The Frost of Springtime

PROLOGUE

Winter
of 1862

Paris could have
been mistaken for a ghost town. The night was black, oily and slick as ink.
Swollen clouds spread out to the horizon, sealing the heavens off from earth.
The only noise for miles around was the wind’s mournful cry. It echoed,
penetrating the emptiness with an eerie howl.

Winter’s first snowfall descended from the bruised sky and hid the
cobblestones beneath a lush blanket of white. Somewhere deep in the heart of
Paris, a gas lamp flickered as it fought to brave out the storm. A humble and
rather inconspicuous structure stood several feet away. Withered and faded with
time,
Bête Noire
had been carved into the planks decades earlier.

The brothel’s insides were equally gutted and stripped of any hope for warmth.
Voluptuous shades of scarlet veiled the windows, while jaded chaises allowed a
gentleman to rest his legs. Splintered floorboards were poorly shrouded by the
modest Persian rug. And a tarnished chandelier hovered overhead, half of its
candles lit—all the teardrop crystals resemblances of human sorrow.

On nights such as these, most gentlemen preferred the warmth of a
hearth to the warmth of a whore. Regardless, one man loomed before the chipped
counter.

The glory of his body was engulfed by a black frock coat and hidden
away like a dark secret. Every stitch of material had been tailored from the
finest silks; every inch of flesh was a manifestation of startling male beauty.
Heavy boots wrapped his calves, encasing them within a lover’s touch. Majestic
and striking, the formal coat swept across the panels, equipping him with an
authority that dared to be tested. But most notable was the man’s askew hat. A
stiff rim of velvet crowned his head with the irony of a slanted halo—its sole
purpose to shelter his identity from the world.

After a stale moment of introspection, he pounded at the golden service
bell with the heel of his palm.

Madam Bedeau appeared almost at once. Ample breasts were drawn
together, strung high and fastened tight, overflowing the bodice in ridiculous
proportions. Both cheeks were finely sculpted and smothered with rogue, her
lips an appropriate devil red.

In youth, Pauline Bedeau had been positively stunning—a goddess amongst
mere mortals—and known far and wide as France’s most desirable courtesan.
Unfortunately, her fall from grace had marked a true descent into hell.
Although she’d remained undeniably lovely, her beauty was branded by all those
years of fruitless labor. And it was no great secret that Bête Noire had fallen
alongside its mistress.

Once upon a time, the brothel had existed as an elite pleasure dome,
catering exclusively to society’s most precious darlings. But much like the
frost of wintertime and spring’s delicate harebells, its charm had faded away
with the ever-changing seasons.

Madam Bedeau approached the man with a knowing smile and provocative
sway of her hips. With a seductive grin and batting hood of sooty lashes, she
proceeded to greet her most loyal patron. Indeed—she and the cloaked figure
shared a partnership that outlasted many marriages.

Like a mezzo-soprano, the tone of her voice was delightfully low, laced
with a huskiness that emptied gentlemen’s purses at leisure.
“Bonsoir,
monsieur.
How good it is to see you again.” The man responded with a
sharp nod. “What do you desire tonight? The usual, I shall suspect?”

The door burst open before he could answer. Wind wailed. Snow blew
across the archway in a violent storm. Two dangling, silver bells clapped
together as they announced the arrival of clientele. They tinkled in merry
oblivion, filling the walls with a short-lived cheer.

A beautiful lady donned in a beautiful gown walked across the
threshold. A little girl dressed in rumpled clothing and bruises was dragged
close behind; white powder caked her skin in a poor attempt to mask the
injuries. She cried out in agony, struggling to match her mother’s determined
steps.

Madam Bedeau propped a hip against the counter as she watched the
wretched scene unfold. Long ago, the girl’s gown had possibly graced the finest
ballrooms and soirées. Now, countless seasons past its prime, it was closer to
rags than riches.

“Oh, please, Maman!” Her voice was haunting. “Please! You mustn’t! You
mustn’t do this—”

“Quiet your insolent whining, little whelp.” The mother’s face
contorted into a scowl that marred all traces of beauty. Speaking through a
sneered whisper, she tightened her hold on the flailing creature and hissed
like a feline in heat. “You have been quite troublesome enough.”

Drowning in tears, the child collapsed to the oak floorboards and
vainly attempted to crawl away. Mother latched onto the girl’s ankles, muttered
a lewd curse, and reeled her tiny body across the ground.

The girl clawed at the worn surface, desperate and astonishingly
headstrong, each breath rising in a choked pant. Then her gaze simply widened
in rekindled horror. A mane of chestnut curls cascaded over her body with the
elegance of a diva’s shawl. Breath caught in her chest, she perched onto her
knees and stared into her mother’s vacant eyes.
“Maman …
Maman, please.
Why must you do this? Don’t you love me?”

The inquiry earned a solid slap to the face. Madam Bedeau winced from
her viewing spot, body pulsing with barely restrained anger.

“You best hold your tongue.
Wretched bastard.
You’ve brought me misery, stupid chit, nothing more.” Impossibly long fingers
snatched at the girl’s chin, twisting her slim face up and back. “You hear me?
I refuse my name to be ruined another instant.” The child gave a last tug for
freedom. Her words were almost inaudible, which made them all the more deadly.
“On my word, I shall break your other wrist. And Lord knows—you will need it
from here on.”

The next few moments flew by in a frantic and surreal blur. The girl
was yanked onto her feet and lunged toward the service desk without mercy.
Exhausted from her exertion, clearly unused to lifting so much as a pinky
finger, Mother exhaled a melodramatic sigh and smoothed down her skirt’s slight
imperfections.

“Why, the little imp wrinkled my gown,” she said with a shaky laugh,
making light of the obvious tragedy at hand. “Imagine that!”

