The Frost of Springtime (5 page)

Aleksender’s blood froze over. Time seemed to stand still. He could have
sworn the wind was weeping. Heart banging against his ribcage, his mind spun.

“Your father … He fell ill shortly after your leave. He’s passed now.
It happened only weeks ago—”

Comte Aleksender de Lefèvre collapsed without warning. He clutched at
his chest, overcome with a fierce wave of nausea. One hand pushed against the
pavement in an attempt to prop up his fatigued body. Elizabeth knelt beside
him, caressing his back with delicate, slow strokes.

“Aleksender, please—listen to me. He was so proud of you. He loved you.
He died with a smile to his lips knowing you would do great things.
Magnificent, great things.”

Aleksender was disconnected, perceiving Elizabeth’s voice through a
strange and glassy filter. The whole world and everything in it seemed to drift
away.

Despite being a devout atheist, he understood how Lucifer must have
felt when he’d fallen from the bruised skies of heaven.
Cold,
forgotten and entirely alone.
In a single morning, the weight of the
world had fallen onto his shoulders.

And the weight of the world was no small burden.

CHAPTER
FOUR

The afternoon was
full of sunshine and smiles. Golden embers drifted into the air as the hearth
crooned and cackled. A dozen or so sweet faces glowed brightly all around, each
pair of eyes fixed ahead. Sofia sat front and center, the melody of her voice
quirky and animated. The russet strands of her hair glowed, alive with metallic
flashes of champagne and bronze.

She felt quite toasty—almost uncomfortably so. Indeed, it was a balmy
day in mid-spring, and the fireplace was more for dramatic effect than any
warmth.

Sofia was the eldest of the girls and had been ordained as “Sacred
Heart’s storyteller” several seasons back. And it was a role she’d always been
more than happy to fulfill.

Sofia brought the fairytale to life as she read from the faded pages.
Reeking of antiquity, each one was tinted yellow and curled at the corners.
“The nightingale flew over to the rose tree that was growing beneath the
Student’s window. ‘Give me a red rose,’ she cried, ‘and I will sing you my
sweetest song.’ But the tree shook its head.” Utilizing her skills as an
actress, she shifted her tone to better suit the personality of a wise, old
tree. “‘My roses are red,’”—as usual, a couple of the youngest girls giggled at
the sound of Sofia’s comically gruff voice— “‘as red as the feet of the dove,
and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern.
But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the
storm had broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year.’”

Alas, Sofia sounded remarkably like a tree. “‘One red rose is all I
want,’ cried the nightingale, ‘only one red rose! Is there no way by which I
can get it?’” Her voice hushed to a whisper. As not to miss a word, several of
the girls scooted several inches closer. “‘There is a way,’ answered the tree,
‘but it is so terrible that I dare not tell you.’” Eyes wide and beaming, Sofia
bookmarked the volume with her palm and addressed her eager audience. “Hmm.
Shall I tell you?”

“Yes!” Miriam cried out, hugging her ragdoll impossibly tighter. “Tell
me,” she protested, quoting the nightingale’s precise words. “I am not afraid!”

“Brave little one!” Sofia laughed and leaned forward, pinching Miriam’s
cherub cheek between two fingertips. Lips puckered into a fierce pout, the
child huffed and knotted both arms across her chest. Sofia merely grinned at
the great show of insolence. The girl was picturesque and adorable beyond
words. And Miriam’s genuine affinity was a treasured thing; aside from a select
few, it was no secret that the majority of Sacred Heart’s residents were
resentful of Sofia’s so-called “double life.”

Spirals of blonde curls cushioned Miriam’s pudgy face as she hotly
asked, “Aren’t ya gonna keep reading or aren’t ya?”

“Oh, all right. Yes, yes—I shall continue.” Sofia cleared her throat
and resumed the story with extra exuberance. “‘If you want a red rose you must
build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood.
You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must
sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow
into my veins and become mine’ …”

She paused, strangely affected by the words. She’d known the tale for
countless years, and yet, it felt as though she were reading it for the very
first time.

