----------------------------------------- Paris,
Tuilerien, June 1799 -------
Adeláire
stretched out in her crouching position on the roof, then let her shoulders
circling as well as her head. For days they had been lying on the prowl,
watching Bonaparte's Townhouse. After Francesco had told the Council what they
had found out about Egypt, the four didn’t hesitate another day to tackle their
next goal. Unhappily, the whole household seemed like a busy beehive. And so
far they had not been able to find out the reason.
Verne quietly stepped up and also crouched down next to her. Shortly he numbered at her from the side and then gripped vigorously in her shoulder muscles. Adeláire escaped a relieved sigh as her chin leaned on her chest.
"Hold
out girl. We'll find an access point." Verne's voice didn’t sound
convincing after the past few days.
Sighing,
Adeláire sank into a sitting position and laid down her arms on her knees. "I just don’t understand why the whole
house is like a swarm of locusts. It's as if Robespierre's henchmen were behind
them." Enervated, she massaged her aching forehead. "What do Arno and
Francesco say? Did they find anything?"
Verne
just shook his head silently and seemed to concentrate briefly on the bustle
among them. "No, nothing really
useful. The challenge to get in and out of this chaos unseen, while still
looking for Bonaparte's most private spaces undisturbed...” He didn’t have to complete his sentence to describe
the undertaking in his entire severity.
Silently,
the two Assassins sat on the roof for a while, watching the extremely busy hustle
and bustle.
"Did
you actually talk to Arno again?"
Adeláire
blinked confused as to the extreme change of subject. "Uh... what about?"
Verne
apparently consciously kept his gaze from her.
"Well, about your little collision last... and what's that supposed
to be between you and him..."
Adeláire
didn’t know at the first moment whether she should be upset about his question
or just not take it seriously. Verne was a very close friend. For no other
reason would he dare ask such questions. In addition, he was also Arno's
friend. Nevertheless, she took the moment to think about whether he was
crossing the boundaries. And Verne himself seemed to think about it as well. For
he left her the time she needed. "So
I don’t know why you want to talk about such a topic in a situation like this,
in which we are at the moment. I can comprehend, that you are friends with both
of us and you’re giving many thoughts about it. But don’t you think that the timing
is conceivably badly chosen?"
Verne
just shrugged his shoulders and turned to look at her. There was more than one
concern in the gray eyes. "I'm not
just thinking, Adeláire. I'm worried. I know you. And I know him. You are both
not the simplest characters. Each one of you carries your own trauma with you.
And I'm just not sure if you benefit each other." Verne raised his gaze
back into far distance. "I've
already told you; Arno is someone you can like very easily. And I believe, one you
can fall in love with very quickly too. Nevertheless, he is who he is. The
things he had to experience were enough in one life to destroy a human being.
And he's still there and just goes on and on. No idea how he manages this. And
much less I have a clue, whether he will ever be able to love someone with all
his heart."
Verne fixated on her so intensely that it made Adeláire swallow.
He continued, “Élise was his great love. He knew, and probably loved her
since he was eight years old. As you know, they have worked together for a long
time to find the murderer of Élise's father and Arno’s foster father. We have
to admit, that they grew into an extremely powerful team at that time. She was
trained as a Templar in combat as well as we are as Assassins. And yet ... it
was not enough."
Verne
was silent for a moment again. His wandering gaze returned to her. "It has destroyed him, Adeláire. And how
he managed to get back together again, none of us knows. Arno was always reserved,
hiding behind his sharp, sarcastic humor. But what followed on Élise's death
was... different... And it's still there. It’s like sore flesh, which he tries
to protect even after all these years. And to which he will not open himself up
to anyone."
Silence
entered, to which Adeláire didn’t really know what to say. "Why are you telling me all this? And
why ironically now?" Her voice sounded brittle and tense. And his gray
eyes looked sad as he turned to her again.
"Because
I want you to know what you're engaging yourself in, Adeláire. Anyone who knows
you can see that Arno is more for you than an Assassinbrother. And far more
than the beau, with whom you’ve surrounded yourself. You're also someone who is
afraid of intense feelings like a burning fire." He grabbed her hand
briefly and squeezed it intensively. "I just don’t want two of my closest
friends to injure each other. And not yet even willingly, put simply, because
they are who they are. Do you understand that?"
