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NOVELS PENDING POSTING

Chapter Three

My home is a snuggery, a plan and nearly barren chalet.  In truth, the small home remained my pier-á-terre, my home away from home.  I speak of it in that term because my domicile rests in Thebes—a dozen other residences I claim are in various realms of the world and are all places of sojourn, storage, or nearly forgotten memory.  Constantly I make a concerted effort to visit each cottage, cabin, chalet, hut, shack, and dwelling—I possess in one name or another—at least every few years.  Oddly it takes nearly a year to travel to them, and that is only if I linger for a day or two at each place.  There are a few far flung berths, which I manage to retain in China, India, and even in Polynesia and they are the results of a westward journey undertaken in the shadow of the great Alexander.  These distant abodes are on rare occasion visited, and are in the keeping and use of locals.  An arrangement I conspired upon when I can into ownership and this deal is mutually beneficial to the families of those who maintain my property.  However, this quaint pier-á-terre, which I almost always refer to as my snuggery, has always been dearest to me.  In fact, France is dear to me.  Only my resting places in Memphis, Thebes, Karnack, and Napata inspire greater feelings of deeply rooted honor, comfort, and memory.  And only Egypt and Nubia are closer to my heart than France.

The only home I refuse to set foot in or even allow my eyes to view again is my home in Rhakotis or as now known: Alexandria.  It is an enduring sepulcher, a mausoleum to my Mnemosyne.   I loved her and cherished her and was forced to bear the dirge—interring her old body beneath the courtyard’s olive tree.  Oh how I had loved my Mnemosyne.  She was the first to incite passion, which grew with such fury that our love consumed me.  It was only natural that she aged—she is not immortal.  Her frail body failing in time and despite my powerful love for her, she took to her eternal union with the dust; and as the Common Book of Prayer would say: “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” 

All these places to rest and call my own, brings to the forefront the question about my need for another place deep in the labyrinth-like Harz Mountains in Germany.  The secret value of the Harz Mountains monastery is the absolute isolation provided by the natural terrain, which allows me to assume my most natural form without having to consider any possible negative outcomes from those who may observe the change.  The lesson was learned and relearned over a thousand years of hate and near death—if I can die.

I can die.  Thankfully it is very difficult for me to succumb to death, but it is still possible.  My inherent gift to alter my form at will, grants me an innate ability to heal my wounds in an instant.  I can shift my internal organs in an instant, rearranging my anatomy to suit the situation and to avoid lethal blows or cuts.  I can alter my skeletal structure to reinforce areas or to create a sort of armor beneath my flesh.  Fire burns me, like it would burn any other, and if I fail to extinguish the hungry flames, I would be reduced to a pile of inert carbon.  Subsequently, acid burns and base burns are extraordinarily complex and so are almost impossible for me to completely heal.  As far as I know, I can hold my breath indefinitely and food and water are only required in amounts so small they are nearly negligent.

The result of my realization of my near immortality, and facing the harsh persecution from all corners of the world, caused me to rely on my ability to mimic others.  In every berth and abode I am forced into a persona which is not my own.  I am constrained to living a lie.  The Harz Mountain home would grant me places of ultimate solitude, where I could, without fear, stand in my own form.  This is why I had accepted Job’s proposal in the Vates Tavern. 

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

I returned to my snuggery along the bank of the Seine River, south of Paris, with Eau de Rose, as the sun thundered into the world’s far horizon.  Nightfall was upon us all.  The snuggery was quaint, built from mud brick and irregularly shaped rock and stone with timbered supports.  Inside there was a healthy hearth, and above was a thick thatched roof to keep the rain from within the dwelling, though there would always be the leaks.  The furnishings were equally simple.  Two tree stumps had been formed into low stools, their cut tops worn to a concaved and polished seat by the years of use.  A heavy wood table sat between the stools, adorned with three low candles which remained firmly affixed to the rough grain by a heap of melted and solidified wax.  Near the hearth sat the kettle, which could be swung over the fire, and on the wall hung an iron pan, ladle, and large spoon.  The bed was wood framed—a rarity in those days—narrow and dressed with a hay stuffed mattress and course ivory linens.  At the foot of the sturdy bed sat a large oak and iron bound chest—secured with an iron cast lock.