Sofia’s heart took flight as she reflected on her reunion with
Aleksender. Yesterday morning there had been something there. Like a palpable
force, there had been something unspoken between the two of them. It was the
way in which his fingertips had caressed her through the veil of fine silks.
The way in which his face had bowed forward and carefully inhaled
her essence.
The way in which his heart had thundered against her own,
and his unsteady breaths had brushed against her pulse, grazing her body like
some secretive kiss.

Sofia’s mind raced at a dizzying speed. Her palms grew hot, humid and
clammy. The pages stuck to the moist pads of her fingertips as she attempted to
flip them.

Dieu! What sort of girl was she?

She was shaping up to be no better than her mother.

And what would Sister Catherine possibly think?

“Sofffiiiiaaaa?”

Sofia snapped out of her daze and anchored herself in the here and now.
Expectant eyes bore
into her own
. She obliged with a
small sigh and continued reading from the weathered pages.

“‘Death is a great price to pay for a red rose,’ cried the nightingale,
‘and life is very dear to all. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet
are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the
hill. Yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to
the heart of a man?’ So she spread her brown wings and soared into the air. She
swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the
grove—”

Above the mantle, the cuckoo bird emerged from his whittled home and
chimed in the hour.
The melody, normally so cheerful and full
of life, held an ominous edge.
It was something Sofia couldn’t quite
place her finger on.

“Oh, listen!” Miriam cried out as she clasped both hands together.
“He’s singing for us! Just like the nightingale!”

Whitney, a girl who was a few years shy of Sofia, threw the child her
most condescending glare. “Don’t you know anything?” she scoffed, flicking a
carefully spun braid over the curve of her shoulder. “That’s a cuckoo bird. Not
some silly little nightingale.”

Sofia narrowed her eyes and shot Whitney a disapproving glance.
“Whitney! You must apologize!”

The girl looked away and lifted her chin at a defiant angle. “Who are
you to order me about?”

Sister Catherine bustled into the room, cued by the singing cuckoo
clock. The thick material of her skirts rustled with every step. Sofia greeted
her with a wide smile and delicate nod of her chin. Despite Sister Catherine’s
severe nature, she’d grown to adore the head nun with a fierce affection over
the years.

“Come, girls!” She huffed, smoothing out the grim material of her
habit. “You must return to your studies. There shall be time for fun and games
later.” With a unified groan, the children of Sacred Heart climbed to their
feet and flocked into the adjoining school room. “That includes you, too,
Whitney.” Whitney released an irritated sound and followed suit with mutinous
steps.

Sofia laid the book in her lap and surveyed the German cuckoo clock.
The creature had vanished back into its home, leaving the rest of the world in
lonely silence.

Sister Catherine fetched a poker from the mantel and crouched in front
of the hearth. She muttered incoherently beneath her breath, stabbing at the
logs with an uncharacteristic aggression. The effect was highly comical. Sofia
bit her lip and harnessed back a grin.

“Must they always insist on lighting this wretched thing?” Fiery sparks
crackled and ascended into blackness. Sister Catherine sighed and shook her
face, burying the embers with the little copper shovel. One by one, they
suffocated and lost their customary glows. Beads of sweat formed along the
border of Sister Catherine’s wimple as she labored. Suspended midair, the
crucifix dangled in free-fall, tossing luminous shades of orange and red upon
the carved mantle. Sofia gazed at the glowing emblem, strangely transfixed. “On
my word, it’s close to an oven in here!”

Sofia came to her feet with a laugh and gently touched the nun’s
shoulder. “Here—allow me.” She stole the poker from Sister Catherine and rolled
a log onto its side. A solid
thwack
was followed by
the groan of splintering wood.

Sister Catherine dabbed at her brow and claimed a seat in the ancient
rocking chair. The cozy sound of a repetitive
thump, thump,
thump
filled the room, warming Sofia’s insides.

“You remember that feeling I had?” Sofia began conversationally. “A
couple days ago—about Alek being alive … being near?”

“Yes. Yes, certainly I do.”

Sofia glanced over her shoulder with a beaming smile. Sister Catherine
clutched onto her chest as it quaked with lighthearted laughter. A blend of
soot and ash shadowed Sofia’s nose and cheekbones.