Adeláire
nodded silently after a while and looked out over the rooftops of Paris. In the
last few days, she had been reluctant to keep distance from Arno, even if the
night at the café didn’t make this task much easier. She, herself often
sleepless, had experienced an awake Arno on her nocturnal, barefoot
expeditions, who barely kept an eye. In two or three moments she had been able
to observe how he spent the night writing at his desk, or took and read letters
from the box on the table by the wing chair.
An
approach in her direction on his part hadn’t been given again. Since her
nightly, almost timid kiss, opportunities had opened, but neither of them was
willing to use them. As always, when she thought intensively, she bit furtively
at her lower lip. "What do you
think, should I talk to him?"
Verne
held his gaze in the distance. "About
what? You currently don’t even know what you actually feel. And much less what
you really want." He fixed her intensively. "Correct me if I'm
wrong."
Adeláire
blushed red and removed her gaze away from him.
"You
see. And as long as you don’t know, I'd advise you to leave your fingers off.
You have only one chance with him to open his heart a little. If you screw up,
he'll close the bulkheads and throw away the key for it. You will need time and
patience. Unless, and I can’t emphasize enough, unless you really want to be close to him..."
His
conclusion sounded like a question, and Adeláire could almost physically feel
his seeking examine. She felt like a little girl, still strengthened by the
fact that she wriggled at the hems of her cloak in her lap. Verne prevented it
by grabbing her hands again and raising her chin. "You know I like you Adeláire. Like a
little sister. And I’m like always there to talk, at any time. But I can’t
force you to think about these things. Only one thing I can do is: plea you, to
think about them. It would break my heart, if you break the one of the other."
Adeláire
swallowed hard and she almost felt, how it began to ascend hot in her eyes. The
intensity with which Verne discussed all this left her halfway wordlessly. It
also reflected a great deal of her own thoughts. And it was good to have in
Verne a friend with whom she could talk about it. Before she even came to
reply, a shrill alarm whistle tore the situation.
Without
much thought, the two Assassins were on their feet and ducked over the roof
edge. Adeláire spread her senses as far as she could to capture what the alarm
signal meant.
Deep
among them, in a split second, it was clear what status they were in. Thick
swaths of smoke bombs spread in the street below them, and a wild turmoil came
to their ears. Adeláire re-enforced her senses and finally found Francesco and
Arno in the swamp. One of the two was more carried away by the other when they
fled, than that he ran himself.
"I
think one of them is injured." Verne and Adeláire glided over the roof
edge without further adjustment and swung themselves down the fastest way.
Even
before they arrived downstairs, they also covered their arrival with smoke
bombs. Adeláire activated her senses and pulled the rapier out of her belt. The
number of guards, coughing and searching in the swaths, had assumed a
worryingly high number. She felt Verne's hand on her shoulder.
"No
fight. Let's concentrate on disappearing."
Adeláire
didn’t even have to nod to his words to know that he relied on the right
decisions. Without a word, they covered Francesco and Arno's escape until they
found an underground entrance. Just gone down in the dark, they were allowed to
breathe, and Adeláire was able to deal with the thought, which of the two was
now injured.
Arno
couldn’t suppress a cursing cry of pain when Francesco let him slip to the
ground. His left hand camped over his right side, just below the last rib. Even
though it was dark, the smell of blood could clearly be made up. From a very
lot of blood. Adeláire could feel her heart halting in her chest as she sank
beside him and desperately pressed her hands to his.
"How
did this happen?" finally came from Verne.
Francesco
bled himself out of a wound on his thigh and rubbed absently Arno’s blood on
the cloak.
"To
be honest, no idea. I held position on one of the roofs, and Arno was on the
ground. When he came back to me and we were just wondering how we wanted to go
on, a gunshot slammed suddenly and... well..." With a hand movement, he
gestured to Arno, who was breathing flat on the ground.
"Merde...
Diable... We must take him to the hospital in the sanctuary. Otherwise he will bleed to death here."
Still
with a wild beating heart and completely empty head, Adeláire rose and pulled
her blouse. She quickly tore off a few lanes and tried to improvise a bandage.
