Baroque

Baroque (Part 8)

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Beginning Notes:

Auguste’s relationship with Gilbert in this fic has been altered completely from the original. Gilbert’s behavior isn’t shaped by Auguste’s manipulation of the senses but rather of his neglect and severity. The reasons behind the man’s coldness are similar to the ones laid out in the manga, but I felt that in order to temper the very high levels of melodrama that shape the plot, it would be good to explore excessive restraint as opposed to excessive freedom.

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Auguste Beau stood by the window, one hand pushing the curtains aside while the other held a glass of wine, from which he took lazy sips as he watched the students move around below. The sky was overcast, and the wind was chilly, but several boys braved the autumn cold for different raucous activities, most of which involved physically abusing a soiled though sturdy ball with their feet, hands, and sometimes heads. It was just after school, and the boys were celebrating the end of a long week of exams with triumphant abandon. The following week threatened more tests, but the students didn’t care. They survived this period, and that was all that mattered for the time being. The mournful howling of the wind was easily suppressed by the excited cries and loud bursts of laughter that filled the outside air—details of which the older man barely took notice. He simply scanned the running and tumbling figures, almost vacantly amused at the sight.

“Where’s Gilbert right now?” he presently asked, breaking the silence.

“God knows.”

The man nodded, taking another sip of his wine. His eyes remained riveted to the scene before him.

“How long did it last this time?” he continued.

“A week—maybe a week and a half—but no more than that.”

“How’d he do?”

“He was—perfect.”

Auguste chuckled quietly, turning to glance over his shoulder. Several paces behind him, half-hidden in the growing shadows of his office, stood Rosemarine, leaning idly against his desk, his arms crossed loosely on his chest. He returned his guest’s look with one of bored amusement.

“Explain.”

“He did well on his tests—much better than before. He actually mingled with the other students though I could tell that he hated every minute of it—and I’ll have to admit that it was also quite amusing watching the way the others responded to his presence.”

“I see. How many times did he come to you?”

“Twice—demanded to know the exact time of your arrival or if you left him a message of any kind.” A smirk. “He had to strain pretty hard in holding himself back when I told him about the delay in your visit.”

“The last time he came—was that the last time he conducted himself—perfectly?” Another quiet chuckle punctuated this question.

“No. It was after that incident in the common-room, when the other students ganged up on him.”

“And the second time he visited you was after that?”

“Yes. Then things just spiraled downward much faster afterwards. If anything, the last outing we had brought him back to his old self. No—wait. I’ve been observing him since, and he seems to have gotten a little worse.”

Auguste sipped his wine, moving a little to lean idly against the window frame as he continued to watch the students outside. “Go on.”

“He’s—more impatient—more irritable—and yet much colder.” Rosemarine paused to smile dryly. “Fire and ice all at once.”

“How poetically volatile.”

“He is. Much more than what everyone else is used to around here.”

The older man allowed a moment’s silence to run its course before speaking again. “And his roommate?”

“They seemed to have reached an—agreement—of some kind,” Rosemarine replied a little slowly—almost hesitantly. He didn’t seem to know what to make of things, and another quick glance in his direction only served to confirm that thought. The student supervisor was staring off into the distance, his brows a little furrowed.

“Explain.”

“Serge Battouille started out—well—normally, I suppose. He was excited, eager to please, and very popular with the others. Now, though—since Arles, I think—he’s withdrawn somewhat. He still hangs out with his friends, but I’ve seen him around, and he’s—not quite himself, at least based on what I know from before. I understand that they tend to fight a lot.”

Auguste frowned slightly. “And Gilbert?”

Rosemarine turned his gaze back at his companion and regarded him with another dry smile. “A little smug,” he replied.

Auguste pondered this for another moment, turning his attention back outside and noting the rapidly gathering rain clouds. Within seconds, he was slightly startled by a sudden wet spatter on the window. It was followed by another and then another, and before long, the scene was muted by a curtain of rain. The boys outside immediately scattered with loud cries of surprise and laughter, and the grounds emptied.

“This is unacceptable,” he declared, shaking his head as he finally turned around and made his way back to Rosemarine’s desk, where a flask of wine awaited him. He quickly refilled his glass before walking toward a nearby mirror to look at himself critically, adjusting his tie and his collar with sharp, precise movements. “The boy couldn’t even hold out for two weeks.”