Eau de Rose lay in the bed, where I had laid her for the moment, and I took a seat at the table and kept a careful watch on her sleeping form.  Her chest slowly rose, pushing her breasts upward every four seconds in a rhythmic pattern.  Beneath her eyes lids her eyes remained motionless and not a muscle of her body moved, quivered, or twitched.  Her sleeping state was absolute.  All I could do was to wait.

With care I started a small fire and from its flames I ignited a tender to us as a match for the candles on the table.  Once the candles were lit, I abandoned the fire in the hearth and let it burn itself out—there was no need for the greater light of the fire—as the candles twisting light was more than sufficient.

In the distance, the rumble of thunder foretold the approaching storm.  My passionate affinity to rain drove me to sit in the door frame, straddling the threshold with my knees drawn up—a resting place for my crossed arms.  The stars were masked by the broiling clouds and even the moons formidable nightlight was powerless to penetrate them.  Distant flashes of brilliantly white arching light were followed by the slow crescendoing roll of cracking thunder.  The God of Storms struck with heat and light while Doran beat the world’s drums in concert and the result was a fiery show of instantaneous flashes and earth rattling music that reverberated against the soul.  Only rains infinite harmonics were needed and the symphony of storms would be complete along with the thousand voices of the great winds.

The pending torrent was proclaimed by the thick scent of the falling rain.  Lazily the rain’s perfume washed over the dale, covering the fields, and encasing all who stood—or sat—out to embrace the rising storm.  With a slow, deep breath, I partook of the enchanting extract and closed my eyes holding my breath for that first drop to strike the earth.

In the absence of light and lost in the rising song of the storm time moved forward imperceptibly.  Had I been forced to tell how much time had passed, I would have said about twenty minutes.  The reality was that I did not know how much had slipped by.  There were obvious clues of course: it was still dark outside, so dawn had not yet arrived; the rain proceeded by its heavy smell, had not yet arrived; and the candles had not yet melted and burned to any great extent; and Eau de Rose still rested, without moving, on the bed.  These indicators are the reason for my assumption of only a mere twenty minutes of passing time, though I still was not perfectly certain as I had become lost in the moments.  Wandering thoughts often assailed me and created misconceptions of elapsed time and made me appear inattentive. 

How many times the windy sylvan voice had spoken to me is beyond my comprehension, and is chalked up to one of those inattentive moments.  The whisper was a low tone, marked by an underlying sound akin to the rustling of leaves or maybe like a babbling brook.  Rough and deep by nature, the voice carried a reverent feeling and held an inquisitive air.  The voice shattered my quiet waiting, and ripped from my self-absorbed thoughts, I became keenly aware of the voice nearby.

“Alex,” said the airy voice in the night. 

My closed eyes shot open.  This person or creature knew who I was.  Instantly my eyes settled on the fey visitors, three of them.  They stood—and I say this most poetically—only a few feet from outside my snuggery’s open door.  Almost a century had passed since the last time any fey openly paid me a visit.  There was no denying the odd coincidence of meeting Job in Paris the previous day, my intrigue with Eau de Rose, the death of the unknown assailant in the narrow by-lane, and this unexpected though welcomed visit.  What did the fey know?

“Please pardon our quiet approach and unannounced visit, but we did not know if she slept soundly—and we must speak with you,” said the deep voice of the faun.

The faun stood at the center of the three fey who had approached and he was the only one that was truly standing on the ground.  His cloven feet were firmly planted to the matted sweet grass. 

“The fey are my brother for their blood lingers in my veins.  And a visit, announced or not, is always a pleasure,” I responded with a slight nod of my head.

