Love's First Light

by Jamie Carie

  “Don’t give up,” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Run!” He screamed it through a tight and closed throat. “Run!”

  Down a narrow flight of stairs, the man just behind them, they reached the door. Christophé twisted the knob with curled, numb fingers. He pulled Émilie through just as Robespierre reached out for her again. He slammed the door hard, catching the thin man again, hearing another grunt and then a curse. He didn’t have time to bar the door, nor anything to bar it with, so he pulled hard on his sister’s hand and dragged her across the dark street.

  The man was soon behind them, but they had gained a few seconds. Weaving into a narrow side street, Christophé guided them by instinct alone. He and his brothers had often explored the city around their palatial chateau. The streets were tight-packed with houses, businesses, and shops. He looked for the red door. The door of his friend.

  Robespierre was turning into the side street where Christophé knew they would quickly be discovered. There was no time to find his friend, nor the red door. Émilie was wheezing with the effort to keep up. With a silent plea toward heaven he veered them into some thick bushes, pulled his sister down, and tried to regain his strength. “When he comes by, hold your breath,” he whispered into Émilie’s ear.

  She nodded, her delicate chin catching against his hand.

  Christophé watched as the man slowed, looked uncertainly into the deep shadows. He was walking now, winded too, peering from side to side in the dark street. He stopped, turned and turned and turned.

  Right in front of them.

  Christophé’s lungs felt ready to burst. He knew Émilie would not be able to hold her breath much longer. A few more seconds. That was all they had in this life-and-death moment. He looked up and began to pray. His lips moved silently over the words . . .

  “Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.”

  The man turned again, toward them. Took a step and then another, peering into the bushes. Christophé’s heart thudded like the pounding of a drum. Émilie quivered from head to toe, he could almost hear her teeth rattle, but she did not breathe. Her chest was tight against his clasped hands. But she did not breathe!

  The man was staring right at them!

  Oh, please . . . God in heaven . . . save us!

  A loud curse rang from the man as he pulled back and walked a little further down the street, his hand on his head as he searched every shadow on either side.

  The sudden noise of horses turning into the street covered the sound of Émilie and Christophé letting out their breath and then gulping in air. Christophé felt dizzy, thinking he might pass out. But he couldn’t.

  He had to save them. He had to save her. It was his duty now. As the last remaining male heir to the house of St. Laurent.

  It was his duty to save his family.

  Chapter Two

  1794—Carcassonne, France

  The mist rose above the circle of the earth. The air was crisp, deadly quiet as it always was in the old graveyard at dawn. Christophé St. Laurent grasped his dark cloak against his chest with one fist, the other holding a knurled walking stick. He didn’t need it to walk—only to swirl the mist when the mood suited him.

  His gaze tripped over the headstones as he passed. Robert Barret, born 1732, died 1765. A small stone. A short life, his. Madame Genevieve Montaigne rested on the laurels of goodwife to ten children, and yet not a plant or flower graced that simple edifice. And then there was Captain Fontaine, with a headstone so tall, the etching so old and proud, the moss so thick—a hero in some long-ago history lesson. Christophé’s lips grew taut as he contemplated the ghostly eulogies.

  A small yellow glow started on the horizon. He stopped his morning walk, stilling the clip of his heels to turn eastward and watch the second-by-second display of a planet’s rotation. It never failed to fill him with wonder and he found himself taking a deep breath, feeling the mist move into his mouth and throat and chest.

  It was turning pink.

  Joy rose from his chest to his throat. “Thy kingdom come,” he whispered into the fading mist. “Thy will be done.”

  He turned, his pace brisk now, knowing the way like a child knows the path home. Energy flowed from the earth, through Newton’s gravity, to rise up from his legs and cause a sweat to break between the sharp planes of his shoulders. His legs pumped faster as a sense of power rushed through him.

  He could run.

  The thought struck him as new. He hadn’t allowed himself that freedom in so long. An image flashed across his memory—he and his brothers and sister running through an ornate garden . . . a palatial dream. He saw their bright faces in stark relief. The light was too bright. Something in him wanted to shield it away, but he couldn’t. Every blink brought a remembered face. His brother, Louis, with hair so dark and eyes that flashed back a challenge at him. Jean Paul, a year older than Christophé, quiet and solemn, quick and encouraging, quick as moonlight, but willing to forfeit the race to see any one of them smile.

  Then he saw Émilie. She reached her hand out toward his, her shorter legs unable to keep up. She was as bright as the braids that had tumbled loose, bouncing upon her shoulders.

  Christophé blinked hard several times but could not rid himself of the image of her face, so alight with laughter and . . . life.

  “Thy will be done,” he choked through sudden tears.

  He stopped, realizing he’d been running. He bent over his legs, felt his long hair fall forward like a dark curtain, heard his grievous cry—waves of sound that made no difference. He lifted his head and watched as tears dropped in liquid pools, scattering the dust on the stone path into tiny puffs.

  It was like that sometimes. A sudden memory swept away all but this core of grief. No matter how he fought, it knew his weakness. It sought him out in the sane moments when his mind wasn’t obsessed with the physics of light and color and the complexities of a mathematic scheme that shouldn’t work but, somehow, always did. When his mind was a silent crypt it crept in, an insidious rotting, a ruin, and then simply . . . overwhelmed him.