“You mean four. There was a two-week delay, after all.”

Auguste paused to regard him icily through the mirror but said nothing. The young man continued.

“No—he lasted for only a week or a week and a half at most, like I said.”

“I specifically told him to conduct himself well till I arrived, length of time be damned. He failed to follow my orders.”

Rosemarine nodded. “He did, yes.” He paused to walk toward the light switch right by the door and flick it on, offering some relief to the gloom cast by the rain. “Though I’ll have to say that his roommate might be responsible for his lapses.” He walked back to his desk, throwing a meaningful glance in Auguste’s direction. “Before Battouille arrived, after all, Gilbert’s been pretty obedient—at least where you’re concerned. God knows he doesn’t give a damn about the school and everyone in it.”

Auguste stared at the young man, feeling his anger rise though managing to squelch it before it could swell into something uncontrollable. “I thought you told me that this sleeping arrangement of theirs isn’t going to be a problem.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s not,” Rosemarine quickly replied, his words clipped as he sat down behind the desk, imperious and defiant in spite of his youth. He leaned back against his chair, not once taking his eyes off his companion. “If anything’s the problem, it’s Gilbert. It’s obvious that he can’t cope, and he’s letting his roommate influence him. Their tempers are so different—so ill-suited to each other. I’m sure that they don’t last a minute together in their room without getting under each other’s skin. But that’s life, isn’t it? You’ll never know where the chips fall.”

Auguste continued to watch him, feeling his anger simmer. Then, suddenly remembering his drink, he emptied his glass in one fierce swallow before setting it down on Rosemarine’s desk and walking toward his coat and briefcase, which sat in a lump on a nearby chair.

“Gilbert knows what to expect if he disobeyed me,” he presently said, rummaging through his briefcase and pulling out a pen and a notepad. Setting his coat and bag to the floor, he took his seat, crossed his legs, and proceeded to write a note with the pad propped expertly on his knee. Even when doing something as mundane as writing, Auguste was still the picture of perfect control. He sat with his back straight, his limbs either arranged or moving with a refinement that seemed to echo the manners of the distant past. His features, sharp and aristocratic, were placid by and large, whatever bubbling anger he might be feeling at the moment giving itself away through the slightest creasing of his eyebrows.

Rosemarine remained silent while he wrote, and by the time he was done, he’d filled up a page and a half of a sheet, which he neatly tore out of its pad and folded into three perfectly equal sections. He rose and walked to the desk, handing Rosemarine the note.

“Give this to him after their exams.”

The young man cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not seeing him today then?”

“No. Of course not. I shouldn’t be here. I’m not expected to arrive till next week.”

Rosemarine merely inclined his head in affirmation.

“Don’t coddle him, Arion, until he learns to bend,” Auguste quietly said as he stood before the student supervisor, his tall, haughty figure blanketed by the warm light of the antique lamps. The rain increased in violence outside till his voice was drowned in the loud and insistent hammering against the windows.

“I never do.” Rosemarine paused to flash him a complacent smile as he idly fanned himself with the note. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

Auguste never returned his smile though his hand absently raised itself to rest against his right side, pressing against it almost reassuringly before dropping back down as though nothing had just happened. He took his leave of the student supervisor, gathered his belongings, and was gone in a flash of wool and silk.

**********

The first quarter exams proved to be a godsend to Serge. Given the weight placed on the results, it was natural for every student to practically sever all ties with his friends as he buried himself under piles of notes and books, feverishly absorbing every scrap of information he could possibly cram into his head. For the lower classmen, this was when they were to be given a taste of university competition. Scouts from different universities, regardless of prestige, began their scrutiny of potential recruits during this time. Promising students would be noted down, their progress followed for the remainder of their high school years. Then from there, depending on the university entrance requirements, a percentage of them would be granted the honor of being courted by the administration, their parents buttered with honeyed words and endless promises of a successful, bright future in store for their sons with a degree from their institutions.

Serge gladly welcomed this period of rigorous studying for two reasons. He’d always dreamt of earning a university degree and perhaps pursuing graduate work afterwards. The second reason was that this offered him an opportunity to wriggle away from Gilbert’s hold without any trouble at all. He had good reason, after all, and so did Gilbert though by and large, Gilbert treated these exams no differently from any other test they’d have.