Arno cursed cunningly as they pulled him back to his feet and Adeláire doctored
him with the provisional. Verne and Francesco took Arno between them and laid
one of his arms over their shoulders. As soon as they had left the underground,
Arno's head fell on his chest, and his weight became that of an unconscious.
"Diable...
hurry..." cursed Verne, cautiously.
Adeláire
could do nothing more than secure the surroundings and lead them around guards
and other people, against whom they were more than suspicious. She thanked all
the divine as they finally reached one of the numerous accesses to the
underground catacombs of the Sanctuary. Scarcely dipped into the darkness of
the rock walls, Adeláire ran before to inform the hospital.
Verne
and Francesco had cleared the hospital very soon when they handed over Arno. A
systematic, but hasty, bustle had begun, and a few skilled hands administered the
wound. Adeláire had been standing in a corner the entire time and could only
observe the much too pale face with the dark hair strands on his forehead. Now
and again her eyes had to wander to his bare chest to make sure that it still
lifted and lowered. She scarcely registered the healer, who after all
approached her and squeezed her shoulder gently.
"He'll
be all right. No fear. He has lost a lot of blood and the wound is quite evil.
But if it does not ignite in the next days, he will soon be quite the same
again."
Adeláire
just nodded, still glancing at the shape, which was now carefully restored into
one of the hospital beds.
"Now
you should lie down a little as well. He’ got enough opium to sleep through the
night. And you should do that too."
Adeláire
blinked, confused. "What? Took Opium?"
The nurse smiled warmly. "No.
Sleep. Medical prescription."
Again,
Adeláire nodded silently before she went around the nurse and headed for Arno's
sick-bed.
Without
sense of time, she sat at his bed. She hadn’t been nurtured to be religiously
devout, but still she begged silently to somebody, or something, that they
might not take him from her now. After all, it was sheer exhaustion that made
her fall asleep at the bottom of his bed, curled up like a cat.
The
restless movement beneath her was what finally awoke her. Drowsily she thrashed
herself upright and rubbed her eyes. Arno was not yet awake, but caught in a
dream. With a pain, his facial expressions twitched before he half-opened his
eyes. His stare was glazed due to the opium effects. He seemed to fixate on Adeláire,
who had half bent forward, and now raised above him; yet he seemed to see
through her. His whisper was almost so soft that it wasn’t alleged to be heard.
“Èlise...?”
Powerless, a hand reached out to her.
It
caused such a shock to Adeláire that it made her gasp painfully. It squeezed
her heart in her chest, as if someone closed a fist around it. As in the
reflex, her right hand lay over her breast and she retreated to the end of the
bed. Meanwhile, Arno's hand dropped and he slid back into an opium-impregnated
sleep.
"I
told you, she was, since he could think of, the love of his life..."
Verne's voice sounded softly and gently from the entrance to her. Adeláire
turned her burning eyes to the wall and owed an answer. How the hell was he
always in the right place at the right moment? Finally she gave herself a jerk
and pulled her hood to her forehead before she rose from the bed and went past
Verne with lowered head.
"I
should ..."
Verne
grabbed her by the shoulders and held her up.
"...stay here. That you should,” came again in this gentle tone.
She
raised her gaze and could hardly make him out through the tears swimming in her
eyes. "What stupidity am I doing
here? He will never again let someone into his heart, like he did with her."
Verne
smiled gently and sadly. "No, he
will not. But he will do it in a different way. Believe me. He has a good
heart, under all the protection he has built up. It just takes time. With him,
as well as with you." Gently he took her face between his hands and his
thumbs stroked the treacherous tears on her cheekbones. "Take
one of the beds, give yourself some sleep, and in a few hours the world will
look quite different." Again, he smiled this gentle smile, gave her a kiss
on the cheek and finally turned to go.
"Thanks...
for everything... today..."
He
turned halfway to her and winked cheerfully.
"That’s what big brothers are for."
Adeláire
had only got rid of her weapons and cloak, and otherwise stretched out dressed on
the bed opposite Arno’s. Without natural light in the hospital, it was
impossible to say how late it was when she slowly slid over to the waking
state. Still a little sleepy, she squinted and met brown eyes which watched her
from the opposite bed.