  With nothing short of grace, he pulled himself up and together, took a bracing breath, and continued on this morning-ritual walk of blurted-out prayers and nonsensical thought. It was the only thing that kept the thread holding his mind and soul from snapping.

  He turned another way. It was frightening, this varying from routine, but this morning he found himself running. This morning, he found he could do anything.

  He moved smoothly, his legs and feet pushing against the stone path, up a slow rise, his breathing soft and even. He ran with the cool wind blowing back his hair, the remains of the dead flashing by like glowing stones. He ran and felt he could keep running forever.

  He saw her and stopped. She was crouched low, her head down, her shoulders curled within her, stiff and unmoving. He couldn’t help but stare at her long, unbound hair. It was dark but alive with color, the pink glow of a morning’s glory reflecting in each strand.

  Gold and amber and bronze and the color of glowing coals. Bright, white light. He saw the prism in his laboratory. Blinked and saw the split of white into the colors of the rainbow. Saw them reflected on his old castle’s walls. Brilliant but cold. So brilliant.

  So cold.

  He wanted to tell her of it. His chest heaved with the effort not to blurt it out.

  She stood suddenly and whirled around—long, dark cape and glorious hair, flowers still clutched in her hand. Christophé’s gaze dropped from her frightened face to her rounded stomach and then the gravestone that glared chalk-white in the mist behind her.

  “Color,” he thought as he stood transfixed. No, not a thought.

  Heaven help him, he had said it aloud.

&nbs
p; SCARLETT STARED AT the tall man on the path before her, hoping he wasn’t everything he looked to be. Murderer. Maligner of women everywhere. Dark and dangerous stranger. Everything her mother had warned her might happen on these early morning visits to a husband’s grave suddenly rose up as real. She clutched her cloak to her throat, wishing, for once, she had listened to reason and put on something besides her nightgown before leaving the house.

  “Stay back,” she heard herself whisper and then wished she’d stayed silent. She backed away, slowly, one step after another. The lilies in her hand dropped to the sharp green earth. She turned to run and then heard his deep voice.

  “Did you love him?”

  She turned her head back toward him and stared. No one had asked her that question. What right did he have to ask it? What right to make her feel afresh the guilt in that answer? She turned fully toward him, felt the flare of her anger and her cape.

  “Comment est-il mort?” His eyes were dark and hooded. “How did he die?” He murmured again, this time in English.

  She tilted her head into one shoulder and closed her eyes. “For the Révolution. In Paris.”

  When she opened her eyes . . . she saw nothing but the mist.

  Chapter Three

  1789—Paris, France

  Robespierre walked to the end of the street and then turned. After many more minutes of watching and waiting, Christophé led them out of the bushes. What should they do next? To travel and live in Carcassonne for any length of time would require money. If it were only him, he would run, but he had a sister to think of. He must keep her warm and fed and comfortable. No telling for how long. Months . . . maybe years. Should they become peasants and work? Should they take on new identities?

  The questions—and the responsibility they carried—weighed heavy on his heart as he grasped Émilie’s hand and pulled her into the shadows of a tall building.

  He needed advice. His friend, Jasper Montpelier, lived on this street. Christophé had literally run into the man as a boy. He and Jean Paul had been attempting to fly a kite in this street as the trees were low and they were tired of the harsh eyes of the aristocrats when they’d taken their toy to the formal gardens at Tuileries Palace. That day Jean Paul held the string, letting it out just right, while Christophé ran the length of the street with the homemade diamond-shaped kite. Just as he thrust it into the air, he’d run hard into a man, knocking him down. The man had sprung up on surprisingly spry legs and laughed, righting Christophé with a swift movement. He’d smiled and motioned toward the soaring kite.

  “She’s a beauty!” He yelled into the wind. They looked up at the fluttering tail that held ripped strips of expensive taffeta and silk for a tail. Christophé was embarrassed by the femininity of it, but it was all to be had in his mother’s sewing basket.

  The man must have seen his flushed cheeks, for he’d clapped Christophé on the shoulder and let loose a hearty laugh. “Never fear invention, my boy. It is what makes the coming world.”

  The words struck a chord within him that was alive and stubborn and sure. He smiled, and the three of them flew the kite all afternoon. Tired and thirsty, Jasper invited them to his home for refreshment. He explained to the boys as they walked the long, narrow street that he lived above his apothecary shop.

  It was the only shop with a red door.

  The shop was small and neat, with a long counter and row upon row of bottles and jars sitting on shelves behind the counter.

  “What are in the bottles?”

  Jasper answered Christophé with a wink. “My proprietary concoctions.” He pulled one down, opened the bottle, and let them sniff it. Jean Paul immediately sneezed and both boys said, “Ohhh, that’s horrible.”

  Jasper chuckled. “Come. I will show you my laboratory.”

  He led them toward the back of the shop and then into another smaller room. It was rather dark and quite messy, with a shambles of papers, glass bottles, jars of all shapes and sizes with odd things growing in them, and several pestle and mortar sets. It was as though they’d walked into another world. A secret world where the mysteries of the universe could be found.