He expected, at first, his roommate to harangue him even while he was in the middle of studying. After Arles, the bright-haired boy was constantly at his side, feigning friendliness that bordered on cloying brotherliness, mocking Serge with his dry smiles and even drier conversation. The other boy simply couldn’t shake him off as Gilbert seemed determined to let the rest of the students know that he’d mastered Serge—had forced him into submission, had dominated him regardless of his virtues and whatever heroic status he might have enjoyed among his peers.

And it seemed to work. Everywhere students gaped at them, most of them aghast, some of them flushing in anger and disappointment. Serge was humiliated beyond words whenever they wandered around campus arm-in-arm, and it was all he could do to throw apologetic, despairing glances at Pascal and Carl’s direction whenever they crossed paths. His friends regarded him with looks of no small concern, but they kept their distance and didn’t venture to scold, question, or rail at him, and he was relieved that they, at least, understood—if perhaps only to a certain extent.

The kiss he shared with Gilbert lingered and had been a constant shadow in his heart, and in spite of his mind’s rational arguments to the contrary, a small voice kept nagging him about the rest of the school knowing what had happened between them. That the other students, particularly his good friends, would see through his calm front, would find him loathsome for kissing another boy (and the school tramp at that) and finding pleasure in it, and that once it was out, there was no way for it to be buried and forgotten.

And Gilbert hovering by him day after day only served to increase his discomfort and anxiety.

The exams, therefore, came at a most opportune time, and he happily shut himself away in their room or in the darkest corner of the library to be lost in his studies. Gilbert’s release of his hold on him was reluctant at best though after a time, it did seem as if he were preoccupied by something other than academics, and his public mockery of his roommate was completely forgotten. The boy went about his business lost in thought, vacantly going through the moves, his attention fixed on something that rendered him completely oblivious of the existence of the world around him.

But Serge didn’t care a jot. So long as he was able to escape the stranglehold in which his roommate seemed to have him, he was content. And at the first opportunity, he sought his friends’ company though he didn’t feel quite the same in spite of the relief they offered.

He’d just lost something to Gilbert. Of that he knew. And he wished that he had it back, whatever it was, for his own peace of mind.

Peace of mind—yes, he desperately yearned for that.

It was only too bad that he couldn’t get himself to broach the subject with his best friends regardless of the comfort they offered his shaken and bewildered mind. He simply didn’t know how.

One afternoon, he returned to his room in order to fetch his sweater. It had been raining incessantly the last few days, and the damp and the cold were beginning to creep into his system to take root; he felt himself being slowly turned to ice. His books and notes were all waiting for him in Carl’s office, where both Carl and Pascal had barricaded themselves for the rest of the afternoon, determined to get some studying done without the annoying ruckus of students whispering and consulting each other at nearby tables. The kettle had been put on the little burner, and a tray of treats awaited them.

Serge opened the door to his room and was greeted by the sight of Gilbert sitting on a chair by the window. His arm was draped on the sill, and his head was resting on it in an attitude of deep sadness, it seemed, though on closer inspection, Serge found that the other boy was asleep. Gilbert’s notes sat on his lap, his left hand, loosely holding his pen, lay lifelessly on the paper. Around the chair and on the floor lay a small pile of sheets crammed with his scribbling.

Serge regarded his roommate with some caution at first, his body tensing up as he stood at the door. He waited—irrationally, he later chided himself—for the other boy to look up, turn to him, and cut him through with well-aimed insults, but Gilbert merely slept on. It seemed odd, the dark-haired boy noted as he heaved a sigh of relief and stepped inside, how Gilbert could look, in a moment of rest, completely innocuous and helpless. Serge tiptoed toward his bed and retrieved his sweater, which he’d carefully folded and left on his pillow, stealing another glance in his roommate’s direction.

He frowned, a little startled, as his gaze lingered.

Was Gilbert always this thin? He took in the sight of narrow shoulders and underdeveloped arms and legs. The hand thaked ked out from the loose shirt sleeve seemed almost child-like in its delicacy, wrist and knuckle bones pushing against white skin with an almost repulsive prominence. He looked almost stunted in his growth—underfed and neglected and left to fend for himself in spite of his inexperience. Serge’s eyes wandered up to the drooping head and the bright waves that protected it.