Quickly I let my eyes scan over the three visitors.  The venerable faun, with large ram-like horns that marked his ancient years, and his thin face was covered in thick leathery flesh, though it contained the basic features of a human face, occupied the middle position.  He had a broad and flat nose, which appeared gnarled and elderly, and so divided the deep set pair of eyes.  The pointed chin would have jutted out, but it was concealed behind the thick beard of moss-like hair, which clothed his face and stretched down over his neck.  Human looking arms sprouted from his shoulders with well toned muscles and with hands which had long spindly fingers capped with jutting black fingernails.  What clearly made him inhuman was the lower half of his body, which was formed from two donkey hindquarters with cloven hooves.

 On the fauns right fluttered a glowing orb of bluish light—a flying fairy.  The light pulsated, as the orb flittered about in a bobbing weave, though it remained at the faun’s side and nearly at shoulder height.   The four wings beat furiously creating the constant hum, which was barely perceptible, yet always there.  However, to really see the fairy, it would have to land, ceasing its glowing flight.

Then on the faun’s left floated a young sylph, who was most difficult to see in the dark of the night, as the sylph had a translucent from.  Though I could not distinguish individual features in the dim light, I could see the sylph was floating about a foot off the ground.  He was there, I knew that, yet could not make out his face. 

“I am Altarias,” said the faun.  “The fairy is named Wyrd and my sylph companion is known as Anrhod.”

Had the Fates sent them to me?  The truth of their visit would be impossible to guess at this point as only the introductions had been given.  The circumstances indicated the Ephor, the fey court, may be involved, but there was no evidence to support that assumption.

“I’m Alex,” I answered.  Though Altarias had called me by name I still felt it was best to introduce myself as a way of confirming they had the right person.  The response was more of a formality than anything else, or maybe it was a courtesy? 

“We know Alex,” said Wyrd.  His voice squeaked in a pitch higher than I could fathom of achieving.

I smiled as I stood up in the door jam.  After a half-step out the door I closed it softly behind me.  “You assumed I was Alex,” I chided.

“And you were gracious enough to confirm the assumption,” Altarias was quick to add.

“Yes.”

“Who is the woman in your bed?” Altarias asked without pause.

The smile on my face vanished in that instant.  “Have the Fates sent you?”  My pleasant tone dissipated into an icy disposition.  “Does the Shee Law forbid this friendship?  Does the Ephor feel compelled to meddle in my private affairs?”

Altarias shook his head.  “The Ephor and its Fates have not sent us and are not involved in this matter, and as such have not instructed us to engage in any activity, observation, or conversation with you.  We have chosen to speak with you of our own will—before the Fates become involved—and they will be involved.  The Shee Law does not forbid inter-society relationships!  You know this.  As for meddling in your affairs:  they are not only your affairs.  You are playing with a fragile environment comprised of volatile societies which are so entwined that a single miscalculation, a fractional misalignment, or a personal ambition could cause an irreversible chain reaction that would topple the greatest societies and up heave the world.”

I laughed and the laughter could not be stifled.  “I do not have that much power.”

In the pulsating cerebral cortexes of my calculating brain, I keenly understood the dangers of the intrigue I was about to begin.  For a thousand years the delicate balance had been steadily maintained between the fey, vampire, lycan, and human societies.  The infrastructure was an elaborate set of laws, treaties, bargains, arrangements, and balances of power, which waxed and waned with precarious precision.  Thor’s assassination would break several laws, void treaties, and shift the balances of power, and my task was to perform the duty without crumbling the thousand years of peace.  Methodical methodology was key in my plan.  I would be patient to the state of stagnation—slowly implementing diversions while orchestrating lethal maneuvers from behind.  While they spend all their time watching their backs, death will come from in front.  The obstacle now was to move the pieces and arrange the field to my favor.

“Many would say the same about a simple spark; yet, a spark at the wrong place or wrong time will consume the vast forest,” said Wyrd, bringing my thoughts back to the fey at my door.

