The Frost of Springtime (31 page)

Aleksender swallowed and managed a weak nod, head spinning and unable
to speak.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you or open old wounds,” Sister
Catherine said in a slow voice. “I only wished to reassure you. You and Sofia
share a connection that is not easily broken. I have faith you will bring her
home.” Sister Catherine closed her eyes in prayer. “I feel it.”

•

Père Lachaise was as silent as the grave that night. The wind blew in
all directions, rushing through the mausoleums, tombstones and statues in a
ghostly breath. Stone crosses appeared as silhouettes against the bleeding
skyline. And a decapitated angel stood off to the side, withered and infected
with moss.

Chilled to the bone, Aleksender held his breath and gazed down at
Christophe’s next clue:
For the Love that is perfected by Death. For the Love
that dies not in the TOMB. —C.C.

Crumpling the words, Aleksender’s nails dug into his flesh as he curled
his hand into a fist. Crescent moons formed from the pressure and stained the
parchment an unforgiving red.

Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s mausoleum towered before Aleksender,
impressive and almighty, a fortress of stone ascending into infinity. An
oversized crucifix decorated the building’s facade like some Christmas tree
ornament. Jesus hung from the cross, head lolled onto its side, those eyes
expressing all of humanity’s sorrow. Situated above the archway,
DE LEFÈVRE
was printed in
bold and proud lettering, each one engraved below Jesus’s heels. Aleksender’s
heart roared against his ribcage as he drew closer to his beloved father’s
resting place. With each step he took, a whirlwind of memories raced through
his mind.

Father’s countless love stories. How he and mother met.
Their first kiss, stolen beside the River Seine on a warm summer’s
night.
In their younger years, how’d they observe the sunrise each
morning from the
garden.
The way in which they’d read
stories before the blazing hearth, wrapped solely in the warmth of each other.

Entwined within those stories was a web of lies.

Even now, it was difficult to distinguish truth from illusion,
deception from actuality.

Aleksender ran his fingers over the mausoleum’s smooth stone walls and
stroked his father’s memory. As he’d expected, the door was firmly sealed shut.
He glanced in every direction, ensuring that he was alone, and headed around
the structure. Stained glass windows were situated on each side. He stared up
at a remarkable depiction of the Virgin Mary. Alas—it was as though she could
see the truth, as though she could see into his heart’s secrets.

And they both knew what had to be done. Aleksender had no choice but to
continue on this journey—this carefully constructed and haunting journey—no
matter where it might lead.

There was no turning back. He’d come too far, and there was far too much
at stake.

Aleksender balled both hands into fists and struck at the glass—once,
twice, three times—smashing away Mary’s eternal features. He swept away the
remaining shards and climbed through the portal, dropping inside of the
mausoleum.

Aleksender rose to his feet in breathless wonderment. Blood from his
knuckles dripped onto the flooring below, the sound unnaturally loud within the
silence. Two shafts of moonlight poured through parallel broken windows.
Aleksender’s inclination was correct. Christophe had been here.

The separate illuminations mingled together like a diva’s spotlight,
highlighting Philippe De Lefèvre’s casket.

The sight was too much to bear. Bile rose inside Aleksender’s throat, hot
and churning. His legs failed as he crumpled at his seams and fell to his hands
and feet. Body positioned in a mock bow, he laid a foot away from his father’s
resting spot.

Like a tangible force, he could sense his father’s spirit all around
him. And, a moment later, a haunting but not altogether unpleasant calm washed
over him. Aleksender held his breath and crawled toward the casket. He knelt
before the monument and clutched his chest, head sunken forward, eyes stinging
with a wave of unshed tears. Trembling hands rose from his sides and rested on
top of the meticulously carved slate. When he at last spoke, the tone of his
voice was strained and impossibly heavy—each word weighed down with years of
inner torment and heartache.

“Father.
I’m so sorry. So
sorry I wasn’t at your side. It haunts me.
Every day.
And now, without you here the entire world is collapsing. And I cannot help but
think that it’s
all my
fault. You would have known
what to do. You always had. I miss you, Father. I miss you so much—” His words
broke off into a soft cry.

Aleksender searched around the dark crevices, seeking answers. He was
at a total loss … defeated. His eyes returned to the casket, heart as empty as
before. What now? What was he to do now? What did Christophe possibly want from
him?

