Truths and consequences

[Erika Leroux]

The tension in the rented Leroux-Daye rooms during the nights following the ball had rapidly become unbearable. Christine teetered from giddy excitable butterfly to a whimpering mess as Erika switched from comforting mentor to snarling at everything she did. Nothing that Christine could do would ease the ire that was building up. Finally Erika snapped completely.

“We’ve rooms at the Theatre now, no need to stay here any longer than necessary, and we can recoup what you spent on shopping with the coin we’ll be saving.” She pushed Christine into her bedroom. Clothes were strewn everywhere, two large wooden trunks placed in the middle of the floor. “Consider yourself on packing duty. I’m going out.”

She slammed the door shut on her startled ward, and turned the key in the lock. And then she stormed out, donning her cloak and veil as she did so.

The city was lively even at this time in the evening, people bustling about their petty little human lives. She could hear the blood pounding in their veins, she could smell their stench, their excretions, their fears, their lusts. But that was irrelevant tonight. She wasn’t hungry. She was angry.

From the moment Viktor had approached her, and had told her of his ward, had asked that if anything happened…

How could she take on board another broken bird?

And then she’d spoken to the girl while Viktor and Miroslav had sat negotiating boons, talking of her, as if she’d not been sat next to them. She was vaguely aware of the history, of the cruelty shown to the girl, and for a moment the brokenness in her recognised the brokenness in front of her.

“That’s a pretty mask. Would you like to tell me more about it?” The girl lifted her head up, and looked at Erika.

“It’s from Venice.” Ah. Common ground.

“I know Venice well. Would you like to tell me of your time there?” And so the girl spoke, lighting up as she did so, telling Erika of how she had danced on stage there in the chorus. The dance was to her as music was to Erika. As her story poured out, Erika realised how alike this girl’s tale was to her own. Right down to the very setting. At the girl’s pleading that she didn’t want to return with Miroslav, Erika slipped the ring off her finger, and swiftly palmed it onto the child, while holding her close for a moment. “Take this,” she whispered to her. “There is always a way out. Even if you have to run, and if you have to run, this may help a little. I know. I’ve run from such a one myself. It is possible.” She smiled. “And if there is anything I can do – anything at all – let me know.”

The memories were interrupted by her leg beginning to hurt. Erika stopped for a moment, and leaned upon the wall overlooking the weir. She stared into the waters for a while, pondering her own precarious position. She had run, she had escaped the clutches of cruelty herself. Where did that leave her? There had been no official release – and that meant a breaking with Tradition. And that traditionally meant destruction. It hadn’t mattered too much, before she’d met Christine. But now…now she no longer ran. She had responsibilities. And this city suited Christine. She suddenly shivered, chilled by the potential consequences of her actions.

“Dear God, what have I done?” she murmured to the night.