small of her back when she refused to
speak. “My name is Clarice Rochelle—you pathetic filth!”

“What did you do for the Commune?” he asked in a monotonous and
painfully flat tone.

“Everything!
And I shall die
for the Commune!”

“Very well.”

The seated man signaled to his fellow soldier with a magical wave of his
hand. On cue, the woman was pushed against a nearby wall in a ritualistic
fashion. The soldier raised his rifle, leveling it to her chest. “I shall enjoy
this. But not half as much as I’ll
relish killing
that
bastard of yours.”

•

The sun was swallowed up by a crimson sky as nighttime came to Paris.
Over the course of a single week, night and day, dark and light, had become
entirely indistinguishable from one another. Everything had been bruised and
branded with the mark of despair. Even the most devout atheists could no longer
deny the truth. The Day of Judgment had arrived and there was no escaping its
wrath.

The walls of chateau de Lefèvre shook with the force of the civil war.
Richard and Elizabeth stood on the balcony as red clouds of smoke cloaked the
sky. The sunset, normally so beautiful and vivid, was lost to shooting flames
and echoed cries. Elizabeth shuddered at the morbid spectacle. “I wonder if he
is all right, if he is safe.”

Richard swallowed before allowing himself to speak. “Aleksender is a
survivor. He has a way of detaching himself from everything, from everyone … a
way of seeing only what’s in front of him and shutting out the world. Both a
blessing and a curse, I’ve always thought.”

Elizabeth shook her head and inhaled a shaky breath. “Not Sofia. He has
never been able to separate himself from her. And Christophe knew—he knew his
weakness. He knew how to break through his barrier and reach his heart.” She
sighed. “I still can’t understand. They were great friends. Why is he doing this?
Why would he be so … so cruel? What does Christophe want from him?”

“If I were to guess, I suppose he wants his friend back.”

Elizabeth smiled at that. She pressed her folded arms against the
railing and glanced at Richard. How very handsome he was. His features were
gently chiseled, those eyes carved from a rich mahogany. Days ago, Elizabeth
had delicately explained all that she knew to Richard—Victoria’s insane
outburst, Aleksender’s loss of memory, and everything in between. Afterward,
Elizabeth had taken Richard within her arms and offered whatever semblance of
comfort she could provide. Since that time, a soothing calm and new
understanding had washed over Richard.

He reflected her smile. Moonlight lightened the auburn waves of his
hair. Rotating on his boots, he aligned his body with Elizabeth’s. “Fate is a
strange thing. Imagine the possibilities if things had been different.” Richard
lifted his hand in a deft movement and grazed the slope of her cheek. Unspoken
words and withheld confessions transpired between them … words as concrete as
they very breaths they shared. “It makes me wonder,” he tentatively resumed.
“What we could have been.”

Time stood still as he leaned into her warmth. He cupped her face with
his other hand, tilted her head onto its side. Elizabeth’s lashes grew heavy
and fluttered shut. The heat of Richard’s breath swirled against her skin. Ever
so carefully, his lips brushed across her cheek.
The caress
as soft and sure as a butterfly’s wings.
Overwhelmed with emotion, tears
pricked the corner of her eyes and slid down her face.

Richard pulled away and returned to the banister. In his absence, the
chill returned to her bones. Glancing into the crimson night sky, he shook his
face and murmured, “Damn our fate. And damn the stars.”

•

Sacred Heart was the last thing that remained of Paris’s innocence.
Aleksender held his breath as the storybook structure crept into sight. A
breeze stirred, tickling the flowers of May and infusing the pond’s glassy
surface with life.

In contrast to this sliver of serenity, cannons sounded in the distance
and roared like caged beasts. Gunshots peppered the ambiance every now and
then—and each one shook Aleksender to the very core.

He tied Juliet to the weeping willow and made way for the convent. Aleksender
rapped at the little wooden door and awaited Sister Catherine’s greeting. A
groan of wood and metal resounded as she unhinged the latch—something she’d
never bothered with during his past visits. Her eyes and the black hood of her
habit were visible through the slate. After a moment of recognition, the door
was unlocked and thrust open.