Adeláire
blinked and realized that she didn’t seem to dream anymore. Arno was awake,
watching her and finally smiled gently, though clearly exhausted. She sensed
that she could do no more than return that smile just as gently. She embedded
her head on one arm and made herself more comfortable lying on the side.
“How
are you?" Her tone was low, as if her loudness would cause him pain.
He
made a bit of a face. "It feels
horrible. As if someone has ripped out each rib individually." He coughed
and clenched with a pain sound. At the next cursing, >Diable< was the
most harmless thing he used. Adeláire rose hastily and sought something drinkable.
After all the Opium and blood loss his throat had to be dry like a desert.
Carefully,
she finally slid her hand into his neck to lift his head to drink. With horror
she realized, that he was glowing with sweat. He tried to get up, which she prevented
with the greatest of ease.
"Leave
this. You'll just tear the wound open again." She held her voice gently
but unyieldingly. She had filled the cup only slightly with water so that he
could drink in small sips. Again, he made a bit of a face.
"A
good Bordeaux would be dearer to me now." His voice sounded weak and
cautious, and carefully she let him sink back into the pillows.
Gently,
almost tenderly, she drew a dark streak from his forehead. "Of course. Because Bordeaux is so
wonderful with opium."
He
grinned obliquely and suddenly breathed flat due to a wave of pain.
"Take
a rest. I'm going to look for the nurse." Adeláire sat up from the bed
edge as his hand closed around her forearm. She looked at him questioningly,
and didn’t know to interpret if what she read in his gaze was due to the fever,
or something completely different.
"Thank
you ..." His voice was only a whisper before he closed his eyes, relaxed
into the pillow and slid back into the resting sleep.
Carefully,
Adeláire tended over him and gave the hot, sweaty forehead a gentle kiss. "You’re welcome..." she said as she
finally rose to report to the nurse about his condition.
--------------------------------
Adeláire lost any sense of time in the hospital. But it was certainly days that she spent at the bed of the feverish Arno and took the nurse’s work from her. Fortunately, the wound had not been inflamed, but the path of healing remained cumbersome. When the fever finally subsided, all involved participants breathed a sigh of relief and something like tired relaxation dared to cease. This also led to Adeláire sinking into a deep, dreamless sleep from which she awoke only when the hum of a male conversation forced itself into her dreams. Just as she wanted to give a sign of awake, she paused.
"She
likes you, you know that, right?" This voice she did not recognize. And
yet something tweaked at her memories that she should. The question was followed
by silence.
"Mhm..."
Arno, he was awake. And obviously strong enough to face the conversation of the
counterpart.
"Come
on, Dorian. A blind man can see that. And she wouldn’t take care of your feverish
ass for days if she didn’t have sense for you." The man seemed to
hesitate, to be silent, before he continued. "And I hope, you don’t disappoint her. I know her
not as well as our dear Verne, but that she is friends with him and Francesco
is enough for me to not want to see her suffer."
"Because
of me, no one should ever suffer again..." The silence weighed heavily,
which followed these words: "...or
die."
Again, continuing silence.
"You
know I didn’t like her. But she was much too young to die. I'm sorry, man. And
I'm sorry I didn’t tell you that years ago." Again a break followed.
"Why
do you say it to me now Jean? Until a few days ago, we could hardly cross each
other without getting into conflict." Now Adeláire knew why the voice
seemed so familiar to her: LaHache. Hadn’t he and Arno quarreled? Adeláire
heard the foreign Assassin scooping across the floor with one foot.
"You
know, I've lost a lot of brothers in all those years since I joined the
Assassins. When I heard that you were badly wounded, I realized how tired I am
to stand at graves." Again
silence spread out in the room.
"I
know very well what you mean... my friend..." Arno's voice sounded softly,
cautiously. And what followed in his words sounded as if hands were encircled underarms
and a very old hatchet would be buried.
Adeláire
decided to give up her quasi-secret listening post and began, a slow awakening
pretending, to loll in the sheets.
"Well,
look who's resurrected from the dead."
Adeláire
had fallen asleep with her back turned to Arno, so she was now rolling around
in her bed to make eye contact. Someone had stuffed pillows behind Arno’s back
so he could sit a little more upright in the bed. LaHache sat roping on a
chair, his arms resting on the back. The latter smiled openly from a beard more
than three days old. Arno, on the other hand, still seemed to be occupied to
get rid of the conversation with LaHache and the old memories. When his brown
eyes met her, she still saw the dark shadows fade before he smiled gently at
her. "I'm
sorry I exhausted you so much. I heard you took all the work from the nurses?"
