Chapter 102: Home (1/2)

April 1846.

My feet tread the familiar ground in silence, and I bounce up the three small stairs to the entrance with the ease of familiarity. They have not changed. Neither have I.

The door could use another coat of paint though.

I pull on a cord. Light chimes sound from inside and a pair of heavy steps heralds the coming of the house staff. We are late enough that a visit would be considered rude, but not enough that I would be greeted with a musket.

I do not recognize the woman who opens the door. She wears a conservative light dress and a scowl as she squints, trying to recognize me.

“I am here to see Achille Reynaud,” I announce.

“And what business do you have with Mr Reynaud?”

“He called me here.”

Her inspection is done and she clearly does not like what she sees. Some people have good instincts and I cannot help but smile. I am experiencing something new: nostalgia.

I have not been home in so long.

“Mr Reynaud is indisposed.”

“I know.”

“Then you should also know better than to come so late. Return tomorrow.”

She goes to close the door and shows quite a bit of surprise when I press a hand against the heavy frame, pushing her aside with ease. Her expression turns scandalized.

“Madam, I will ask you to leave. Immediately!”

I take a deep breath to appreciate the moment, tasting the air. I am still welcome. The old magic has left me untouched.

I step forward.

“Fortunately, you are not my host. I do not need your agreement.”

I lightly push her protesting form aside and climb up the stairs, ignoring her pathetic invectives. My brother will rest in the master bedroom and this is where my steps lead me.

The house smells of incense, sickness, old furniture, and old people. Girders and support beams creak like the knees of a crone all around and the ticks of an ancient clock thrum like heartbeats. Still, this place lives, more solemn than decrepit. The pitted planks are lacquered while the shelves sag under the weight of well-ordered books and polished trinkets. Some of them even look quite expensive.

I finally reach the fateful door. When I was a child, this was my father’s domain. He would tolerate my presence there while he accepted no one else, not since mother had died. I would charge in to wake him up sometimes, jumping on the mattress and bumping my head against his as if I were a ram.

He is long gone and so is his scent.

I knock lightly on the door and enter. Most of the furniture must have been replaced at some point. Only the bed itself occupies the same space.

In it lies the prone form of my brother.

The years have not been kind.

I suppose that he is old now at sixty-four. Age does not explain the sunken cheek, the stringy beard or the yellow skin stuck to his skeletal body. Sickness does. His breath comes out raspy and difficult. A desiccated hand grabs at his torso and the probable source of his pain even as he fitfully sleeps. The air is heavy with the smell of medicine.

I step closer and find a comfortable chair. I am confident that I was quiet, and yet just as I finish sitting, he pops his eyes open and turns them on me with unerring purpose. They are bloodshot and just as keen and blue as I remember them. His gaze turns to the table at his side and I understand the unspoken request. I stand again and light a few candles before returning to his side. We scrutinize each other in silence. His jaw shifts several times as, I assume, he struggles to find words that he perhaps prepared. I know better and did not even attempt the foolish exercise.

“You have not changed at all. Are you still… you?” he finally asks, his voice grating from an exhausted throat.

“I’m afraid that is up for debate, and I wish I could return the compliment.”

For a moment, the barb throws us back to a time when our conflicted relationship shaped the lives, and ears, of many a nurse. We both smile at those memories and something clicks between us, a fleeting sense of camaraderie. When Achille next speaks, his voice is softer.

“Thank you for coming. I wish it had been sooner but I had a few things to work through.”

“When did you learn that I was still, for lack of a better term, alive?”

“Father told me before he passed away.”

Achille’s eyes grow distant.

“It took me a long time to accept what he said as more than the delusions of a sick man and even longer to act. I apologize.”

“No need, Achille.”

“Yes, need,” he retorts. He painfully shifts in his bed and grabs an envelope from his bedside table. The paper is wrinkled and faded by old age and when he hands it to me, I feel a weight inside. His skin is dry and feverish.

“Father left this for you. There is a key inside. I did not want to give it to a monster. It took a lot of growing up to realize that it was not my decision to take.”

“Self-reflection? Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” I retort teasingly as I accept the gift. Achille’s answering smile is brittle and bittersweet.

“You laugh. I spent entirely too much time growing a business and a family before realizing I had to grow as a person as well. A lot of events happening late in my life have changed my outlook. I had many certitudes. Now, much less so.”

