What My Flowers Said Ch. 10-13

Oh, come on. I rolled my eyes again. He must have smelled my skepticism, like a serpent smells fear.

"It's the truth, Mademoiselle," he assured me, "When the revolution came, she escaped with just a valise full of corsets and crinoline in the back of a radish cart bound for Marseille. Or so the story goes..." He removed his dark silver spectacles, polishing them rhetorically with his handkerchief. "The Comtessa—its's said she took up as a dancer and courtesan on the coast, catering to foreign merchants with deep pockets. It was la mode, after all, to plunder from fallen royals."

I smirked. He and Madame d'Aulnoir. They'd get along just fine, wouldn't they?

"But one patron of hers, Mademoiselle. A Canadien perfume trader—he fell for her. Dazzled, no doubt, by her tales of the French court in its twilight. He smuggled her out just after the first heads rolled in Paris, with the promise of her very own Versailles across the Atlantic." With a sniff, he set the glasses back on his nose, "By the time this estate was complete, it was the grandest in the territory. But the merchant was bankrupt twice over," he turned to face me, "Poor fellow hanged himself on the eve of their wedding."

"That's awful," I whispered, too polite to say what I was thinking. Every bit as much as Madame, Monsieur d'Hiver clearly relished the chance to bend an ear, "How'd she keep the house?"

"The only way she knew how, Mademoiselle," he tucked his hands behind his back, "She returned to her old tricks, as it were. She became Madame of her very own bordel," he nodded, gesturing around the room, "I regret it is an inauspicious start. But for the first nineteen years of her existence, Lacoste was nothing more than a lavish maison close."

Oh-my-god. He's not serious? I clenched my teeth to keep from snickering. Mr. Caine. Sleek, sophisticated Dmitri Caine, who lives in an old-timey whorehouse...I couldn't help but crack a smile. Whether or not one single word of it was true, it was a good fairytale, and I have to admit I was hooked.

"And... after nineteen years?" I turned back to her portrait, and heard him sigh.

"I imagine it will not surprise you. Madame's story has no happy ending." He tipped his chin, "Our Comtessa was prone to paranoias. Delusions, as she aged. Fits where she would fall thrashing to the ground. Her habits grew more reclusive, more erratic. Monsieur has suggested a case of neurosyphilis. Regardless, Mademoiselle, near the end it seems she believed herself the only living heir to the Bourbon throne—and she feared nothing more than an agent of the new Empire would appear one day to despatch her."

He shook his head, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief, "Madame closed off Lacoste to all but her most loyal clientele. She walled up her rooms, to serve as safe haven in case of attack. To this day, there are three hidden chambers at Lacoste," he shut his eyes. "In her madness, she mistook the Magistrate's son for an assassin. He'd come to settle up with her, and she cut his throat with a hairpin."

"Jesus..." I knitted my brow, "She killed him?"

"Maimed him," Monsieur d'Hiver drew a grim diagonal across his neck, "Rather badly, so it seems. She was confined in the Asile Sainte-Darie, and died in the sanatorium next winter."

I shuddered, glancing up again to the unfortunate portrait. Despite the artist's lackluster execution, it was clear she'd been pretty—even buried beneath all that fin de siècle powder and rouge.

"So sad..." I breathed.

"Indeed," my guide nodded, "yet it needn't be the end."

Well, of course not. Why would death be the end? I suppressed another urge to roll my eyes.

"Do you like ghost stories, Mademoiselle?"

I wrinkled my nose. In point of fact, I did not. I think I was about seven or eight when my brothers invented the Bogue-man—some sinister salvage diver who was supposed to have drowned a few miles out from our cottage on Nags Head. One time when I went to the beach, they snuck out of the water in some old scuba gear, covered in seaweed, and scared me out of my skin. Since then, no matter how ridiculous, I'd had a paralyzing fear of all things-that-go-bump-in-the-night.

I shook my head, "Not especially, Monsieur."

"A shame," he stepped away, inviting me to follow, "You see Madame is said to haunt the east corridors."

Is that right? I shivered, and arched a brow, glimpsing my reflection in the glass, "And where are we now?"

"The west, Mademoiselle," he turned back, grasping the handle of a huge paneled door, "...You do not believe?"