Before
she could prevent it, Adeláire felt herself turned red. Embarrassed, she rose
to a sitting position on the bed and brushed her tangled hair behind her ears. "That would be absolutely exaggerated
expressed. I... just... took care of you a little..."
LaHache
laughed loudly that it was almost ringing in Adeláire’s ears. "So, according to Verne’s and
Francesco's reports, you have hardly left his side for a moment, sweetheart. Perhaps
you should practice fibbing again."
Adeláire
felt embarrassment was replaced by anger, which didn’t change anything at further
blushing. Her voice sounded correspondingly poisonous as she set an answer. "My name is Adeláire and not ‘sweetheart’.
I‘m unaware, that I know you, Monsieur. Let alone, that I would have given you
the same liberties as Verne."
LaHache
raised his hands defensively and whistled briefly through his teeth. "Whoa, sweet... ehm... Adeláire... Take
it easy. I meant no offense." His grin wandered to Arno, while his gaze
moved slowly from her and over to the other bed. "Well, you've picked
something nice. Tame is now really different."
Arno's
gaze rested with a strange smile on her as he answered. "Well, did you really expect an Assassin's
Sister to be described as handy?"
"Would
be bad, if it were so. If she did, she'd rather not join a murderous secret
Cult." Verne's answer to the question, which was not really serious, came
from the door to them. How long he had been leaning there and listening to
everything, none of the three could say.
Adeláire crossed her arms in front of her
chest and drew a sinister expression. "Are
all now finished with their jokes on strangers cost?"
"Nana,
now brush your ruffled fur smoothly. In our fellowship it just goes a little bit
rougher now and then. Not true Verne?" LaHache still grinned at Adeláire
while Verne entered the room.
"Hm,
to be honest, actually only when you're with Jean." Latter half turned
around in his chair and gave Verne an obscene gesture.
"You
abject brother traitor. If we do not bind together yet, who will?" Verne grinned down at LaHache.
"All
others except you, Pig-Head."
Adeláire
felt her anger slowly dissolve thanks to Verne. Seeking, she looked around for
her clothes and found them out of reach. Arno would already know her in her
“birthday suit”, but this was not the case for Verne, much less for LaHache.
Embarrassed, she nipped two or three buttons to her blouse and draped the bedsheet
around her waist. Finally, her unsteady gaze fell upon Arno and was held there
by brown eyes. While LaHache and Verne were still friendly squabbling, Arno
implied that they should get rid of the two. Softly smiling, she nodded mutely.
"Mes
amis, as much as I appreciate your visit, I think I'd like to recover a bit
more."
Adeláire
wondered if Arno himself would believe these words, if they had been presented
to him. They didn’t sound convincing to her ears. And the grin of the two,
mentioned as friends, showed clearly, that they didn’t think particularly
different. However, Verne hit LaHache on the shoulder and picked up the thrown
ball. "Come on, big pal. Let us
give the good Arno a little more rest. We still need him. And hopefully soon."
A wink shot at Adeláire, before Verne turned his back to the room and started
walking away.
LaHache
rose from his chair and set it aside. Then he nodded silently to Arno before
turning to Adeláire and reached out his stoutly right hand. "By the way... Jean... Jean-Jacques
LaHache. Pleased to meet you, Adeláire." He smiled openly, his eyes as
dark as Arno’s, radiating a pleasant warmth.
Adeláire
replied the smile, and snatched the offered hand. "Adeláire Fontaine. Very pleased as well
Jean." A short, strong handshake, before LaHache tapped with a gallant
gesture briefly on the forehead and then also left the room.
As
soon as they had left, Arno quietly heaved a sigh, closed his eyes and sank
back into the pillows. Adeláire rose from her sleeping camp and slipped hastily
into her breeches. Carefully, she settled down on Arno's bedside and gently
inspected the bandages.