“An excellent analogy,” I offered stiffly.

“Your engagement and flirtations with Rose have a motive I presume?  Is she only a mere friend or is there something more?” questioned Anrhod with an airy voice.

“I’ve known her for many…” I began to lie.

“Hours,” Anrhod stated, completing my sentence for me.

“Exactly what I was about to say!” I said mockingly and with feigned excitement.

Anrhod did not seem to share my amusement and continued.  “You know she is being watched by the vampires and still you brought her to your home?  You know the vampires have rights to hunt in limited numbers and they have marked her.  Why are you saving her and interfering?”

“I need her.”

I never intended on saying that.  She was an astoundingly beautiful woman and her touch was sensitive and warm.  Eau de Rose was perfect for my plans—I needed her.  Maybe if I said the words enough the subtle tugging on the brittle and dusty threads of my heart would vanish.  I need her.  I need her.  I need her.

“You need her to help you with Thor,” Altarias snapped pointedly.

I continued with silent resignation and nodded my head.

“You’re using her as bait?” he pressed.

Again I nodded.

“Does she know?”

I shook my head.

“Will she know?”

I shrugged.  Eau de Rose may understand the complexity of everything, if it was carefully explained to her, but there was too much risk in the explanation.  There was the possibility she would accept the information and willingly move forward with the proposed plan I have arranged, and in that scenario I would be relying on her acting abilities.  Then there was the more realistic outcome: she would freak out, which would prove fatale to her.  The choice to fill her in would have to be determined as the plot unfolded, not at this fragile juncture.  The path of the least potential harm was the route I would have to take when that time finally came as Eau de Rose was far to valuable to be handled in a careless manner.  After all, I needed her.

“Alex,” started Altarias, “we fey have a deeply rooted compassion for all of humanity.  It’s one of the reasons we remain.  It’s not possible for us to allow a human to be placed into harm—that would contradict our beliefs and moral systems; however, we also do not meddle in their affairs.  And yes it is a tricky double standard.  For over a thousand years you and the fey—a race with which you share blood—have had our understandings and our heated differences.  You were warned about the pain of taking Mnemosyne and still you took her despite our counsel, which caused you anguish as she wasted away in old age.  Later you took Cynthia, again against our advice.  After her murder you heeded our words and dropped into the shadows and ceased your senseless hunting of those responsible for her death.  This Rose, which you plan to use in vengeance is perilous and wrong.  Remember what has happened and what could transpire if you chose to follow this path to its bitter end.  I urge you to reconsider this proposition that Job has offered you and to walk away from all of your hate and anger.  Let it go, Alex.”

Altarias knew my past more keenly than I expected.  Clearly he was concerned about Rose, but he also seemed to express a concern about me and my past.  I also noted his expressed worry of the rippling effects of Job’s offer.  Sheer will was required for me to maintain my stone-like countenance as Altarias continued to talk about my hate and anger; as if he could understand the feelings which had plagued me these last thousand years? 

The knife edge I walked was a delicate balance.  To further complicate the analogy:  the fey were the knife.  Without their firm and unwavering support, I would be cut in two and at the same instant I could not deviate to the left or the right or I would fall to the vampire or to the lycan.  Each step, every winding maneuver, each plan formed, and every plexic plot, required precision and consent.  I was not artistically playing between two adversaries or factions, but instead between four parties, which already were mingled in a dizzying threadwork.   Do I cut this thread?  Should these three threads be joined in a weave?  Should I weave them all?  If these several threads are braided what happens to the overall tapestry—will the architectural frame of my hand hold true—will it unravel?  I had to push the limitations to succeed and to survive.  Of course there were gambles to be made—hedges based on assumptions and presumptions—based on the known players, rules of the game, and the characteristics of the environment.  The fey lacked the appreciation for my high staked moves, despite the high potential gains. 

