movements without any inspiration, she was a stunning shell of a
human being.
With a heavy heart, Aleksender imagined Elizabeth brushing her hair,
just like this, night after night … staring at herself with a vacant and
faraway look in her eyes.
Elizabeth surrendered to an uncertain smile as their gazes came
together in the mirror. A light blush tinted her cheekbones and steadily crept
down her neck.
Lowering her pale hood of lashes, she spoke through little more than a
sweet and serene whisper. “Come now, Aleksender. Must you be such a stranger?
Why … you’ve hardly said more than a few words these past days.”
Cued by her voice, Aleksender rose to his feet and came to the mirror.
She gasped as the heat of his body pierced her chemise. He towered over her
seated form, impossibly close, shrouded beneath penetrating silence and
wavering shadow.
He stole the comb from her hand and swept it through the long and
lovely tresses … admiring the way in which they tumbled down and over her slender
shoulders, curling just past the small of her back.
Her eyes whispered shameful secrets and forbidden longings. Things she
dared not pursue. Indeed, despite their fifteen-year partnership, she and
Aleksender had laid together only a handful of times. Their lovemaking had
always been consistently passionless—and the mutual intention to produce an
heir had been the sole driving force.
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. And, a moment later, a
devious grin crept to her mouth. “I thought you were dead, you know. Thought I
would never see you. Never touch you again.”
Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence. He continued the
intoxicating ministrations, brushing out the glory of her hair—gently, slowly,
tremulously—eyes never parting from her reflection.
And when Aleksender at last spoke, the words were a tender and light
caress. “Sleep well, Elizabeth.” With a dejected sigh, he set down the brush,
pressed a kiss upon her brow, and went to bed for the night.
•
Chapel Saint Leonard’s bells tolled out, ringing their timeless melody
as they announced Sunday mass. The humble dwelling was one of the only places
of worship that hadn’t suffered considerable ruin from the siege and
revolutionaries. Two shattered windows and a jarring occurrence stood as the
sole traces of Paris’s demise.
Over the last months, most churches, chapels and sanctums had been torn
apart from the inside out. Roofs were ceremoniously caved in, windows broken,
and the interiors thrashed to high hell. And the greatest damage had resulted
from the citizens’ hands rather than Prussians’.
Never had a group of people felt so abandoned by God. It was no
coincidence that a large number of the Commune’s insurgents held a fierce
hatred for religion. Spoken prayer had been outlawed at many of the funerals.
In pained silence, mothers had wept as the caskets of their veteran sons were
lowered into that eternal dirt.
Chapel Saint Leonard’s priest had been greeted by a rather
unforgettable sight one morning. The altar had been crudely vandalized, and the
spectacle resembled a caricature straight out of Le Père Duchêne’s pages. There
Jesus hung, dressed in the garb of Versailles, a pipe dangling from lifeless
stone lips. And ever since that time, a fragile calm had blanketed Paris to the
point of suffocation.
Inside Chapel Saint Leonard’s walls, Aleksender, Elizabeth, Sofia, and
Richard sat side-by-side along one of the pewter benches. Light poured through
the shattered window and illuminated the chapel in a flawless cylinder. The priest’s
voice swelled the building to its rafters, each word infused with haunting
passion.
“We live in a broken world that is filled with sin.”
Ever since boyhood, and for reasons Aleksender couldn’t fully grasp,
religion had always unsettled him. Mind pacing, he turned from the altar and
sought distraction. The priest’s words transformed into a
steady drone.
“As
human being.
With a heavy heart, Aleksender imagined Elizabeth brushing her hair,
just like this, night after night … staring at herself with a vacant and
faraway look in her eyes.
Elizabeth surrendered to an uncertain smile as their gazes came
together in the mirror. A light blush tinted her cheekbones and steadily crept
down her neck.
Lowering her pale hood of lashes, she spoke through little more than a
sweet and serene whisper. “Come now, Aleksender. Must you be such a stranger?
Why … you’ve hardly said more than a few words these past days.”
Cued by her voice, Aleksender rose to his feet and came to the mirror.
She gasped as the heat of his body pierced her chemise. He towered over her
seated form, impossibly close, shrouded beneath penetrating silence and
wavering shadow.
He stole the comb from her hand and swept it through the long and
lovely tresses … admiring the way in which they tumbled down and over her slender
shoulders, curling just past the small of her back.
Her eyes whispered shameful secrets and forbidden longings. Things she
dared not pursue. Indeed, despite their fifteen-year partnership, she and
Aleksender had laid together only a handful of times. Their lovemaking had
always been consistently passionless—and the mutual intention to produce an
heir had been the sole driving force.
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. And, a moment later, a
devious grin crept to her mouth. “I thought you were dead, you know. Thought I
would never see you. Never touch you again.”
Aleksender remained in his characteristic silence. He continued the
intoxicating ministrations, brushing out the glory of her hair—gently, slowly,
tremulously—eyes never parting from her reflection.
And when Aleksender at last spoke, the words were a tender and light
caress. “Sleep well, Elizabeth.” With a dejected sigh, he set down the brush,
pressed a kiss upon her brow, and went to bed for the night.
•
Chapel Saint Leonard’s bells tolled out, ringing their timeless melody
as they announced Sunday mass. The humble dwelling was one of the only places
of worship that hadn’t suffered considerable ruin from the siege and
revolutionaries. Two shattered windows and a jarring occurrence stood as the
sole traces of Paris’s demise.
Over the last months, most churches, chapels and sanctums had been torn
apart from the inside out. Roofs were ceremoniously caved in, windows broken,
and the interiors thrashed to high hell. And the greatest damage had resulted
from the citizens’ hands rather than Prussians’.
Never had a group of people felt so abandoned by God. It was no
coincidence that a large number of the Commune’s insurgents held a fierce
hatred for religion. Spoken prayer had been outlawed at many of the funerals.
In pained silence, mothers had wept as the caskets of their veteran sons were
lowered into that eternal dirt.
Chapel Saint Leonard’s priest had been greeted by a rather
unforgettable sight one morning. The altar had been crudely vandalized, and the
spectacle resembled a caricature straight out of Le Père Duchêne’s pages. There
Jesus hung, dressed in the garb of Versailles, a pipe dangling from lifeless
stone lips. And ever since that time, a fragile calm had blanketed Paris to the
point of suffocation.
Inside Chapel Saint Leonard’s walls, Aleksender, Elizabeth, Sofia, and
Richard sat side-by-side along one of the pewter benches. Light poured through
the shattered window and illuminated the chapel in a flawless cylinder. The priest’s
voice swelled the building to its rafters, each word infused with haunting
passion.
“We live in a broken world that is filled with sin.”
Ever since boyhood, and for reasons Aleksender couldn’t fully grasp,
religion had always unsettled him. Mind pacing, he turned from the altar and
sought distraction. The priest’s words transformed into a
steady drone.
“As
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