"Hm,
they must be renewed. I'll go quickly and tell the nurse." But before she
could get up, his hand caught her and made her turn her gaze at his facial
expressions. His dark hair was woozy of fever, and his skin color was still too
pale. But she could see that he was much better. In his gaze lay warmth and
almost costly he looked at her features. She could only guess how untidy she
might appear momentarily. And certainly almost as exhausted as he himself.
"Thank
you... Adeláire..."
She
smiled gently. "You said that
already." He blinked briefly, making her laugh softly. "After the
first night, you were briefly something like awake. You've already felt the
need to thank me." Yes, definitely, she liked this mischievous, boyish smile
on him.
"I'm
sorry if I should repeat myself. But this time, I hope I will at least remember
that I said it, and try to avoid further redundancies."
Again, she laughed a faint laugh. "Well,
if you can express yourself in such specifically chosen way again, you are
actually better." Gently she returned the pressure of his hand and wanted
to rise to find the sister. Again he stopped her. Adeláire's gaze turned into a
question and was answered by a gesture. Arno's free hand lifted and brushed the
tangled hair behind her ear. Softly, fingertips pushed into her neck and she
had to ask nothing questioningly in order to know whereupon this run out.
"You're
injured..." she whispered softly.
"No
man has died of such a thing..." he whispered softly as well, while his drag
in her neck brought her closer to him.
"We
should not..." His breath was close to hers and her vision was filled with
dark eyes.
"Give
me one good reason why we should not." His voice sounded rough.
"We...
I..." She could feel his
smile close to her lips.
"Shut up…"
Their
words were so gentle that one could almost hold them for a whisper of the wind.
Gentle, tender, cuddly was the kiss, which they shared. He almost felt a little
innocent, if it were not his free hand, which, warm on her skin, moved up her
spine, and snuggled her closer to him.
Adeláire
swarmed the senses and she felt a lump narrowing her throat. All the tension
changed to relief at the thought that he would live and get well. Softly
tentatively, she let her fingertips stray from his temple into dark hair. And
who would have been able to say how long they had enjoyed each other in this
way, if Arno had not jerked among her suddenly hissing with sudden pain, as she
shifted her weight a little.
"Diable
..." he growled restrained.
Adeláire
backed away from him and glanced quickly at the bandages. No blood. So they had
not ripped up a seam.
"Merde...
I… I'm sorry... so much to it, that no man has ever died of such a thing."
She didn’t like the pitch between desperate excuse and remorseful growling.
Arno’s face grimaced painfully, possibly from the bit of irony, before he
relaxed again and sank back into the pillows.
"That,
I wanted to make since you were awake." Adeláire chuckled amused.
"What?
Feeling Pain?" Arno smiled softly. Sadness seemed to glide over his
features, as so often in moments in which it was valid to confront feelings.
Unsure, Adeláire lowered her hands in her lap and didn’t know what to do or
say.
"Even
if you do not perhaps notice it all… too often... I appreciate people who take
care of me at such moments."
Adeláire
smiled softly, stroking the always rebellious strand of dark brown hair from
his forehead.
"As
Verne once said so nicely, it's easy to like you. And beyond that, you are a Brother,
Order and Creed or not. That alone would suffice, if..." She swallowed and
didn’t know what to do any more. Her hand sank back into her lap.
"If
...?" Why had she only known, that he wouldn’t just simply leave this
unfortunate end in the room.
Embarrassed,
she turned her eyes away. "Well, if…
there was not… something else..." She didn’t dare to lift her voice. So
she almost descended into a whisper. The silence between them stretched almost
intolerably. Adeláire finally turned her gaze back to him and didn’t know what
to expect. All the more surprising was the calm warmth radiating from him.
Still
silent, he picked up her hand and led the inside of her left wrist to his lips.
He seemed neither willing to give a corresponding reply to her words, nor to
investigate further in depth what exactly she was trying to express with what
was said. And somehow she was more than grateful to him at that moment.
Almost
painfully it tore them both apart as the sister entered with an irritating, “Ah,
the patient is awake”. In short, their eyes held on to each other before
Adeláire rose and yielded to the sister's interruption.
----------------------------------
Adeláire
had more or less moved her study to the hospital. They were lucky that most of
the Assassins seemed to be prudent in their missions and there were hardly any other
injured in which to tend. Her copies of Bonaparte's documents occupied one of
the beds, while unceremoniously transformed the supply table into a desk.
