The Frost of Springtime (25 page)

His lips lifted into a dashing, crooked smile. He stared down at his
gloved hand, fondling the handkerchief’s faded material. After a moment of
apparent contemplation, he passed it to Sofia.

“Thank you, monsieur. I would have been positively lost without it.”

“My pleasure, Mademoiselle Rose.”

Sofia pursed her lips together and studied the smooth stranger from
head to toe.

“Pardon me, monsieur,” she inquired, “but have we met before?”

“Ah, I am afraid not, chérie. Consider me a dedicated admirer. One of
many, I’m sure.”

An oddly strained laugh escaped her.
Of course.
He recognized her from the stage. She forced a smile that didn’t quite reach
her eyes.

“You are lovely, mademoiselle.
Almost impossibly so.
And even lovelier up close.
’specially
when you smile.”

She
blushed
a deep crimson, both feet shifting
uncomfortably beneath her skirts. His flattery was too strong for her liking …
but something about him radiated. She stepped forward and lowered her dark
lashes, appreciating the mere comfort of another human being. The full extent
of her loneliness and solitude dawned on her. “Thank you. You are very kind.”

The gentleman threw a sideways glance, studying her features with an
astute awareness.

“It seems I’ll be withdrawing from the opera quite soon.” Sofia held
her tongue as heat rose to her cheeks. What was she thinking? “Oh, I am not
sure why I told you such a thing. I haven’t been myself lately.”

“I understand.” He stepped forward with a small grin. “Better yet, I
relate.”

Sofia smiled softly, believing his words, aching for the companionship
he offered no matter how fleeting it may be.
“Go on, chérie.
I’m all ears,” he encouraged. “Unburden yourself.”

“Oh, thank you—but there’s really not much to be said. I’m at a bit of
a crossroads, you see—deciding whether I should take my vows or not.”

He arched a fine brow and thoughtfully stroked his chin.
“Hmm.
In that case, mademoiselle, I am afraid I must
object.”

“Object?”

“—to this taking-of-the-vows ordeal.
It seems an
unfortunate waste—a beautiful, talented lady living as a nun.”

Sofia smothered a laugh with her palm. “Ah. But you are biased,
monsieur!”

Wearing the impossible look of angelic innocence, he raised both of his
hands in a harmless shrug.
“Naturally so.”

Their playful exchange disappeared with a silence.

“Were you acquainted with the ol’ comte?”

The sudden inquiry startled Sofia. Her eyes jerked up to him as she held
his leveled gaze. She swallowed and glanced at the grass beneath her feet. “Yes
… I am a friend.
A friend of the family.”

He chuckled, the rich and charming sound filling the grave emptiness.
“Why, of course you are—being le Comte’s ward and such. How very daft I must
seem.”

Blood drained from her rosy cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was
shaky, words unconvincing and almost silent.
“Not at all,
monsieur.”

The gentleman furrowed his brow and frowned. “Are you quite all right?
You look unwell. Perhaps—”

“Please, don’t mind me. I’m only tired.”

His head dipped forward and sank into a slight nod. “Have you an escort?
I daresay a cemetery is no place for a young lady to venture alone.”

“Yes,” she quickly fibbed. “A carriage is awaiting my return, parked
just down the pathway.”

Exhaling a sigh of defeat and straightening his gloves, her stranger
grumbled, “Very well.” He stuffed both hands deep into his pockets and smiled.
“I should like to call on you sometime. With le Comte’s
blessing, of
course.”

The blunt request rendered Sofia speechless. Beneath the lace of her
veil, her sapphire eyes widened, appearing bright and luminous. She shook her
pretty head, as if in stunned disbelief, neatly tucking a wild curl behind each
ear.

“Forgive me, monsieur, but I don’t even know your name.”

“I suppose I am a brute, after all.” He threw his head back as the
broad expanse of his chest rumbled in a wonderfully masculine laugh. “I fear I
abandoned my sense of etiquette out on the battlefield.” He scratched at the
stubble on his chin, murmuring a dry afterthought, “That, amongst other things
…”

The harshly spat statement raised little red flags, shooting chills up
and down Sofia’s spine. In a single heartbeat, everything seemed to suddenly
darken. Père Lachaise, the afternoon sky, her dashing gentleman—they all
mutated before her very eyes.

Sofia suppressed a shudder. The man’s stare was dangerously perceptive.
As he allowed the mask of his façade to slip away, she knew that his kindness
had been a masquerade and nothing more—a fact that left Sofia feeling oddly
disheartened.

“Ah, I see that I have made you uncomfortable.”

“No. No, I—”

“As well you should be,” he interjected with only a hint of mockery.
Auburn eyes flickered with a devious flare. “After all … the souls of the
fallen are known to wander cemeteries.”

What a peculiar and disturbing thing to say.

“I … I don’t believe in such things.”

“I present to you,
my little Sofia
…” The stranger
outstretched both arms with a rolling laugh and signaled himself.
“Flesh and blood proof before your eyes.”

“Tell me who you are,” she breathlessly demanded.

He stepped back, a grin plastered to his face. The horribly sardonic
expression twisted the scar, transforming his disfigurement into something
diabolical. She feared for herself.

“I’m a friend of the family, you could say.” Dipping into a shallow
bow, he collected one of her fair hands and pressed a kiss upon her knuckles.
The gesture of mock propriety sent more chills up and down her spine.

His opposite hand fell out of vision, brushing down and over the side
of her body, skirting across the handkerchief’s faded material.

Sofia remained ignorant of the gesture.

“Till our paths cross once more, my fair lady, I bid you adieu.”

And then, like a true phantom, he was gone. Sofia stared after her
mysterious stranger, plagued with a reluctant empathy. She watched as his
elegant form weaved in and out of the cold tombstones and sculpted angels, the
tail of his frock coat fluttering like wings, wondering just how it felt to
fall from grace.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE

Nine
years earlier …

The hearth chirped
and crackled as its flames warmed the sleek floorboards. Lost within the
soothing rhythm of her guardian’s voice, Sofia lay close to the fire, bundled
up in oblivion. In mere moments, her bright blue eyes fell to half-mast and her
heart set sail. She exhaled a shallow sigh and settled into the cocoon of her
inner sanctuary.

“‘No red rose in
all my
garden!’ he cried, his
beautiful eyes filled with tears. ‘Ah, on what little things does happiness
depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of
philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.’”

A melody of giggles escaped from Sofia’s lips. As always, Aleksender
shifted his tone, playing the part of each character with a delightful accuracy
and exuberance. On nights such as these, he transformed before her very eyes.
The harsh and cold façade he wore during the daytime was nonexistent. Within
her presence, something inside of him blossomed to life. It was as though his
spirit had once withered away, and now had been nurtured back to health. And it
was a phenomenon she, too, often experienced at his side.

Whenever Alek was in arm’s reach she felt most alive. She smiled for no
reason at all and settled deeper into her daydreams.

Aleksender peered down at Sofia, taking pleasure in her awakened
happiness. Although she’d been in his care only weeks, a strong attachment had
already formed between them.

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!”