And then it struck him. Follow the light.
The
illuminations from the two broken windows.

Aleksender curled his fingers around the sides of the casket. Rugged
juts of stone bit into his flesh like teeth. He was paralyzed.
Mon Dieu.
What had become of him? What if he was terribly
mistaken? Was this truly Christophe’s intention? Could he bring himself to look
upon his father’s features?

Somehow, someway, he knew. Aleksender’s face fell forward in pained
agony. Time had run out. He would have to follow his gut.

He couldn’t risk questioning himself. He inhaled deeply, not quite
believing what he was about to do—what he was about to see. Grunting from the
exertion, his muscles quivered and broke out in sheens of sweat. Aleksender
summoned every ounce of his considerable strength and slid the massive slab of
stone away.

His heart instantly contracted.

His father looked remarkably like a porcelain statue.
Cold, pale, and perfectly still.
Aleksender grazed a
fingertip along the curve of his cheek in a tender caress. Laugh lines creased
the corners of his eyes—a testament to the gentle spirit he’d once been. Both
of his father’s weathered hands were folded together and positioned over his
chest. Sparse, gray hair was combed neatly back, his lips chaffed, eyes
fastened shut.

Aleksender shuddered at the sight. He hovered above his father’s
corpse, studying his peaceful features. Then his eyes narrowed in disbelief.
Clasped between his father’s pasty fingertips was a note. Head spinning,
Aleksender slid the parchment from his father’s grasp.

Alek,

He is lost to eternal slumber. Yet your pain reminds and warns you that
you are very much alive. Take care: Love is not the only thing perfected in
death.

Embrace yourself and return to the living.

Come, Desmond. Venus is shining. It’s time for a night out at the
OPERA. — C.C.

The sensation came in one fell sweep—an overwhelming blend of closure
and peace lightened his spirit. Aleksender pressed a kiss to his father’s
forehead and murmured words of love beneath a hushed breath. He lifted the
stone slate and covered the casket, tucking his father into bed for the night.

CHAPTER
THIRTY

May
26, 1871

La
Semaine Sanglante, Day Six

As it happened, one
of Paris’s underground tunnels led directly to Opera Garnier. The queer
passageway had been deemed as the “Communard’s road” over the past weeks.
Snaking through the catacomb’s eerie bowels, it had granted the revolutionaries
a secure hideaway and a clever means of transportation. The nearly completed
opera house, which loomed high above, had been transformed into a storage
facility and infirmary. Standing as a strange warehouse-hospital hybrid,
weapons, gunpowder and the like were mended inside of the walls and kept at
bay. In other sections, dismembered and bloodied Parisians were nursed to life
and cared for by an assortment of nuns, nurses and volunteers.

Sofia crouched at her heels as she knelt amidst the sea of battered
bodies and tangled limbs.

“At least let me be of some use,” she’d chided Christophe a day earlier,
wearing a smile that could melt the most frigid of hearts. “Please—allow me to
tend to the wounded. Sacred Heart taught me much about patient care. Why … I’ve
already gone half-mad down here, and you have my word I won’t run off.” In
spite of herself, Sofia had inwardly grimaced at her deceit.

But it’d only been half of a lie.

And so, as most men are wont to do, Christophe had fallen for her doe
eyes and hopeful smile. The weight of the world seemed to have lifted from her
shoulders as the cuff was unlocked. Unable to suppress a laugh of relief, she’d
swiveled her ankle and rubbed at the swollen skin, nursing her circulation back
to life. A sudden and unwanted guilt had swelled her gut as her eyes rose to
Christophe. His stare was utterly trusting of her intentions.

“I hope it’s nothing too serious,” he’d murmured, gesturing her ankle.
“But fine. Do what you will, only take care—there shall be eyes on you, chérie.
And too many to count.”

Sofia had nodded as she felt the numbness ease from her foot. “You have
my word. Thank you.”

All it took was a single glance at the outside world and the inevitable
had been confirmed: she was a prisoner. And neither Christophe nor the Commune
were
her true captors. Paris, in all of her embittered and malicious
agony, held the key to her captivity.

One step onto the street and it would be her last. That much was also
pristinely clear. Versailles soldiers occupied every corner—perhaps, sixty
thousand in total—and, within the span of a heartbeat, she’d be marked as a
Communard. With an aching fear, Sofia knew such a thing was not so far from the
truth.