Neglect. There was something lonely and abandoned in Gilbert’s posture and figure—an alienation that he knew existed but never really understood in its true level. Gilbert was feared and desired all around, ostracized for the way he unsettled his peers with his behavior and perhaps, as Pascal had once noted, for forcing them to confront certain things that they were too afraid to face. But he felt that there was something more to this alienation of his—something deeply personal and perhaps too dangerous for anyone to dare venture an exploration. He couldn’t understand how this pale, bright-haired waif could be so—polluted. And there he sat by the window, succumbing to exhaustion from his own efforts at conforming to the academy’s standards—alone and pressed against the window as though hoping to be touched by the rain since no one else was there to offer him the contact that he seemed to crave.

Serge presently shook his head and forced his attention back to the present. “It’s not my concern,” he muttered. “I’ve got better things to do.”

Without another glance at the sleeping boy, he turned on his heels and tiptoed out, carefully shutting the door behind him.

**********

Pascal was making their study session an unspeakable ordeal. He couldn’t, for the life of hstopstop from breaking out into hysterical snickering fits, which puzzled Serge and infuriated Carl. Not that he actually felt any remorse. Given the recent disasters involving his friends, he was only too keen on lifting everyone’s spirits, even if it meant tempting them to knock him down and strangle him where he lay.

He pressed his lips more tly tly to suppress another wave of laughter, but that only succeeded in redirecting the violent outburst through his nose, which immediately let out a sound akin to a foghorn.

“Oh, Jesus, Biquet, will you stop it already?” Carl bellowed from his desk.

“I’m fucking trying, Carl!”

“No, you’re not! Either shut up or get the hell out of this room and let us study in peace!”

Pascal glanced up from his still-ignored notes, feeling his face burn as he fought his system, but a look at Carl’s exasperated scowl and Serge’s bewildered gawking only tipped him over the edge, and he surrendered himself to several seconds of loud, painful, braying laughter. His eyes pinched themselves shut, squeezing out the gathering tears, as his fists pounded his notes helplessly.

“What’s wrong with him?” he heard Serge ask. Though Pascal had been letting out the occasional snicker for the last twenty minutes and interrupting the much-needed silence in the room, Serge had been polite enough to hold his tongue and to merely venture a blank stare at his friend.

“He’s being a moron, of course,” Carl retorted. “I’m warning you, Pascal!”

There was a quick exchange that followed between the two boys, but Pascal failed to catch anything, his body heaving from the agony of depleted breath as he fought to fill his deprived lungs. God, he hated laughing this hard, but he couldn’t help himself this time, and for what seemed like an eternity, he lay on his side, curled up and tightly wrapping his arms around his straining stomach as he fought to get over his fit.

He calmed down eventually. Not that it offered Carl any comfort, of course, having wasted some of their precious study time as it was. But he did finally compose himself, his body weakly hiccoughing the residuals of his manic attack as he slowly righted himself and groped around for his glasses.

“I’m calm, I’m calm,” he stammered. Carl didn’t look convinced.

“What’s so funny?” Serge prodded after a moment of silence as Pascal wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Did something happen today?”

“You bet it did,” came another hiccoughed response.

“What?”

Pascal glanced at Carl, who immediately flushed and averted his gaze and fixed it determinedly on his notes.

“Well—Mrs. Volanges just gave poor Carl here a right earful after lunch today.”

“Mrs. Volanges…”

“Our long-suffering housekeeper. One of several long-suffering housekeepers, I mean.”

Serge nodded, watching his friends expectantly.

“Apparently we’ve all been—a little too stressed out lately,” Pascal continued with a small cough (which was more of a disguised chuckle). “Our sheets have been requiring more cleaning—know what I mean?”

A blank stare from Serge.

“People have been wetting their beds more often lately, and I’m not talking about relief of the urinary persuasion.” Pascal cocked an eyebrow meaningfully at his friend, who stared for another second before widening his eyes and flushing in his turn.

Pascal snorted. “God, there’s nothing sadder than having a casual talk about natural bodily functions with a couple of virgins. I swear, the two of you put nuns to shame.”