I shuffled my feet, not wanting to offend him, "I believe you're a talented raconteur, Monsieur."

"Merci beaucoup," his sallow face sank, "Monsieur Caine is a skeptic as well. But you have my word, Mademoiselle. Stay long enough, and you will hear her, prowling the halls when all else is still. If luck will have it, perhaps you may meet her tonight."

I grimaced. I think we have very different definitions of 'luck', Monsieur.

He drew open the door, and he led me down beneath the rough stone archways and flashing copperware of the kitchen. The caterers, it appeared, had packed up and gone, though a few tantalizing aromas still lingered. Monsieur d'Hiver pulled out a stool for me at the end of a long wooden table, and with a blush of embarrassment I sat down. Even in fancy restaurants, I'd never felt quite comfortable being waited on hand-and-foot. It's probably more my speed to be the one doing the waiting.

But I did my best to endure it as he went to the icebox, and fixed me a plate of canapés, fresh dates, and a fragrant little wedge of cheese leftover from the evening's festivities. With all the flourishes of a seasoned sommelier, he set out some silverware, lit a candle, and poured me a glass of red wine.

"Monsieur Caine should join you shortly," he set down the bottle, folding his hands, "May I fetch you anything else while you wait?"

"No," I flushed darker, "Bon merci, Monsieur. You've been too kind."

"It is I who would thank you, Mademoiselle," the corners of his eyes wrinkled into a smile, "for indulging an old man, and his foibles."

"Tout le plaisir est pour moi," I murmured, raking my nails over my knee.

"Au moins pour le moment," he nodded, "Now if you will excuse me, I'll be off to prepare your room."

That's really not necessary, is it? I nodded, "Bien sûr. Bonne nuit, Monsieur."

"Bonne nuit," he gave one more elegant bow, about-faced, and abandoned me.

I tried to smirk as I watched him go. Maybe I really should introduce him to Madame. Those two could prattle on right through the apocalypse. I imagined two scorched skulls on a hill of sand, like one of Goya's lithographs, their jaws jabbering away for all eternity on the etiquette of excusing one's self for a cigarette.

But my smile collapsed as I glanced around. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The kitchen was dim, and cavernous. The candle cast liquid shadows over the stone. Much as I wished to just shrug it off, this ambling around in Mr. Caine's strange château, listening to his blind butler's histoire de fantômes had given me a malignant case of the heebie-jeebies. Are there really hidden chambers? I shook my head, picturing a sinister labyrinth of trapdoors, spinning bookcases, and paintings with following eyes.

Enough. I frowned, sliding off my stool, and tiptoed to the sink. You're getting worked up over nothing—about ghosts with venereal disease, and delusions of grandeur. I sniffed. And here you've got real things to worry about, Penny. I ran some cold water, and splashed it over my face. Like why he brought you here. Like what in the world he wants to do with you.

I sighed, inspecting my warped, vaguely equine reflection in a tall copper stockpot. I tidied my hair as best I could, and pinched my cheeks for some color. I squinted, trying to get a better look. And there behind me, off at the edge of a unlit stairwell, I swear I saw something move. I swiveled, my heart pounding.

Nothing...

Nothing but water dripping from the faucet, and a faint scent of primrose on the stale evening air. Seriously. Pull it together, Penny. My teeth chattered. Your head's playing tricks on you again.

I rubbed my eyes and sat down—though not before snatching a boning knife from the block, and setting it beside my wine. I took a sip, and then another. I yawned, shuddered, and stretched my back. I felt foolish for being so jumpy. But can you blame me? After everything. After Peter, the storm, and getting locked out. After getting locked up, and terrorized in jail. 'Confined in the Asile Sainte-Darie...' Like padded-walls-and-electroshock-crazy. I thought again of Monsieur d'Hiver's absurd story, and of Peter's ominous warning. It's miracle you haven't gone mad yourself, Penny. Grimacing, I drained the glass. I wondered what time it was. I wondered how long I had left.

"There you are..."

His voice came from behind, and without thinking, I snatched up the knife and spun, brandishing it like a honeybee's stinger. He didn't flinch. He just cocked his head at me, and held up his hands.

"I surrender," he smirked.

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry," I rasped, "you startled me, sir."

"Clearly," he reached out to take the blade, "Do you not feel safe in my home, Miss Foster?"