Yes, Christophe had gone to an extreme (a sentiment which comes with
obsession and losing one’s sanity, she very well assumed), and many of his
followers were slacken with bloodlust. But the underlying principle, that
crimson freedom flag, was nothing but noble.

Desperation was a terrible thing.

Sofia’s thoughts quickly turned to Aleksender. She only prayed—God, she
prayed—that Christophe would do him no harm. Over the past few days, she’d
witnessed a goodness in the man, a transient gentleness and compassion, which
could not so easily be ignored.

Sofia tended to a wound as she executed her infirmary training from
Sacred Heart. A chunk of debris had fallen onto the man’s chest, leaving him
with a nasty second degree burn. She drenched a cloth and pressed it against
the inflamed flesh. The man groaned and lolled his head onto its side. He was
only half-unconscious, which proved to be a small mercy. “I’m sorry. It hurts
something terrible, I know.”

“In God’s teeth, how would you know?” The words were spoken between
clenched jaws and full of cynicism.

Sofia swept away a mass of curls and exposed her scars. “They’re not
quite as severe as yours, but—”

“I’m sure the memories make mine pale in comparison,” he finished. “I
can see the pain in your eyes.”

She smiled weakly and felt the sting of tears. “Yes, well … that was
long ago.
Now.
Let’s get you all wrapped up, shall
we?”

•

Blacker than pitch, the darkness enveloped Sofia inside a suffocating
cocoon. Within this windowless prison, no stars were to be found. She was a
little girl again—helpless, frightened, and alone.

The flared end of a cigar sears my skin like a brand. I cry out and
fight to run away—far, far away! But long fingers snake in my hair and tug at
my scalp. A weak protest emerges from my lungs. Maman sobers me with a stinging
slap to the face. I slide across the floorboards like some wounded mongrel …
through the winding hallways and into that impenetrable darkness …

Maman tosses me into a blackened pit. It is the faint click which
confirms my fears. I am locked inside.

Beyond the walls of my prison I hear thunder … deep, growling thunder.
I pound and pound … thrashing against the wood till my fists ache and blood
seethes from each knuckle …

Sofia woke with a scream that could resurrect the dead. Slowly she
caught her breath and tugged on her restraints without luck. Once more, she’d
been chained to the wall and left unable to stir a limb. Her head rolled
backward in despair. It could only mean one thing. And her heart nodded in
rapid agreement.

He was near.

•

Apollo, the God of Music and Art, balanced his lyre high above his head
as he’d done for so many years. Strings spun from gold jutted against the
horizon and kissed the metallic sunrays. Aleksender briefly thought of Moses
standing atop Mount Sinai, two stone tablets in hand, as he sought to bring
order and peace to his people. But the Hebrews had grown impatient during his
absence and had fallen into a state of chaos and immorality. Angered by what
he’d seen, Moses had smashed the tablets at the foot of the mountain upon his
return. Only after his people had paid for their sins was order again restored.

Up until this moment, Aleksender had always scoffed at the tale and
turned his cheek in apathy. But everything had changed. He was involved
now—and, as a result, his understanding of the world had become recomposed.

Aleksender adjusted the burden of his satchel, carefully surveying the
monument that loomed before him. He’d abandoned his beloved Juliet to the
carriage house only moments before, which had been no easy feat. Without her
comforting nickers and playful nudges, he felt anything but heroic.

A rush of hopelessness engulfed Aleksender in a dense, black haze. All
of Opera Garnier’s entrances were barricaded off and sufficiently guarded. The
red flag of the Commune covered the opera house’s facade like a security
blanket, branding the house as a sanctuary and place of rest.

The leather satchel eased its grip as he slipped to the ground and
pressed his back against one of the cracked walls. The fate of Paris flashed
before his eyes as he watched the doom of his homeland unfold. From crevice to
crevice, gunfire, brutal fist fights and wailing children swarmed every inch of
the square. Blood and corpses littered the streets. Hoping to strengthen the
barricades, furniture had been tossed from the windows days earlier. Thousands
of cobblestones had been torn from the ground and utilized as deadly weapons.

And all the omnibuses had been either discarded or flipped over. It was
chaos and total anarchy.