“Shut up,” Carl muttered, resolutely scowling at his notes. “You wouldn’t even find it half as funny had you been the one targeted by a pissed off housekeeper waving a wet sheet in your face. It’s like being caught with your hand on your prick by your grandmother.”

“Lovely thought,” Serge noted, his voice withering. “That’s enough to keep me celibate for the rest of my life.”

Pascal, who was lying on his stomach on the floor as Serge was, shook his head as he reconfigured his position and sat up, carelessly raking a hand through his hair. “Why the hell are they making such a big deal about that, anyway? One would think that after working with teenage boys for this long that they’d finally get it. I mean, Christ. Adolescence—hormones—wanking off. Hello? What did they expect? That we’d plug ourselves with cork till we’re twenty-one or something? Sure, I can see that now—we’d all have labels on our balls that go ‘Caution: volcanic dick. Do not open till coming of age.’”

Serge was now snickering madly and casting apologetic glances in Carl’s direction.

“Give it a rest, Biquet,” Carl sighed. “It was embarrassing as hell, and I want to forget about it.”

Pascal shrugged. “Fine, fine.” Then he grinned. “Will that be something to share with your mother over Christmas dinner, Carl?”

His friend merely leveled him with a dark, exasperated glare before ignoring him and turning his attention to Serge instead. “Well—since my concentration’s totally shot, no thanks to some people, I guess I should take a break and ask you about your Christmas plans.”

“My plans?” Serge echoed as he watched his friend stand up, stretch his arms, and walk over to the kettle to refill his cup. “What about them?”

“What’re you doing this holiday break?”

“Oh.” Serge looked a little awkward as he sat up on the floor. “I’m staying here.”

Pascal blinked. “What do you mean? In school? Alone? For the duration of the holiday break?”

“Yeah,” Serge laughed weakly. “I really don’t want to go home. Not to my aunt, anyway. We’ll end up fighting like we usually do, and I know that she doesn’t want me around to ruin her Christmas.”

Pascal exchanged looks of concern with Carl then turned his attention back to Serge. “That’s fucked up. You shouldn’t be left here alone during the break. Sure, we’ve got a caretaker and a couple of housekeepers to look after the place, but, God! It’s like being buried alive, Battouille!”

Serge shrugged and looked down at his notes. “Well—that’s better than being yelled at for stuff you didn’t do,” he replied in a small voice.

“Well—why don’t you come home with me?”

Serge looked up, surprised. “Huh?”

“Stay with my family for Christmas,” Pascal replied, speaking his words with growing conviction as ideas began to dance in his head, urging him further with his unexpected scheme. “arenarents will love you—hell, they’ll probably kick me out and adopt you, if anything. At least you’re not a loudmouth smartass who’ll run their nerves ragged.”

“Boy, isn’t that the truth?” Carl muttered as he walked back to his desk.

“I don’t know. I’d really hate to be a burden or anything…”

“Bullshit. I hate the thought of you staying here alone. Either you’re coming with me, or you’re staying with Mise and his rosary-wielding family.”

Carl blinked. “Huh?”

Pascal ignored his friend and pushed on eagerly. “You have a choice here, Serge. It’s Christmas with either Carl or me. Saint or atheist. Heaven or hell. Catholic austerity or pagan decadence. What do you say?”

Serge looked dumbfounded, clearly unable to believe what he was hearing. He stared at both his friends in stunned silence for a moment, his mouth moving almost helplessly, and Pascal began to wonder if he’d given the boy too great of a shock with his proposal and cursed himself for not having his first aid kit nearby in the event of a fainting fit.

“I—don’t know what to—to say…”

“Carl’s got his mom and possibly a couple of relatives coming over. I’ve got my parents, too many sisters, and a little brother you’re more than welcome to kick around. If you stay with Carl, you’ll regret being an only child. If you stay with me, you’ll be kissing some higher power’s boots for letting you go solo.”

“Pascal, you really are a piece of work,” Carl said, shaking his head incredulously. Then he turned to Serge with a smile. “Actually, as much as I’d hate to see you defiled by the Biquet curse, I’d love for you to spend the holiday with Pascal’s family instead of this place. My mom and I will be spending Christmas in Italy, so you really have only one option here.”

“Wow.”

Pascal snorted as he stood up to refill his tea. “Wow, nothing. They’re planning to spend the holiday in the Vatican, collecting relics.”