  That proved the first of many visits, and it wasn’t long before a love for science took such hold of Christophé that his family despaired what he might do next. He was forever taking apart anything mechanical to find its inner workings, or using rare family heirlooms to put together strange apparatus. He remained locked in his room, scribbling his ideas onto parchment after parchment until there were so many of them they were stacked against the walls of his room.

  That day was the beginning of his life.

  Jasper was his best friend. There was no one else he would trust so completely to help them. But Christophé needed money, and the only place to find that was back at the chateau. He turned toward Émilie and whispered, “I’m going to take you to a friend’s house.”

  When she immediately cried out and grasped hold of his arm, he took her shoulders and spoke evenly. “It will be fine. I have to go back and get some things. Things that will help us survive.” He took her rounded cheeks into his hands and stared into her solemn eyes. “I won’t be long. Jasper will protect you.” He pointed down the dark street, “The shop with the red door. See? Come.”

  “Don’t leave me! I can’t bear it.” She was crying again and wouldn’t move.

  Before he had time to answer, he heard a sound behind him. Émilie screamed as he turned, standing in front of her to protect her. The man was big, but he wasn’t Robespierre. Christophé saw the glint of a knife as the man pulled it out and lunged toward him.

  “Run!” He pointed to the red door. “Jasper!” He just got the word out as the swing of the knife whooshed through the air. Leaning sideways, he dodged its mark. Christophé balled up his fist and took a swing. His fist connected with the man’s chin, and stark surprise painted the man’s features as his head jerked backward. Christophé took full advantage, raising both arms up and then slamming them down on the arm that was holding the knife. Lessons from fighting with his brothers rushed back over him. He’d always been taller and leaner than his brothers, but, more often than not, he’d been able to hold his own, surprising them with his wiry strength and quickness.

  The man recovered quickly, looking for his knife. Christophé kicked the weapon away and swung again. This time the man caught his forearm in a vise-like grip and charged like a bull into Christophé’s body, causing them both to fall to the ground. The man’s meaty strength was born of weight and size; Christophé knew he wouldn’t last much longer. With a quick look behind he saw that Émilie had indeed run away. He just needed to give her enough time to reach Jasper’s door.

  “Wait!” Christophé yelled into the man’s face, feeling the first real blow to his head, like a swinging lead ball had connected with his skull. “I know your father.”

  It was an old trick of distraction, but it usually worked. The first time.

  The man paused, giving Christophé just enough time to roll and stand. He was off and running before the man could pick himself up.

  Christophé ran as fast as he could. Away from Émilie.

  Minutes later, he hid in the shadows in his family’s garden. It wasn’t safe, but he had to get back into the chateau before seeking out Jasper. He’d heard his assailant follow him for a while and then, when Christophé increased his speed, he’d felt more than saw the man slow and stop. Hopefully, the minion had given up the chase and returned to wherever Robespierre told them to go when this night’s business was over.

  Hopefully, that place wasn’t inside the chateau.

  He stood for a long time watching the back door for movement. It was still standing open, a dark hole in the stone wall. When nothing moved, no sound was heard, he took a deep breath and crept toward the door. It was now or never. Go in. Find anything of value and get out for good. Émilie would be worrying about him. He rushed inside, then stopped, ears tuned to the slightest sound. When he was sure there was none, he climb
ed the stairs to his parents’ bedchamber.

  Everything was dark now. He made his way to a candle and found some flint to light it. With the tiny, flickering light he combed the room, searching for his mother’s jewels and feeling a thief. He tore into her wardrobe and found it already ransacked.

  Heavy silks, brocades, and satins lay in multicolored piles around his feet. He inspected each one—there might be gold buttons or diamonds and emeralds and sapphires imbedded into skirts and collars and adorning hats and shoes. There was nothing left. His mother’s things were ripped apart, looking like a giant pile of colorful rags. Anger and pain like nothing he’d ever known rose to his throat, threatening to choke him. He knew he should hurry, but he couldn’t move, could only kneel there among the tattered remains of her things, inhaling her scent and feeling like his heart was failing.

  Finally, he wiped the tears from his face and forced himself up. If it were only him, he would lie there in their room all night, not caring if he was caught. But it wasn’t. He had to hurry back to Émilie.

  Stumbling over the wreckage of the room, he made his way to his father’s desk and rummaged through the drawers—nothing, all the papers and important documents were gone. His father’s armoire—nothing. They’d even taken his clothing.

  He staggered from the room, trying to make his legs hurry but barely able to increase his pace. He searched his brother Louis’s bedchamber as silent tears ran down his cheeks. There was little left but the bed and an empty desk and armoire.

  With little energy left, he made his way down the hall to Jean Paul’s bedchamber. It looked like a tomb in the flickering light of his now-sputtering candle. He would have to find another candle. He couldn’t leave until he had something of gain. Walking around the room he gave it a brief inspection and then started to go. Wait. Hadn’t Jean Paul always hidden things under his bed?

  Walking over, he knelt down and held the candle under the high bed. There was something, a dark form. He reached in and pulled it out. “Oh, God.”