Broken Wing by Judith James Page B

of trade and investment. He suspected the older man was trying to prepare him to make the most of his ten thousand pounds when their bargain was complete, and the thought made him distinctly uncomfortable. He also felt that he was being measured against some standard he didn’t understand, couldn’t relate to, and could never achieve. It never occurred to him that these feelings of being judged and found lacking might involve his own interest in Ross’s sister. He respected, admired, even liked Ross, but he never felt completely at ease in his company, and it amazed him that the two men, who seemed so different in temperament, were such close friends.
    As much as Gabriel’s days were filled with challenge,hard work, and physical effort, his nights were filled with magic. Some evenings they would all join on the lower terrace. Davey would come with one or two of his ragged crew, or Gypsy friends from across the river. They would sing and play throughout the night, drinking whiskey and wine and raising their voices in laughter, conversation, and song. Trading words and melodies, challenging each other with whatever the moment, the mood, or their imagination allowed; they made wild and beautiful music against a background of sea and sky, in a warm and wonderful communion that left Gabriel feeling exhausted, happy, and replete.
    Most nights he waited, breathless and excited, for the sun to set, the moon to rise, and the house to settle for the night. Then he’d climb the oak to her room, to watch the sky and talk, listening to her voice, husky with excitement, watching in fascination as her eyes flashed with passion, lit from within, and watching in envy as the evening breeze caressed her cheeks, ruffling her hair and playing with the tendrils as he longed to do.
    On cooler nights, he settled himself in the place she’d made for him on her window seat. He told her more about his time at the château. How he’d loved the stables and the horses, and what it had meant to him to discover music and learn to read and write. In time, hesitant and careful, he told her more of de Sevigny, how he would have done anything in his power to please him so that he might stay, how he’d tried to escape, andhow in both ways, mired in shame and confusion, he was an active participant in his own ruination. He told her how badly it had hurt, how much he’d hated both de Sevigny and himself, and how much he’d hated going back to Madame’s.
    Sarah seldom said much as he told her these stories, just lay in the dark listening, a soft comment now and then. “You loved him because he made those things possible, the books and the music. He gave you the only pleasure you’d ever known.”
    “Yes.”
    “But he didn’t care for you. Not at all. You were just a thing to him. Something to use. And he let you do those things, let you ride and play and learn, to make you a more valuable thing.”
    “Yes,” he rasped.
    “And so? You took what you could, what you wanted and needed, and then you left. Or you tried to, at least. You survived him. What else could you have done, Gabriel?”
    He shook his head in the dark, uncertain, never having thought about it quite that way before. “I don’t know.” He fell asleep there, more often than not, warm and peaceful in her cozy room. He imagined it possessed some powerful, protective enchantment, because the nightmares could never seem to find him there, not even when he opened the door to bitter memories.
    As the days grew shorter, and the first frost coveredthe ground, he found himself climbing the big oak almost every night. One night, when the wind was whipping cold spray and early sleet against the window behind him, she invited him to share one side of the big bed. Breathless, careful not to misconstrue, he accepted, lying gingerly beside her above the covers, an arm’s length away. In this intimate and rarified atmosphere, he told her that Davey was in love with her, and she called him a