Arno
recovered steadily, but for his taste, probably not fast enough. He was often seen
strolling through the hallways of the Sanctuary, and was finally carried back
halfway by one of the Assassins, who were delegated to throw an eye on him.
Adeláire had given up at some point to comment on these excursions. Unquestioningly,
after such occasions, she merely inspected the bandages and then devoted
herself to the fuss of the information again.
Arno
finally returned from one of his excursions without any foreign support. Still
cautiously choosing his steps, he crossed the sickbay, focused, balancing two
cups of coffee. Adeláire stretched out her hands to take one of them from him,
and sucked in the scent, at once savoring.
"That comes at precisely the right time."
Arno rounded the table and set his cup off. He propped his hands right and left
besides her, and gently snuggled to her back. Sighing softly, Adeláire
straightened from her half-bended posture and enjoyed the feeling of his chest,
which raised and lowered in breathing. Dumbly she enjoyed the moment as he was,
without the need to have to overfill it with words.
Adeláire
finally raised her left hand and let gentle fingertips slipping over his throat
line into his neck. She turned half in his arms and didn’t have to wait long
for the warm lips. If they had not been able to use all the time in the sickbay
for intimacy, then at least, quite equally intimate, conversation. They had
clearly come closer, though many secrets still lurked behind many walls.
Especially this one, which grew around the nature of their feelings, and which
both dreaded like the devil hates holy water.
When
they finally separated from each other appreciatively, his left arm clenched
around her waist and pulled her closer to him. With his right, he fished after
the previously parked coffee cup.
"Slowly
I think we should see that we gather more information. If even Paton doesn’t
find a line in this mess, it may be really hopeless." Arno seemed to think
briefly. "Or we’re simply missing too much."
Adeláire
also took her coffee and looked at the mess on the table in front of her and a
bit away on the hospital bed. “Hm,
you're probably right."
"Well,
then maybe you will be happy that the working part of the team finally found
something." Verne grinned at these
words broadly and pushed the hood in the neck. Behind him, Francesco and Jean
followed. Arno separated from her and stepped half round the table. How Verne
always got such an appropriate timing for his appearance remained a mystery to Adeláire.
It was Arno, who took word first.
"You
have continued to investigate while..."
"...while
you’re playing Sleeping Beauty? But, of course we do. The job does not take
care of itself." LaHache grinned broadly through his beard and made
himself comfortable on one of the free beds.
"You...
did you help?" Arno raised his eyebrows, then gave questioning glances to
Verne and Francesco. The latter looked for a chair, let himself down, and,
failing to answer the question, crossed his legs. Verne finally leaned with the
hip against the treatment table and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
"Well,
you are both, so to speak... absent. Then Francesco and I thought that a little
reinforcement would not be a bad idea. And if you agree, then I would strongly
advocate our team to strengthen to five men. Who likes to renounce LaHache's mon petit cherie." That made him
and Jean grin wide as Arno smirked. Francesco remained silent, as did Adeláire.
Arno
finally glanced over his shoulder to Adeláire and then let him wander to
Francesco, who behaved remarkably calm.
"Cesco,
your opinion?" Arno finally asked him in a neutral tone. Francesco raised
his eyes to Arno, then left him to LaHache and back again. Mutely, he fixed
Verne a moment before he answered.
"Depends
on whether all can pull themselves together. I personally do not feel like
repeating the Marcourt Disaster. If you could assure me that you behave like
adult men, then... yes... then we should enlarge the team."
Francesco
had always had the peculiarity of getting things to the point. This was
probably the characteristic that linked him and Arno so closely and made them
such good friends. So Arno merely
nodded at his request. "Accepted."
Francesco nodded mutely and earnestly. "Good. Then we can continue.
Verne?" He took the ball and turned his gaze to Adeláire and Arno.
"That's
why we all came back here together; as we said at the beginning, we finally
found something." This time it was Adeláire, who raised her eyebrows in
amazement while Arno simply sipped his coffee.
Verne
grinned and finally became serious. "The
reason for the whole upheaval in the townhouse was that Joséphine bought a
house in the country. And she's already starting to divide her household here
and to establish some things away to Malmaison. That is why the many arrivals,
deliveries, people, staff. However, we have not yet been able to find out
exactly how she intends to deal with Bonaparte's private affairs and whether she
wants to give up the townhouse entirely. The ones, we were able to ask, were of
the opinion, that she would probably wait with this decision until he returned
from Egypt."