“I will not let it go this time,” I stated firmly.  “Cynthia was brutally murdered, she did not pass away of old age in her right time, and I will take revenge.  The offer from Job is an incentive with gains that aid me in my personal endeavors for a private sanctum.  And I’m acutely aware of all the dynamics of my ploy—consequences, effects, severity of failure, and potential reprisals.”

Wyrd drifted slowly forward, answering my statement in his high pitched voice.  “If it was not for your proven ability and methodical movements we would have openly forbid your course of action.”

“The reality,” continued Anrhod, “is that Thor is reckless and in a position to tear down everything.  His ambition is the total slavery of all humanity and the destruction of the fey and lycan societies.  His hunger for power knows no limits and he will devour this world.”

“Thor will be the exterminator of our kind!” Wyrd added with a screech.

Altarias held up an open hand to Wyrd, stopping the painfully scratchy voice from continuing.  “As such, we are here to inform you that the fey majority condones your present course.”

“However we must ensure Rose’s safety,” parroted Anrhod.

“If things get out of hand…”

“Or you get careless and lose site of your goal, failing in your historically proven methods…” Anrhod interjected into Altarias’s statement without a thought of the interruption.

“…the Ephor and the Fates will not idly watch.  They will put an end to your reckless abandon,” finished Altarias.

There was a momentary silence, which crept over us, only broken by the approaching storms intermittent rumblings.  I allowed my icy face to melt into warmer disposition, as their support began to become more apparent. 

“Anrhod will be keeping a close eye on Rose when she is not under your direct observation,” said Altarias.

I looked at the short sylph, straining to see him clearer amid the darkness.  His transparent form made it futile.  Coincidentally, Anrhod’s nearly invisible nature made him an excellent choice for the task.  My dislike of his following her was more personal than anything else; I hated someone, anyone, looking over my shoulder and running off to report on the activities which were witnessed.

“He will report to you on her activities and dealings,” Wyrd added.  “And then to us.”

I had to give up some privacy to gain another set of eyes and ears dedicated to watching over Eau de Rose.  How could I refuse?  “Of course,” I said with a nod.  “I don’t want her to become an inadvertent casualty.”

Altarias shifted closer to me.  “There is one more thing.”

“And what is that?”

With a quick glance back at the closed door behind me Altarias began to explain.  “Rose must know what is going on and she must choose to work with you as a willing participant in your plan.”

“A requirement or recommendation?” I asked.

Anrhod drifted closer to me.  “Consider it a very strong recommendation.”

Wyrd also drifted nearer, but said nothing.

“For now it is up to you,” said Altarias.  “And we will allow it to remain up to your discretion—as long as Rose is safe.”

Again I nodded.  “The recommendation has been heard as I will heed its words, taking it under strong advisement.”

Already my mind had reached the daunting conclusion:  I had to tell Eau de Rose the bare truth and hope she understood.  After all I had saved her life, maybe she would be more willing to comply?  Though I had to realize that the fact of my life saving could be swiftly overshadowed by what I am and by what I needed her to do.  I was going to be sending her into the vampire domain.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

The first time I told Mnemosyne the details of my emulative ability she walked out on the terrace and stared for hours out of Alexandria.  It took the long falling of the sun for her to grasp the implications of my words, and she still returned with a flood of questions.  For days I explained and explained the exacting details of my form changing nature and the reasons why I had to mimic other humans.  Only after I broke down and allowed her to witness a shifting and my natural form did she truly understand.

She accepted me for my teratogenic and esoteric nature of my existence and I knew she would prefer my Alex form, though it was contrary to my natural form.  I never discovered her affinity to Alex’s particular features, and I never asked, nor pressed the issue.  Seldom would I mimic into another shape and for forty-three years I remained almost exclusively in Alex’s form and in a rather sedimentary state—visiting Thebes, Karnack, Memphis, and Napata on a yearly rotation.

