The Frost of Springtime (27 page)

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 grumble 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.

“M-Maman?
Who is she?”

Victoria’s mouth
quavered as tears coated her pale cheeks in harsh streams. An unsteady hand
came to her lips, commanding her son’s silence. “Shh … She is sleeping. We
mustn’t wake her.”

Aleksender caught
the glint of a knife for the first time.

The
seductive glint of a knife.

Indeed—a slate of
gleaming metal was cradled in his mother’s palm, the blade pulled back into a
toothy snarl. Envious and seemingly competing for attention, her wedding ring
sparkled against the expanse of black.

“Maman, I’m scared.
I wanna go home!”

“Why, there is
nothing to fear, love.” Those identical words of only a half-hour ago were
equipped with a venomous undercurrent, and they were anything but comforting.

Aleksender felt
himself drowning.

Victoria untied the
scarf with surprisingly nimble fingers. With a slick twist of her wrist, she
drew the material away—moving with a magician’s suaveness. Aleksender had
nearly expected her to cry out, “Ta-da!”

It was a rather
pretty face that lay beyond the veil. The woman appeared wonderfully peaceful
in her sedated state. Worry etched in his brow, Aleksender cocked his head to
the side and inched toward her still form. Although her eyes were presently
shut, he knew them to be carved from a rich mahogany. He studied every detail
of her face, marveling how he possibly recognized her.

Who was she? And
why was Maman doing this?

Victoria inclined
the knife toward Aleksender with a feral hiss, tears falling hard and strong.

Empty
and burning tears.

“Why are you doing
this, Maman?”
Aleksender’s flesh constricted around his
bones.
“Why?”

She seemed not to
hear nor see him.

“Look away, my son!
You must save yourself from earthly temptation before it is too late.” A flash
of burning emotion inflamed her stare. “Alas, it is too late for him, too late
for my beloved Philippe! ‘When lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin—and sin,
when it is finished, bringeth forth death.’”

An acute and
stinging terror he hadn’t known to
exist
pooled deep
inside of Aleksender. Drained of their youthful brilliance, the rounded apples
of his cheeks turned sallow and pasty. He was paralyzed with disbelief and an
aching fear—virtually unable to move or utter a sound—perceiving everything
through the filter of a dream world. His mother’s words were remarkably surreal
and far away.

The reality of the
moment was lost to a boy of ten years.

Astonishingly
vulnerable and childish, Victoria sniffled and swiped mucus from her nose. The
timbre of her voice softened to its customary whisper. “Life is pain. Love is a
pretty lie. Do not love the world or anything in it. The world and its desires
pass away. Do you understand me, child? Do you?”

Aleksender nodded
as the tears finally came forth.

“And make sure you
never forget it. Never forget the truth. Never forget …” Victoria’s breasts
heaved in deep pants. The ball of her knuckles whitened as she clasped onto the
knife’s hilt with a lethal death grip. “Come closer, Aleksender dear, you
mustn’t be afraid. Together, we shall cleanse our family of this unholy
temptation.” Aleksender shuffled forward a few meager inches, legs unbearably
heavy and tears blurring his vision. Lost in the solitude of her prayers,
Victoria’s eyes fell to half-mast as crystal drops clung to each spike of her
lashes.

“Maman, no … don’t
do this.”

A
distorted prayer.

“‘And the ten horns
which thou sawest upon the beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make
her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and burn her with fire … God
had put it into the hearts to carry out his purpose, and those who do the will
of God shall live forever.’”

Both hands were
held high and proud as she centered the blade above the swell of the woman’s
cleavage.

“Please don’t hurt
her! Stop scarin’ me!”

“Be not afraid of
those who kill the body. Fear him who destroys both body and soul in hell.”

Steel, cold and
rusted, plunged into a slate of creamy flesh.

A flash of steel
descended in one graceful swoop. The woman would never again wake.

“Amen.”

A crimson ring
seeped through the woman’s nightdress—its incalculable circumference widening
at a leisurely pace—encircling the hilt like the Red Sea. Only the dying
refrains of Aleksender’s scream shattered the silent din.

Then the world
split into two as a wailing babe cried out. Victoria brushed a film of sweat
from her forehead and hastened to the blubbering sound. Frozen in time,
Aleksender set his gaze upon the woman’s
fallen
face.
A ribbon of blood seeped from the corner of her mouth and sensually flowed down
the curve of her chin.

Aleksender followed
the morbid trail. For the second time, he wondered who she was.

Yes, he had seen
this woman on occasion.
Marianne Moreau …the mom of his
infant brother.

The wrath of a
lover scorned.

Richard’s wailing
escalated, each cry amplified by his tin prison. Water sloshed out of the basin
as Victoria dragged it across the floor in an effort to bring it within arm’s
reach of the tub.

Fight or flight
instincts took hold. No longer thinking, Aleksender latched onto the knife’s
hilt and gave a firm tug.
Nothing.
It refused to
budge. Indeed, it was lodged deeply—too deeply. The blade had been swallowed up
by flesh and muscle.

Victoria hovered
above the tub, morbidly beautiful, looking every bit like an Angel of Death.
She gazed down at the babe’s blotched face and flailing fists with an uneven
sigh. The blanket had come unraveled in the midst of Richard’s tantrum, leaving
him victim to the elements. Victoria knelt forward, cooed some incoherent
nonsense, and blessed him with the sign of the cross. “In the name of the
Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit …”