by Gemma Holden
“How long will you be gone?” she asked. He could see she was struggling to maintain her composure.
“I don’t know.”
She pulled away from him. “I’ve lost you both.” Marie’s voice was filled with despair. She left the room still calm and collected, her outward appearance betraying nothing of what she was feeling inside. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t stay here.
Not if there was a chance that Adrianna might still be alive.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty One
Paris, France, 1806
Adrianna didn’t struggle anymore when they lifted her out of the water. It took too much effort to fight back and she was weak. Kept in a cramped wooden tub that was too small to move about in, her muscles had wasted away. She had always been thin from too little food, but now under what remained of her dress, her hip bones jutted out and she could count each one of her ribs. Bruises covered her chest and back, mottling the skin above her waist blue and green and making her look like the sea creature they thought she was.
The two men - they were soldiers once, but they had long since abandoned their uniforms - placed her on the wooden bench. She assumed they were going to test her again, to see if she was real. Sometimes, she wondered herself if this was real, or if it all was just some terrible dream. She would wake up to find herself back in her own bed at home, with her mother at work in the kitchen below. Outside, the men would be heading out to the fishing boats. She willed herself back there. Where she had legs. Where she was just a girl from the town. Where no one cut her open or poked or prodded her. Where she was Adrianna instead of a creature.
The soldiers lashed the leather straps tight across her. Helpless, she lay back, waiting to see who had come to see her now and what they would do to her. There were always more tests. She spent hours with her mouth clamped open as the doctors and physicians measured her head and counted her teeth. They examined every part of her, not just her tail. She had become numb to the humiliation of it. Leather straps across her chest, forehead and tail held her immobile while they worked on her. They would confer in hushed voices amongst themselves, but they didn’t speak to her. Worst was when they placed a strip of leather in her mouth to muffle her screams. Then she knew they planned to hurt her.
When they had first taken her from the river, she had spent over a week aboard the ship, as Fournier sent word to Napoleon and waited for him to come. But Fournier’s letters to the Emperor had gone unanswered, and so he had secured a house on the outskirts of Paris. It was meant to be temporary, for no more than a week or two at most.
The house had been a grand house once, set well away from the road along a secluded path that was so overgrown Fournier’s men struggled to get the wagon that had been hired to transport her down it. Inside, the house had been bare, stripped of all the furniture and even the floorboards in some rooms. Before the revolution, it had likely once belonged to some noble family. Small reminders of the family that had once lived there remained; a child’s wooden soldier, a broken broach, a torn painting. But she had seen little before they had carried her down into the cellar and tipped her into this wooden tub and left her in darkness.
She wasn’t sure how long it had been since Fournier had brought her here; it could be a month or a year could have passed. Time had long ago ceased to have meaning to her. This room was her existence. The only light she had came from gaps in the floorboards above her, but they were little more than pin pricks. With no light, she had no concept of time passing. She had stopped trying to count the days when she had stopped fighting. She’d had a name once, but it was becoming harder and harder to remember.
She tensed as she heard light footsteps on the floorboards above her. She knew who it was before he even appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the cellar. Fournier had introduced him to her as Doctor Barreau, but he was no doctor. A doctor helped people and made them better. They didn’t hurt you.
Doctor Barreau was a tall, thin man with long fingers and a neat moustache that curled up at the corners. His face was angular, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin and he had heavy-lidded pale grey eyes. There had been no expression on his face when he first saw her. No wonder or disbelief. No surprise or shock. He looked at her as though a mermaid was completely unremarkable.
The doctor set his bag down and opened the clasp. One by one he began to take out his instruments. Methodically, he placed his blades in a neat line. There were thin blades, one with jagged edges for sawing, a metal hook, needles and thread to stitch the wounds he made, and other more strangely shaped instruments. She feared them more than the blades.
He examined her tail for a moment and consulted his papers before carefully selecting a knife.
“Please don’t,” she begged, sobs welling in her throat.
He nodded to one of the soldiers and they placed a leather strap across her mouth, forcing it between her teeth. She screamed as he went to work.
Hours later they placed her back in the water. Limp, she sank down until she came to rest on the bottom. They left, taking the candles with them and plunging her into darkness. She remembered another time when she had been afraid of the dark, but now it meant they had at last gone and left her and she was safe and no one would hurt her; at least for now.
She didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened again and Fournier came down the steps carrying a candle in one hand and a bowl in the other. She flinched and put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sudden light.
“Come here,” he said, setting the candle down on the wooden bench. He averted his eyes from the blood that stained the wood. The doctor’s work made him uncomfortable, but he never interfered in what he did.
She approached Fournier warily. Obediently, she opened her mouth as he raised the spoon. At first she had refused to eat or drink. She was powerless in the tank and it was the only power she had, but hunger and thirst had soon forced her to obey. Fournier insisted on feeding her himself like she was his pet and she hated it.
“France has won a great battle,” he said as he fed her. “Austria has surrendered and Francis II has abdicated his throne.” He often repeated the latest news he had heard about the war, but she didn’t care. It meant nothing to her. “It won’t be long now before the Emperor comes to see you.”
He had been saying that for months and still he hadn’t come. She didn’t answer, but he didn’t expect her to. At first, she had pleaded and begged for Fournier to release her, to have some compassion, some pity. He had threatened to cut out her tongue if she didn’t be quiet. Since then, she had remained silent and refused to speak to him.
Excited voices suddenly came from the room above them. Fournier froze and then set the bowl down. One of Fournier’s men raced down the cellar steps, calling out in French. She could hear the excitement in his voice. Fournier replied, questioning him rapidly. Adrianna couldn’t follow what they said. A smile broke over Fournier’s face.
“At last,” he said, switching back to German. “The Emperor is finally coming.”
He clapped the soldier on the back and hurried up the stairs, leaving the candle in his haste. She watched the wick burn down. Above her, she could hear Fournier’s men running and calling out as they frantically prepared for the Emperor’s arrival.
A long time seemed to pass before Fournier came to see her again. When he returned, he was dressed in a new uniform, his beard was gone and his shaggy hair neatly trimmed. He looked like a different man.
“The Emperor will be arriving today to see you,” he said. He stood in front of the tub with his chest puffed out and his hands behind his back. “It’s important that he’s pleased with you or we will both be ruined.” Her gaze drifted away from him, but he took her chin and forced her to look at him. “You will do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand?”
She tried to pull away, but he held her firm, his nails digging in to her skin. She nodded and he finally released her.
He le
ft her. Later, two of his men came and set out candles around the room, illuminating the rough brown walls of the cellar and the water puddled on the dirt floor around her tub. Dread filled her as Doctor Barreau came down. He set his bag down and began to take out his instruments. She heard voices and dozens of pairs of booted feet on the floor above her and then the cellar door opened. Fournier led a group of men, all dressed in military uniforms, down the wooden steps. They crowded into the small cellar.
Back in St Goarshausen, before she had met Lorelei and her world had changed forever, she had heard of Napoleon and his victories across Europe. How he had risen from soldier to Emperor of France. She had assumed an Emperor would be tall, a giant of a man, but the man who Fournier hovered by wasn’t particularly tall or remarkable. He had black hair and small eyes. He wore a navy great coat buttoned up to his chin and a bicorn hat. He spoke in French to Fournier, but his small blue eyes were fixed on her.
Fournier turned to his men and gave them orders in French. Three of them approached the tub. They grabbed her under her arms and pulled her roughly from the water. There were startled gasps from the other men present as her tail was revealed, but the Emperor was silent, watching her intently, his face impassive. Fournier’s men set her on the table, but they didn’t strap her down. She pushed herself up on her hands.
The men stepped back as the Emperor approached her. He pulled off his leather gloves and handed them to one of his men before he tentatively touched the fins that fanned out from the bottom of her tail. Instinctively, she jerked her tail away from his touch. One of Fournier’s men immediately forced her down to the table while another secured the leather straps across her chest.
“No,” she said, struggling to get free. “Please don’t.”
“It can speak?” the Emperor said, addressing Fournier in German.
Fournier stepped forward. The tightness around his mouth told her he wasn’t happy she had spoken. “The creature appears to understand some words, Your Majesty.”
The Emperor nodded and bent forward to examine her more closely. Adrianna closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was somewhere else. The Emperor was so close she could feel his breath on her skin. He touched her tail more boldly, running his fingers down the length of it. She tried to move away from his touch, but the straps held her tight.
“You can see where the skin ends and the tail begins,” Fournier said. “But perhaps you want a further demonstration.”
Doctor Barreau stepped forward and selected a scalpel. The Emperor moved back to give the doctor room. She screamed as he cut into the scales at her waist. A soldier forced a rag into her mouth to quieten her. Silent tears fell down the side of her face, trickling into her hair. The physician moved back, his scalpel stained red and wiped the blade with a cloth before the blood could drip onto the floor.
She screamed, her cries muffled by the rag, as the Emperor prodded the wound and then pushed a finger deep inside. She could feel his finger in her flesh as he probed the wound. She was almost unconscious when he finally pulled his hand away. He stepped back and took the towel one of the soldiers’s offered and wiped the blood from his hands. He spoke to Fournier in French briefly and then cast one final look at her before he disappeared from her sight.
She heard their boots on the stairs as they left the cellar and their voices fade away. Doctor Barreau threaded a needle and then used it to close the wound he had made at her waist with a few stitches. He had just knotted the thread and was snipping off the ends when Fournier returned looking pleased.
“The Emperor believes you are real. He’s taking you back to Paris for the whole world to see.”
He left her strapped to the table. Eventually, the assistants came and returned her to the water. She sank under. She was beyond caring, beyond everything. She had once thought the worse thing would be to stay in the river forever. But now she knew there was something far worse.
~~~~~
Tuileries Palace, Paris, France, 1806
Christian watched the crush of people jostling for position as they crowded round the Empress. The receiving rooms of the palace were divided by rank and only the most privileged were able to gain entry here. Being a prince hadn’t gained him admittance; his title and wealth meant little now in France under the new regime. But the fact that he had been in the army carried more weight. Military uniforms were the fashion now for the men, while the ladies wore high-waisted dresses which clung close to their bodies, instead of the voluminous panniered skirts which had been favoured by the pre-Revolutionary aristocracy. But, behind their fans the women still watched and whispered, plotted and schemed, while the men deliberated with each other, currying favour, over brandy and cognac. The location and the fashions had changed, but little else. This court was still a court.
Christian tried not to lean too heavily on his cane. His leg still pained him, the wound having yet to heal. Across the room, a group of young women were casting glances at him and whispering. Afraid of encouraging them, he averted his gaze and turned his back to them, but they were already heading toward him.
He forced a smile onto his face as they approached.
“Your Highness,” the boldest one said, smiling coyly. “We heard about your exploits at Austerlitz and how brave you were.”
“Is it true you nearly died?” another chimed in.
They gathered around him, hemming him in. He forced down his rising panic.
“None of what you’ve heard is true,” he replied, hoping they would go away.
“I don’t believe you,” the first girl said, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “I heard that without your bravery France would have lost the battle.”
Their praise made him uncomfortable. He remembered another girl looking up at him, violet eyes shining with devotion.
He was saved by General Ducasse who appeared through the throng and made his way to his side. “Ladies,” the General said as he bowed. “You will have to excuse us. I need to speak to the prince privately.”
They protested as Ducasse led him away. Christian followed him with relief. “Thank you,” he said once they were out of hearing.
“You looked like you were about to flee.”
“I was considering it.”
Ducasse chuckled. He clapped Christian on the back. “They all want to dance with you. The great hero of Austerlitz. The entire city is talking about you. The prince who joined the army as a common soldier, who worked his way up the ranks and was then shot and injured fighting in battle.”
“I’m not a hero,” Christian said.
The General shrugged. “All that matters is that they think you are. You should enjoy it while you can. They will move on to someone else next week.”
The defeat of the Austrians at Austerlitz, the battle that had nearly cost Christian his leg and his life, had led to the Treaty of Pressburg being signed. Francis II had abdicated his throne and the Holy Roman Empire was no more. The war between France and Austria was over; at least for now. But war still raged across Europe and France still had many other enemies to fight.
“The Emperor summoned me when he arrived in Paris,” Ducasse continued as he accepted a glass of champagne from a footman. “He’s impressed with you. He wants to give you your own company to command.”
“He’s very generous,” Christian said.
Ducasse raised a thick eyebrow. “You’re not going to accept?”
Christian shifted uneasily. “I’m not sure I can. My leg is still healing.”
It was a poor excuse. He owed Ducasse his life. After he left St Goarshausen, he had signed up and joined the French army at the first recruiting station he had come across. At first, he had tried to remain unseen, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but the fact he was fluent in several languages immediately set him apart from the other men. He had been a fool not to realise his education would give him away. He remembered the day of his fateful meeting with Ducasse. He had risen to the rank of lieutenant by then. Ducasse had been com
ing out of a tent, his company having joined Christian’s company temporarily. He had stopped and stared at Christian long and hard and then given him a curt nod. Their paths had crossed occasionally in the following months, but Ducasse had never given him away. And then Austerlitz happened.
He tried not to think of the battle, but it was burned into his mind. He only had to close his eyes and he was advancing through the smoke as cannon fire tore into the lines, blowing the men either side of him into pieces. He had been trying to reload his musket before the cavalry could reach him and cut him down. He didn’t realise at first he’d been shot. His leg suddenly gave way and he fell to one knee. He put his hand to his thigh and was surprised to see blood pumping out. Frantically, he’d tried to load his musket, blood making his hands slippery, and then a soldier stabbed him in the shoulder with his bayonet. He must have fallen back, because he remembered staring up at the sky. Another body had fallen on top of him, pinning him to the ground, and then another fell next to him and then he remembered nothing.
He had lain in a tent for over a month, hovering between life and death as fever gripped him. The surgeons had been ready to remove his leg. Just as they were raising the saw, Ducasse had burst into the tent and commanded them to stop. He had ordered Christian moved to his own tent where he had his personal physician attend him. The decision had saved Christian’s life. Once he was well enough to travel, the General had brought him to Paris and got him presented at court where he was hailed a hero. The Emperor himself had congratulated him. In the end, he had lost nothing. Not physically anyway.
“Nonsense. You can sit a horse,” Ducasse scoffed, jolting him back to the present. “But you don’t have to give me an answer now. You should make the most of this while you can. Go and enjoy yourself. There are many beautiful women here tonight. I’m sure there must be one that catches your eye.”
“I will think about the Emperor’s offer,” Christian said, ignoring Ducasse’s remarks.