“Fuck off, Pascal.”

“God, you’re sexy when you say that. Tell me off again, Carl. Please.”

Carl merely rolled his eyes. “Serge, I don’t want you to stay here alone. No one’s ever left in this place—during Christmas, being ited ted here’s even worse.” He paused and glowered at Pascal, who regarded him with a complacent smirk. “For what it’s worth, you’ll enjoy staying with the Biquets. It’s better than nothing, anyway.”

“Touché, Mise,” Pascal purred as he stirred his tea and walked back to his books. “I got you to say the ‘f’ word, and I’m hoping to corrupt you into pure, unapologetic bitchiness by Valentine’s Day.”

“Bite me.”

“God, I love my job.”

Serge finally nodded, a smile of relief and gratitude brightening his face. “Okay. I’ll go with Pascal so long as his family doesn’t mind. Thanks, guys.”

Pascal waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. They’ll be thrilled, I promise.”

“You’ll be a godsend,” Carl noted dryly. Pascal laughed, stared hard at his friend, and ran his tongue over his lip suggestively before murmuring a breathy “Mrowr.”

**********

The final days of the quarter exams were well on their way, and Gilbert found himself wandering mindlessly through the hallways, vacant in his observation of the goings on around him. He’d done his studies, went through the ordeal of test after test after test as was required, and didn’t give a toss as to his performance. What mattered the most at that moment was the gnawing anxiety that had been eating him alive for some time now, one that grew in severity before turning into cold numbness when he was told that his guardian’s visit was delayed by another two weeks. The excuse Rosemarine offered the last time was of the painfully generic business kind without the benefit of any further explanation.

Those days when parents and family visited as well as those days when mail was distributed among the students had been nothing short of hell to the boy, and he tried his best to be as far away from the rest of the students when those moments arrived.

He didn’t want to be around to watch their faces light up at the sight of their parents and siblings—or to be around to listen to theicitecited chatter as they shared news from home with each other. Those days only served to hammer home his isolation, and he learned to despise them with every ounce of his being as he sat in the shadows of the trees with nothing else to comfort him but a thick blanket that he often used for warmth outside his room. In those shadows he waited for the time, huddled miserably against the autumn forces, soothing himself with quiet songs as he stared at the desolate landscape of bald trees and swirling leaves.

At the moment, he was feeling the deprivation of Auguste’s company much more keenly. Ever since Serge arrived, after all, his life had been turned upside-down, with no one to whom he could turn for advice or comfort. He trusted no one—and, in truth, was never given a reason to foster any such feeling toward his peers. Auguste alone was his harbor, which made the man’s absence a growing, festering wound that was slowly consuming him.

He’d just been to Rosemarine’s office, hoping to learn something more about his guardian’s plans, but the student supervisor was too busy to see him, and he was promptly shown the door.

“If he wants me to tell you something, I’ll call for you,” Rosemarine had told him before he was waved away. “Now get out. I’ve got work to do.”

And so he was left to wander around the hallways like a pale, hollow-eyed specter, seeing nothing and feeling nothing but the iciness that was sdingding his insides and deadening his senses. He walked out of the building and mindlessly wove his way through the afternoon throng of relieved students. His ears vaguely picked up the excited chatter around him about snow. His eyes barely saw the first white flakes floating down. His skin hardly felt the tiny, cold spots where these flakes settled.

He merely walked on, automaton-like, toward the southern end of the schoolgrounds, eventually arriving there and walking straight into Max’s thick, eager arms. He was promptly encased in a warm embrace, his face pressed, unseeing, against the larger boy’s shoulder before being pushed away and held firmly between sweaty palms, a shower of kisses wetly trailing across his cheeks, jaws, and throat. Those same sweaty palms soon moved down to fumble for his uniform buttons.

“What’s it today?” Max murmured against his throat.

“I want you to hurt me,” Gilbert replied as he stared blankly at the sky. It’s better than nothing, his mind added.

**********

Exams were finally over. Students, half-dead from exhaustion, had all but crawled dazedly back to their rooms to recuperate before packing for the holiday break. By God, they all exclaimed, they needed this break!