Madam Bedeau mutely narrowed her gaze upon the woman’s crucifix. All
glitz and glitter, the thing was nestled between thick mounds of cleavage and
comically out of place. “You cannot be saved.” The words weighed heavily in the
air, each one uttered with the gravity of a death sentence.

Mother abandoned her highborn pride and shivered at Madam Bedeau’s
damnation. “Why … You shan’t be so alarmed. This is simply for the best, you
see.” She peered down at her child with a poorly worn and plastered smile; it
was a smile worn as badly as her faith. “Tell me, madam, how much could you
offer?” She coiled a hand through the mass of curls and arranged them over the
girl’s trembling shoulders. “I can assure you, she cleans up quite nicely.”

For the first time, the full extent of the child’s suffering slipped
into sight. Numberless cigar burns disfigured her malnourished right shoulder.
And her left wrist was clearly broken. It hung at her side, cocked at an
awkward angle. The girl had suffered unimaginable horrors. There was no mistake
of that. And yet, her battered appearance did little to diminish her beauty.

Her eyes were brilliant to behold. They were, in a word, breathtaking.
Carved from a pristine sapphire, those eyes were as vast as the ocean, brimming
with an unparalleled innocence. And, much like the ocean blue, a foreboding
undercurrent seemed to swim through their depths.

Many gentlemen would pay a princely fee to possess such innocence.
Madam Bedeau cringed, shuddering at those unorthodox desires. They were desires
she’d witnessed on far more than one occasion—desires that spoke of a twisted
hunger—a hunger sated by the flesh of a child.

Like herself, the girl would be forever ruined. Forever forgotten and
cast aside. Her youth would exist as nothing more than a half-remembered dream,
a delicate memory of the deep subconscious.

Patience dwindling and blessed with all the focus of a gnat, Mother
scoffed at the whore’s indignation and sought distraction. She turned her
attention to the cloaked figure drenched purely in liquid black.

“Say, what is the likes of you doing here, monsieur? Why, I could
satisfy your desires far better than some sullied harlot.” Her tone changed
from feline to serpent, words always an inviting purr. The opposite hand
skimmed up and over the swollen rise of her breasts. As if on cue, they
strained against the material of her bodice and quivered to bust free.
“Mmm, indeed, monsieur.
I could milk you of your deepest,
most decadent desires. And I daresay you may take me free of charge. Your
pleasure would be my pleasure—”

The very target of her seduction latched onto her wrist without
warning. A massive gloved hand enveloped it completely. Mother cried out, yelping
in a flash of pain and anger. “Why, you despicable—”

“Touch me again and I break
your
wrist with
pleasure.” The menacing baritone vibrated through silk clad fingertips as he
released her. Voice dark and ominous, timbre steadier than a war drum, he resumed,
“On my word—utter so much as another breath and I vow it shall be your very
last.” Alluring, emerald eyes shifted away to focus on Madam Bedeau. She was
fishing a sum of francs from her bodice—taking the woman up on her indecent
proposal, no doubt. “Not another move from either of you. Am I quite clear?”

Pure silence followed after. It was not a question.

Bête Noire’s walls shook as a gust of wind moaned in the distance. Soft
and shameful sobs accompanied the ambiance with haunting precision. The child
sank to the crutch of her knees—defeated, starved for food and warmth—as if she
might escape the world in that way.

Moved by her humiliation far more than he dared admit, the dark
stranger removed his bowler hat and crouched to her level. He replaced the hat
after running an unsteady hand through his hairline. His chest lurched as the
child adjusted the torn tatters of her clothing. Swishing off his frock coat,
he draped the material over her body like it was a security blanket.

She grasped the wool with her good hand, plummeted onto her bottom, and
pulled both legs against her chest. Her face sank from eye-line as she hid
below a fortress of upright knees. Tiny and perfectly helpless, the abundance
of thick folds seemed to devour her whole.

“Cold night,” he whispered.

“Thank you, m-monsieur.”

The man softened at the tragic sight that lay before him; icicles,
which had too long clung to his chest, deftly thawed and melted away. He felt
an incredible pain, a sincere compassion and aching sympathy, which he’d
believed he no longer possessed. Despite his better judgment and a lifetime of
indifference, his heart broke.

Damnation. He longed to turn his cheek in apathy and disgust. He
yearned to feel numb to the girl’s pain and loneliness. He wanted to hate the
child—to despise the child—for having invaded his sole sliver of peace:
darkness.

Tucked within a foreign part of his heart, only emptiness had ever existed.
A terrible and twisted emptiness.
And for seventeen of
his twenty-seven years, he’d filled that internal void with darkness.

Eyes of emerald locked with eyes of sapphire, each pair searching the
secrets of its counterpart’s soul. He could sense the girl’s will to live, to
simply survive the world and all of its cruelties, as if it was a tangible
thing. And, within that lucid moment, a recollection from
his
own
childhood emerged. The emptiness eased and lifted. His heart pounded
as a montage of horrors resurrected—just barely …

A whisper of half-sobbed words: “Life is pain. Love is a pretty lie.”
Empty and burning tears.
A seductive
glint.
Steel, cold and rusted, plunged into a slate of creamy flesh. A
distorted prayer: “Do not love the world or anything in it. The world and its
desires pass away. But those who do the will of God shall live forever.” A
moment of silence followed by a pair of beautiful, breathless lungs—

The jumbled tangle of memories disappeared as quickly as they’d come.
Once more the emptiness returned. But one truth remained—long ago, something
had happened.
Something unutterable.
Something his
conscience and consciousness had chosen to forget.

And then, miraculously, for the first conceivable time in the man’s
life, a ray of hope shined through his darkness.