Aleksender’s heart constricted. She appeared to have aged a good twenty
years.
Maybe more.
“Monsieur le Comte
,
” Sister Catherine
said. A tinge of panic made her voice quaver. “You have seen no trace of her?”

Aleksender swallowed and shook his head.

A cluster of beaming faces crowded around Sister Catherine’s skirts
before she was able to respond. A chorus of overlapping girlish chatter filled
the air.

“I tell you it’s him! Sofia’s black knight.”

“Nu-uh!
Impossible!
See—he’s riding a white horse, not a black one!”

“He’s so very handsome!”

Sister Catherine blushed like a young schoolgirl as she struggled to
hold the children back.
“Ladies!
That’s quite enough!
Back to your prayers.
Right away.”
She turned to Aleksender and exhaled a dejected sigh. “You must forgive them,
monsieur. They are not accustomed to receiving gentlemen and haven’t been
allowed outside the walls for days. I’m afraid their terribly restless.”

His lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “No worries. They are
quite charming.”

Miriam pushed to the front, cradling her dolly, cheeks rosy and stained
with tears. She sniffled and swiped at her nose before speaking. “Is Miss Sofia
c-comin’ back-k?”

Aleksender playfully ruffled her golden locks with a gloved hand. “Not
to worry, ma petit. She’ll be here before you know it.”

“Oh, yay!”
Miriam giggled and
swiped at her nose once more. Her voice dropped to a secretive whisper as she
motioned Aleksender close. He was forced to kneel in order to hear the words.
“Are you really, truly magical?”

“Hm.
You tell me,”
Aleksender said as he reached behind Miriam’s ear. When he withdrew, a yellow
rose—that had been carefully tucked beside his heart—was balancing between his
fingertips.

Miraculously it hadn’t wilted since the evening on the rooftop.

“Oh, wow!” Miriam squealed, clasping her hands together with delight.
Then, a second later, “Oh, look!
A
horsey!”
Miriam raced out the door, heading straight for Juliet. Aleksender
scooped the little one into his arms.
“Whoa, there, chérie.
Let’s be more careful.” He set Miriam down and ruffled her hair once more. “I
suppose that someday I should take you out riding. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes!”

Aleksender peered at Sister Catherine. The slightest grin had settled
into her lips.
“Very good.
Go back inside now and mind
Sister Catherine. Can you do that for me?”

Miriam nodded, pecked a kiss onto Aleksender’s cheek, and waltzed past
Sister Catherine’s skirts. Aleksender came to his feet. He tracked a gloved
hand over his lapels and smoothed down the fine material. “You have enough
food, Sister?
And fresh water?”

“Some of the Communards delivered
a fresh supply days
ago.
Food, water, and an assortment of medical equipment.”

A silence whisked by.

“You have something for me? A note, I reckon?”

“Dear me and my old mind.
I nearly forgot. A
moment, monsieur …” Sister Catherine vanished inside of Sacred Heart and
returned with the note. It was predictably folded,
Comte de Paris
inscribed across
the front.

“Tell me … the man who delivered this—did you recognize him? Or did he
have any distinguishing marks.” Aleksender traced an invisible line from ear to
cheek.
“A scar, perhaps?”

“Sister Marie-Joie received it, monsieur. I can fetch her for you if—”

Aleksender gracefully raised a hand and ordered Sister Catherine’s
words to a halt. “That won’t be necessary. I haven’t the time.”

Sister Catherine stared into his eyes for several moments. Then she did
the unexpected. She unclasped the crucifix and fastened it around Aleksender’s
neck. Blessing him with a wave of her hand, “In the name of the Father, of the
Son, and the Holy Spirit …” Sister Catherine continued with a serene smile,
“The love I have witnessed between you and Sofia has often brought me to tears.
The night Elizabeth had her stillborn, I found Sofia out in the garden, weeping
into her palms.” Aleksender paralyzed at her words, complexion paling. “Should
I live to be a hundred years, I shall never forget her words. When I asked what
was troubling her, she said that you and Elizabeth had just lost your child. I
inquired how she could possibly know such a thing. Sofia shook her head and
whispered, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know for certain. I just feel it.’”