Back in the now silent main building, Serge stared at the conservatory door nervously before glancing at Carl, who stood nearby and who offered him a wide, reassuring smile. “Go on,” the taller boy urged gently. “You can do it.”

“I don’t know…”

“Yes, you do. Now quit it. Get in there and blow them away. Come on.”

The boy hesitated some more. Then, taking a deep, shaky breath, he finally nodded. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Good.”

“Thanks for everything, Carl. Really. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

Carl merely waved him off with a careless laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Just go before I’m forced to throw you inside.”

Serge laughed lightly, feeling his anxiety ease up a little with the outburst. He took another deep breath, flashed his friend a grateful smile, and presently walked through the door. He found himself inside a large, formally furnished room—one that reminded him of long-gone centuries steeped in artistic opulence. Intricately patterned rugs and cushions shared space with antique portraits in thick, gilt frames and large bookcases that exploded with old volumes. In the center of the room stood a baby grand—black wood gleaming, slightly discolored keys practically begging to be roughly handled.

The boy couldn’t help but stare at the ponderous instrument in some awe. How long had it been, after all, since his last lesson? Before him stood his dreams, his very heart. He even thought he heard his father’s voice whispering in his mind, coaxing him and urging him to break out of his dormancy and to attack the keys with the passion and the fury of Beethoven, the flamboyance of Liszt, the refinement of Chopin.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Battouille.”

The boy gave a start and quickly turned in the direction of the voice and found two men sitting quietly against the wall, flanking the window that was being gently pelted by the snow. The man on the left was in his late thirties—bespectacled and dark-haired and looking too sharp and severe for his age as he regarded the boy keenly. The other man was in his sixties, it seemed, heavier in build, his silver hair combed smoothly back, his mustache and beard mirroring the thin, almost luminescent mane and lending the weathered and austere features a more regal air. Unlike his companion, he sat almost slumped in his armchair, heavily bundled against the cold. Like his companion, he was studying the boy with keen interest.

“I’m Dr. Louis Renet,” the dark-haired man continued. “This is Professor Luche. Your father studied under him.” He smiled faintly when Serge uttered a little exclamation of surprise. “Aslan and I both studied under him when we were students here. He was my junior by three years and—my rival as well.” The final point was made without any hint of resentment or jealousy or bitterness. In fact, the boy thought that he sensed a hint of melancholy if not wistfulness in that reference to his father, and he was touched.

“How do you do?” he offered a little stiffly, fidgeting under their gaze and forcing a smile.

“You were recommended to us, which is why you’re here—for your audition.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Renet nodded, and Luche remained nt. nt. “Sit yourself down,” he said, nodding in the direction of the piano. “And play something.”

“Anything, sir?”

Renet merely inclined his head and pointed at the instrument, and Serge promptly took his place on the bench. He stared blankly at the keys for a few seconds, a bout of momentary panic freezing him.

“Go on, son.”

“I…”

Go on, his father’s voice quietly prodded. Play for me. And Serge thought he felt his father’s hands holding his as he rested them on ivory, his father’s fingers positioning his the way he used to when the boy was a mere child of five, his own fingers much too small for the keys.

It was half an hour later when the boy was finally released, triumphant and speechless with joy, his mind filled with nothing but the echoes of Renet’s and Luche’s words—praise heaped upon praise followed by an offer of piano lessons. He was sighted by other students flying through the trees and through the thickening curtain of snow as he made his way back to his dormitory to tell his friends the good news. Everyone remarked about the childlike joy that radiated from him; some were amazed, some were intrigued, some were jealous. But for that brief moment in time, all attention was fixed on Aslan Battouille’s son, the prodigy who’d just left Luche weeping in the conservatory as his mind resurrected phantoms of a beloved former pupil—one whose promise had been too cruelly cut short but was now offering hope in its perpetuation.

All eyes were on Serge; none had noticed the thin, solitary figure that sat against a tree at the far end of the grounds, rocking itself for comfort, rending the snowy silence with its muffled sobbing, its golden head bent over knees tightly drawn to its chest. Beside this figure lay the remains of what used to be a note just now delivered from Rosemarine’s office—torn to shreds, the words it contained condemnits rts recipient to a Christmas alone in the hallowed chambers of Laconblade Academy, the excuse being the painfully generic business kind without the benefit of any further explanation.

(tbc)