My life had come to a standstill for my Mnemosyne; and for her I willingly gave up my world of wandering and devoted my life only to her.  When old age carried her away, bearing her in her sleep to the eternal beyond, the only member of humanity who knew who I was had departed the world of the living.  She was quietly buried beneath the olive tree which grew at the center of our courtyard.  Forty days I wore the sackcloth and bore the ash mark of mourning as I mourned and wept for my eternally lost love.

The second person I revealed my true, non-human, being to was Cynthia.  She had told me she knew there was always something different about me and so her surprise was blunted by that expectation.  Four days later her body was found dead in a field outside Delphi.  A steak pounded through her heart had killed her and two fang holes scarred her ivory neck.  The dried blood lines marred her skin and there was no doubt she had succumbed to the hunger of a vampire. 

I mourned her and interred her body in the family’s graveyard outside Delphi.  With an iron will and a blood sealed vow, I swore to have my vengeance.  The cowardly creature who stole Cynthia from me would go to the grave by my hand.  The death would be slow and to secure his destruction I would post him out to witness the rising sun and watch him burn to ash!  I would watch his bones burn to cinders and watch the wind disburse his remains until there is nothing left at all.

The last human to know who and what I was happened in Antioch where I made a confession to a Father Simon.  In this confession I disclosed my natural form and my abilities.  I confessed to the theft of gold and silver and to the murders of many.  I confessed to the stealing of others identities and property.  I confessed to the dark nature that was buried within me.  Though he never saw me, Father Simon knew of my existence.  And it was Father Simon who passed my story on through the church, where it eventually ended up in the ear of the Cardinal who sent Job out to find me.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯

“Anrhod will keep a wary eye on here,” Altarias reiterated in an effort to satisfy my concern. 

Was I concerned about her?  “Good,” I answered without undo hesitation.  “And I will explain the details to her.  It’s a risk, but necessary for her safety.” 

Wyrd darted to the window and then shot back stopping at Altarias’s side with perfect precision.  “The woman creature stirs in her slumber.  The thunder awakens her.”

Immediately Altarias bowed to me.  “The fey will keep watch Alex.”  His voice melded into a clap of thunder as he turned and departed with the humming fairy following like a streak of blue. 

“I will linger out of site, staying nearer in your absence,” whispered Anrhod as he disappeared into the night’s deeper darkness. 

Each of the fey had departed, leaving me to my solitude.  I left the door of the snuggery firmly shut behind me as I took sever long strides away from the dwelling.  There, in the dark of the cloud cloaked sky, I stood waiting patiently for the expected rain to come.  Again I closed my eyes, holding my breath for the first drops.

I heard the faint whine of the old hinges as the door opened.  The sound was at the edge of my abilities to hear as the thunder drowns most other sounds away.  Still amid the undulating rolls of thunder I had perceived the quiet attempt by Eau de Rose to open the door unannounced. 

“Eau de Rose?” I asked without moving. 

“How did you know?” she whispered from behind me, her voice sneaking through the cracked space between the rough door and its sturdy frame.

She opened the door fully and stepped through. I heard her footsteps on the dull earth as she moved up next to me.  Quietly I remained standing firmly with my eyes still closed waiting on the inevitable rain.  The rain was coming.  The plump drops were in full flight, rocketing toward the earth below.  With a wet splatter, the first drop exploded in moist fury on my hand.  The second falling droplet struck Eau de Rose on her head and was absorbed by her brown hair, creating a pseudo-circular splotch of darkened discoloration.  Rain came full tilt in a veiled roar of swooshing, pouring, tinkelated and pitter-pattering!  The water drenched our exposed skin and instantly saturated our clothing, matting Eau de Rose’s hair together and plastering the wet strands to her cheeks.  Water poured down my face.  Large drops plummeted from my nose, ears, and chin, as water streamed down from my head.  I could feel the cool wetness seeping through the corners of my mouth, while the exhilarating sensation, which one only grasps by standing within the torrent, rippled through my body.  The sensation started as warmth, an electrified tingling in my toes and fingers, and quickly it surged through my arms and legs converging on my chest with a powerful shudder.  Violently the shake took me and overwhelmed my senses.