“Come—come here, petit.” Sister Catherine signaled Sofia over with a
wave of her hand. “My, aren’t you a sight.”

Sofia set down the poker and knelt beside her. One of the nun’s
wrinkled hands steadied Sofia’s chin—the opposite wetted her thumb pad. A deep
crinkle warped Sofia’s nose as the soot was washed away.

“Now,” Sister Catherine smoothed down her habit and folded both hands
in the cushion of her lap. “What was it you were trying to say?”

“My feeling—it came true, Sister Catherine! Alek has returned! He
arrived only yesterday.”

The nun’s eyes widened at the news. It wasn’t the first time Sofia had
predicted such things. And it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Blessed heavens!”
She clasped a palm
to her heart and crossed herself in a graceful movement. “Day and night, I have
prayed for his return.” Silence pressed between the two of them.

Sofia felt her chest sink. Worry was cleanly etched in Sister
Catherine’s brow. “Sister Catherine? What is it? What is wrong?”

“His heart must have broken when he learned of his father’s passing.”

Sofia nodded as she watched the last embers disintegrate into ashes. “I
can only imagine his pain,” she whispered, mind elsewhere. “Losing someone you
love is one of life’s greatest tragedies.”

Sister Catherine cleared her throat, rose to her feet and smoothed down
the hem of her skirts. With a soft smile, she reached out and cradled Sofia’s
cheek in her palm. “You’re truly a dear girl, Sofia. And there’s something
magical between you and your Aleksender.
Something
remarkable.
Something I can’t quite place my finger on.” She sighed,
shoulders arching into a defeated shrug. “Heaven knows—I have tried.”

And, without another word, Sister Catherine departed from the room and
left Sofia alone with her thoughts.

•

The morning air was crisp and cool, seasoned by the bittersweet blooms
of the coming springtime. From the premature flower buds, up to the noisy nest
of sparrows that was cradled upon a tree’s bough, the world whispered of birth
and new beginnings. Golden rays oozed between shuddering branches, while shafts
of light illuminated their dew-covered leafs. A sea of tall grass swayed in the
wind’s breath, moving to and fro, lolling like the ocean’s tide.

Aleksender surveyed his home as he acquainted himself with the second
Parisian morning since his return from the war.

Quiet and tranquil, the veranda was a peaceful sanctuary, far from the
city’s chaos and disorder. Perched upon a slope, it overlooked the lush and endless
gardens that had belonged to the de Lefèvre family for hundreds of years.

Aleksender’s thoughts drew ice-cold as he recalled the blood and tears
of war. Shattering screams haunted the darkest caverns of his mind … the
screams of death and despair. Those cries had changed him forever. As both a
person and citizen of Paris, he would never again be the same man. Out on that
battlefield, and along with his father’s uncalled death, he’d sacrificed a
critical part of his soul. Aleksender’s hands were clean, true, but his heart
was longtime stained.

Then there was that dark and silent corner of his consciousness, that
mysterious, faded moment during his boyhood, a moment that had altered him ever
since—a moment that his mind had completely washed away.

Just what was that moment? It was always lodged inside his thoughts
like a raw canker sore, irritating and inescapable, reminding him of the
emptiness. And only Sofia soothed away the pain.

Aleksender was jolted from his distressed thoughts as Elise, the pretty
servant girl, shyly approached him. At only fifteen years, she’d proven herself
as one of the chateau’s finest caretakers. Aleksender paid her a rather hefty
salary—perhaps, one that was a bit too generous—well aware that she was nursing
her bedridden mother during her “leisure time.” As expected, golden curls were
fastened in a customary bun like an old spinster might wear—yet her eyes were
wide and brimming with innocence.

“Monsieur le Vicomte shall be arriving quite soon.”

Successfully departing from the family nest, his little brother had
purchased an estate off the outskirts of Loire Valley months before the war.
Aleksender envied his freedom greatly. He was bound to Chateau de Lefèvre by his
inheritance. And without the warmth of his father, the halls felt colder,
vaster and infinitely
more empty
.