“Je suis surprise,” I admit, temporarily reverting to French.

“Do not be, petite soeur, it is never too late to change.”

Our moment is interrupted by heavy steps trampling the floor on their way to the bedroom. I recognize the decisive struts, quick breath and dancing heartbeat of a terrified human desperately trying to rally their spirits.

The door bangs open and a woman crashes in, head high and armed with an iron poker.

A strange sensation of uncanny otherness overcomes me and I grip the couch, fangs almost bared in an instinctive response. It takes all of my self-control to shut my mouth and force myself to relax. She is not me. This was just an illusion, a phantom born from decades spent away from my own blood.

She is not me.

Her hair is darker and her face smoother. There could be other details but I forgot. I have not seen my own face in so long that her arrival confused me for a while. I notice with some amusement that her reaction mirrors my own, and that the threats and imprecations the iron poker was supposed to back up died on her lips the moment she took me in. We could be sisters.

“Who are you?” she asks with a trembling voice.

“My guest,” Achille interrupts before I can reply. I let him. Host privilege.

“Grand-pere, the doctor said that you should rest, especially at night.”

“I know, ma petite. This meeting could not wait.”

“Grand-pere! Please, you have to take care of yourself. Mademoiselle, can you not come back tomorrow morning?” she asks, turning to me.

“June, listen to me,” Achille speaks in a kind voice that I do not recognize.

My brother has changed a lot. The Achille I knew could not tolerate objections or refusals. He had a very firm idea of his place in the world and everyone else’s too. Those who opposed his orders while being his inferior were severely reprimanded and their objections immediately dismissed as the ramblings of an inferior getting out of line and, therefore, unwise. This Achille is reasonable and patient.

“June, my dear. You know that some things cannot wait. Please.”

Tears pearl at the corner of the girl’s eyelids. She furiously tries to chase them away by blinking very fast and scowling mightily before turning away and stomping back into the corridor where she stays to eavesdrop with all the spying acumen of a five-years-old.

“You have mellowed in your old age,” I remark, not unkindly.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Achille replies with a strangled chuckle, “that was June by the way.”

“Your second son’s daughter. I know.”

He welcomes my revelation like a pleasant surprise.

“You kept an eye on us?”

“Yes. I would have acted if you were facing a true menace, mundane or otherwise.”

“I see, I see. That is good. To return to my change of heart, a great many events rocked my perception of the world in the past few years. June is one of them. My second son turned out to be a major disappointment while June herself is kind, smart, and responsible. It certainly impacted my opinion on family hierarchy and the merits of male-only inheritance.”

“You are not considering…”

“I am. When I die, she will inherit the property and quite a few assets besides.”

“You impress me,” I admit with genuine care.

“Thank you. I am sorry that I could not reconsider things before disease and circumstances made it an imperative. I called you here for a favor.”

Supplicant. It has been a while since I last felt the intimate bond created by such a request. The ingrained urge to demand a price for my help fights a short war with an old sense of loyalty and loses. I will not ask for a price from Achille.

“Speak.”

“My youngest son, Richard, enrolled in the US army last year following our increased tensions with Mexico. Are you familiar with the situation?”

Naturally. The Natalis under Lord Jarek are monitoring the situation with great attention. They favor the American side for a variety of causes ranging from security against the Comanches to the benefits of having a stable government for one full year.

“We are on the brink of war. President Polk ordered Taylor’s men south into the Nueces strip and Mexico will react.”

Achille nods.

“Correct. Richard is now a proud dragoon in the second brigade. Full of bluster, that one. ‘The nation this! Our honor that!’ His blood runs white-hot with the fury of unbridled patriotism!”

His mocking tone surprises me. I always took him for someone who would support traditional institutions with the firm belief of a man whose position in life depends on them. He must have reconsidered his values at a fundamental level over the past decade.

Achille’s breathing grows hard as the memory of his son’s departure agitates him. It takes a few seconds for him to take a deep, relaxing sigh.

“Funny things, wars. Victory or defeat, there will always be one foolhardy charge or one vainglorious assault that kills all of its participants. Then, ten years from now, some Washington asshole will paint a nice scene about the whole affair.”

“You want me to get him out?”