Adeláire
crossed her arms in front of her chest and began to pace back and forth behind
the table. "This means that there
are diverse questions. Among other things, whether she will leave the townhouse
at some point and move to Malmaison with the split household. If that were the
case, we might have a better access to the townhouse. Only then would it be
possible to find out whether there was anything else to be found for us or
whether she had taken everything with her. If she had taken everything, we
would have to infiltrate this country house as well." Adeláire stopped her
trek and raised her left hand against her lower lip to prevent herself from
biting. Confused, she met the broad grin of LaHache.
"Don’t
withhold them all the good news."
Adeláire
and Arno looked questioningly at Verne, who also grinned briefly.
"How
well can you both dance?"
Adeláire
blinked and briefly glanced at Arno, before they both fixed Verne again. Adeláire apparently found at first her tongue again. "Ehm...
why are you coming to such a question now?"
Verne
grinned again. "Well, because the
good Joséphine organized a Paris farewell in the townhouse. Quasi for all those
friends, which she will then probably not so often get to see. In which one or
the other, she is perhaps not so very sad about it. But this is a different
story." Verne seemed to feel a thieving pleasure regarding the lore
advantage towards Arno and Adeláire.
"And
as fortune would have it, we have actually been able to… organize… invitations
to this ball. And since you two handsome beings are the only ones in our
illustrious round with special abilities, you should perhaps refresh your
rusted dance skills."
Adeláire
blinked briefly and crossed her arms again.
"Arno is hurt. He can’t possibly...", she started to protest.
"You're
supposed to dance with him, my dearie, not challenge him to duel." Verne
laughed briefly and LaHache gave a big grin.
Arno
simply put his empty cup on the table. "When
will this ball take place?"
Verne
smiled softly. "You have three days
to get fit again. Do you think you can do that?" Before Arno could answer,
Verne shot again. "Really... can do!" Arno closed his mouth, which
had already been opened, for a brief moment of reflection.
His
gaze slid briefly to Adeláire before he lowered him to the table. His left hand
groped his right side, where strong bandages still secured the wound and seam.
Finally, he raised his head to Verne. "We
need to go. No matter how. We've lost enough time because of me." He
smiled somewhat mischievously. "And a little dancing in a circle, I will manage
somehow. Even if it looks anything but elegant."
Verne
grinned briefly. "You could be sent
to the ball in rags, and you would still turn the head of all the women in the
house. So do not worry." LaHache laughed at the comment and Verne didn’t
seem to leave the grin any more.
Adeláire
could feel, as once more the blush crawled up her neck again, while Arno smiled
over, disarmingly, at his friend.
"Let
me guess, you probably have a suitable outfit for me, right?"
"But,
of course, even quite à la
hauteur de la mode[3] my
friend." This made Verne laugh and induced Arno to massage his neck
mischievously.
"Why
is that just giving me greater concerns than the dancing?"
Adeláire
enjoyed the loosened spirits of the four men and watched, like a silent shadow
from behind the table, as they mutually threw effronteries at each other. Even
between LaHache and Arno, it seemed as if nothing ever had happened. Should the
serious injury really have helped to make this team get even closer? If it were
so, she was grateful, that it all still had a meaning.
When,
finally, Arno's face began to grow paler, she shooed the three brothers
energetically out of the room. Which resulted in Arno then immediately slumping
exhausted onto his bed. A faint groan made him once again embrace his right
side, prompting Adeláire to examine the bandages. She crouched down in front of
him and carefully felt the seam as he gently caught one of her hands.
Inquiring, she raised her eyes and smirked at his mischievous smile.
"Did
you have that dress from… that time, when you were in the cafe?"
Adeláire
laughed softly and gave a playful expression.
"No, I'm sorry. It somehow fell victim to a strange… accident."
The
remark conjured one of those boyish, charming smiles around his mouth. "Pity. It was really… charming."
What,
as a reply, elicited her a cheeky smirk and made her green eyes flash. "Only the dress...?"
She
could still feel his reflecting smile in the kiss, which he gave her as an
answer to her question.
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