Aleksender’s eyes grew heavy and fluttered shut. Nestled within the
haven of his inner thoughts, he saw her face and smile, heard the melody of her
voice,
watched
the gracefulness of her steps. The
world fell away, leaving only the two of them. Aleksender groped his chest,
massaging his heart in steady circles, easing the pain within.
Mon Dieu.
He missed his little Sofia. He missed his darling
ward more than he could bear to comprehend. And he had saved her once, nearly
ten years ago.

Could he do the same again? Or was his quest purely in vain? Maybe this
was Christophe’s ultimate revenge, his last laugh. Maybe Sofia was already long
dead and Christophe was sending Aleksender into the grave for no other reason
than to mock his weakness, much like the little nightingale who vainly
sacrificed herself for a rose …

What now?

Aleksender couldn’t risk being recognized. He’d be marked as an enemy
of “the people” without a doubt—which wasn’t so far from the truth. And this
place had to be the endpoint of his journey. Alas, this was one of the
Commune’s central bases, and Christophe was inside.

But how in God’s name
was
he to sneak past the
watchmen? The opera was thoroughly guarded from wall to wall. And only
recognizable figures belonging to either the Commune or National Guard held any
chance of gaining entrance. Indeed, the security was the finest that Paris
could buy.

Aleksender lolled his head against the impressive stonework. Zoning in
and out of his thoughts, he studied the towering architecture and black night
sky. Carved angels hovered above him by the masses, intricate columns perched
upon their backs.

Sofia was beyond those walls. Of that he was certain. Aleksender nearly
laughed at the realization. The message of his journey was borderline poetic.
Over the past days, he’d seen and lived the horrors of Paris.

Christophe had forced Aleksender to become a part of the bloodshed—a
part of the revolution.

Aleksender climbed to his feet without further thought and barricaded
himself behind one of the jutting columns. He stripped away his coat and hat,
throwing them into the surrounding wreckage. In decided movements, he
disregarded any giveaways of his social standing or identity, keeping only the
satchel on his person.

Aleksender eased back into the crowd and searched the distressed faces.

In moments, Aleksender was sucked into the surrounding combat. His
fighting instincts took over as he dodged the wild shells with a fantastic show
of agility. He clasped a hand to either side of his head, warding off the
resounding gunfire and cries. Alas, he was back on the battlefield and near to
panicking.

He needed out.

Nearby, Aleksender spotted a National Guardsman who was presently
yelling orders rather than fighting. A pair of civilians dragged a wounded man
over, muttered some quick incoherent words, and escorted him inside the opera
house. Aleksender inhaled a shaky breath, knowing precisely what had to be
done. A nearby angel, who held a column upon his mighty back, seemed to
suddenly slump—as if he’d realized the gravity of his fate.

Heart pounding in his ears, Aleksender scaled the side of the building
until he found a corner of privacy. Squeezing his eyes shut, he sagged against
one of the towering walls and held his breath. Aleksender’s words from the
rooftop echoed his mind and rekindled his perseverance.
Pain is in the
mind. And, in my mind, ma chérie
—

Detaching mind from body, he dug the muzzle of his shotgun into his
shoulder and—
bang
!

A rush of excruciating pain overcame Aleksender. His scream was last to
the overwhelming ambiance, camouflaged within the cries of fallen men, women
and children.

Clutching onto his arm, Aleksender fought to retain every ounce of his
strength. He had been stabbed and shot before, countless times, and this was no
different.

Mon Dieu.
The entire journey
would be useless if he fell. But the military of Versailles was on the brink of
breaching the opera house. In a matter of hours—perhaps less—everyone inside
would be slaughtered like a flock of sacrificial lambs.

Your pain reminds and warns you that you are very much alive.

Aleksender shook away Christophe’s voice and continued his pursuit. He
fought for consciousness at every step as he stumbled through the dead and
wounded. Bloody faces and amputated limbs paved the walkway. Grasping onto his
satchel, he squared both shoulders and stood before the National Guardsman.

“My shoulder.
I—I’ve been shot.”
Aleksender’s words emerged in a strained gasp. Excruciating pain shot through
his body and spirited his breath away. Praying he wouldn’t be identified as Paris’s
comte
, he dropped his face as the guard surveyed his
body. For once fate was in his favor. The man merely latched onto Aleksender’s
hand, tugged it aside, and gave the wound a thorough once over.

“Don’t
worry,
monsieur. They shall aid you
well. There—through that door.”