Unexpectedly, as I stood swaddled in the watery down pour, Eau de Rose’s delicate fingers slipped into my hand and entwined with my fingers, forming a knot of wet and perfectly meshed flesh. A great French author—my favorite French writer—would later make a profound statement which taught me the truth of that one instant.  Pauline Reage clearly said: “If you believe, as hundreds of millions of men do, that we live several lives, why not also believe that in each of our lives we are the meeting place of several souls?”  How perfectly that statement struck true in that moment.

What delirium has gripped me with its insatiable and hollow hunger, driving me with fervid avidity to be willfully consumed by, as Henry van Dyke would later say, “The heart’s immortal thirst to be completely known and all forgiven?”  I was enamored, enchained to her spellbinding heart of hearts, and it was volcanic. 

I opened my eyes.  At first I witnessed the shimmering grey of the heavy rain, strewn with golden glints as the weaving candles light reflected off the droplets.  Eau de Rose thrillingly held tight to my hand.  Subtly, I shifted my head to see her and my eyes found her enthralling body—drenched in rain.

Eau de Rose stood with her eyes barely closed, a smile on her face and her hand in my hand.  Soaked clothing clung to her curvaceous form, accentuating her breasts through the course cotton.  Her hips became more defined as if she stood naked and she was the personification of some unknown erotic deity.  The tender illustration of feminine sexuality.  Tentatively her eye lids crept apart, displaying her brown eyes, which glanced up at me with a wonderment I could not understand.  The round eyes, passable and delicate, peered at me with a pleading intensity and sincerity, forcing me to hold out gaze locked.  Her passion imbued stare transcended any utterable words known to me.

In a subtle move, she shifted, standing before me.  Her eyes never moved from mine.  Rain carried us and I watched the streaming water roll through her hair and around her cheeks, as we stood, face-to-face.  Only a hand separated our bodies.  Tightly she grasped my hand as she pressed her warm body against mine.  Her free left hand wrapped under my arm and held to my shoulders backside.  At that moment she broke our gaze, burying her head into my upper chest—the nook where the neck, chest, and shoulder all converge. 

Cautiously I held her, pressing her fragile body into my own.  I felt her heart rhythmically pulsing, thumping against my chest.  Her steady breathing was a pleasure for me to hear as she softly inhaled and exhaled, breathing her warm breath upon my neck.  The feeling of her breath forced me to pull her closer. 

"Monsieur," she whispered, "who are you?"

Suddenly my brain kicked its gears into overdrive, sending a blurring whirr of thoughts spinning through my mind in a chaotic and almost disorienting manner.  Her question, though purely simple, remained allusively complex.  What her exact intent was, which drove the question, would modify my answer; but, I lacked the intimate knowledge of her intent, leaving my answer up to me to formulate with my best guess.  The question could have been rhetorical, based on her sudden and profound emotional response to my presence.  Then again she may have been inquiring, seeking more in-depth knowledge on who I am, and who my family in Paris was.  Of course there was the possibility she had overheard the brief conversation that I had with Altarias, Wyrd, and Anrhod. 

"Monsieur," she pleaded.  "Have I done something..."

I pressed my fingers to her lips to silence her.  Desperation flooded her eyes.  I could not delay any longer, to hold off telling the truth would only further complicate the matters.  Now was the time.  "Follow me."  I said gently as I stepped away from her.

I broke our embrace and pulled my hand from hers.  Quickly I turned, hiding the unexpected sorrow created from our physical separation, and I strolled into my snuggery.  For an instant I thought she was going to leave, but after a short pause she followed, closing the door behind her. 

It was time—the very test of her new found passion and interest.  I had hoped to delay for at least a few more days.  I sighed, allowing my shoulders to drop, as a peel of thunder rolled out through the rain imbued night.  It was now the time and a further delay would only lead to more delays and things would become horribly complicated.  Now was the time.

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