I blushed, "Well, it is a bit spooky, isn't it?"

"I wonder," he nodded, "Has Jules been telling bedtime stories again?"

I felt my face flush darker, "...perhaps."

He sighed, sliding the knife back in the block.

"You mustn't put any stock in it," he turned, "The man has a wild imagination.

I bit my lip, feeling less skittish as he flipped on the lights.

"You're not superstitious at all, Mr. Caine?"

"No, Penny," he stepped closer, "I believe people are haunted. But not by ghosts."

"By what then?" I breathed.

He stared at me a moment, leveling his icy blue gaze.

"Pain," he said softly, and dropped to one knee, "Now let's have a look at that ankle."

I nodded, biting harder as he grasped hold of my calf, and began unlacing my sneaker. He'd brought with him a worn leather bag with a tarnished brass buckle, and set it down alongside him on the floor. Silently, I said a quick prayer of intercession to Veronica, patron saint of laundresses, that my sock wouldn't smell as he peeled it away from my foot.

It wasn't fair, really. He looked even better than when we parted in the foyer; with his tie hanging loose, and the first few buttons of his shirt undone. He'd lost his jacket, too. Across his back, the straps of his suspenders drew a black Saint Andrew's cross. I tried hard not to stare. It was almost annoying, how naturally he came by his handsomeness. His touch felt warm and firm. Still, I couldn't help squirming. My feet were unspeakably ticklish.

"Keep still," he scolded, locking eyes, and my knuckles went white as I tried to obey.

Like before, he pressed here and there, and moved my foot back and forth. He checked my pulses, and the color under my nails. He read my slightest whimper and wince. He didn't ask me where it hurt. He didn't need to.

"It's a nasty sprain," he slid his palm along the sole of my foot, "How did it happen, Penny?"

"I just slipped," I said softly.

He nodded, narrowing his eyes, "You'll need to take it easy for a few days. Elevation. Pressure," he rose to open up the freezer, "Plenty of ice. Twenty minutes on, forty off."

No more ice... I cringed as he took a few cubes in his fist, wrapping them in a terry cloth towel. I thought back to the gallery—to the ice in his cocktail. I bit my lip. Between this, and that, and the scar on my shoulder, he seemed strangely preoccupied by my bodily well-being. I drew a sharp breath as he set the ice against my ankle. For a moment, I could've sworn I saw him smirk.

He held it in place, and unclasped his bag. Inside, I spied a few medicine bottles, a silver hammer, a tuning fork, and Whartenberg wheel, and the glossy two-headed snake of a stethoscope. He uncapped a bottle, and shook two pills onto the counter.

"For the pain," he nodded, "Should help with the swelling, as well."

I stared at him. Then at the pills. Then back at him.

"Good Lord. Really?" He snatched them up, and swallowed them himself, "It's safe," his eyes flashed, "I'm not trying to poison you, Penny."

"No, it's um—it's not that," I blushed, "I don't know why I didn't realize..." My voice trailed off, "You're a doctor. Aren't you?"

He raised a brow, tapping two more pills into my palm, "In a manner of speaking."

My brow creased, "What manner is that?"

He sighed, and slid the ice lower.

"That was another life, Miss Foster. I haven't practiced in ten years."

I narrowed my eyes, praying to God I was wrong.

"...Surgery?"

He shook his head, "Psychiatry."

My toes curled tighter. Of course. It's bad enough to go mucking about in somebody's guts. Something else entirely to go mucking around with their souls.

I shook my head, "I should've known. I should've seen it right away."

He moved the ice higher again, and a chill slithered up through my hips.

"You have a physician in the family, I'm guessing," he softened his tone, "Your father, perhaps?"

Am I that transparent? My jaw clenched, and I dropped my eyes.

He nodded, "Do you hate him, Penny?"

"I don't..." I breathed, "Not at all. I just—" my shoulder stung, and an icy knot sank in the pit of my stomach, "I hate what he reminds me of."

He eyed me coolly, calculating, but said nothing. I suppose he sensed how fragile I was in that moment. Or maybe he didn't. Either way, in exchange for not shattering me, I swept up his pills and slipped them onto my tongue.

"Ten years," I swallowed, steering myself carefully out of the spotlight, "Do you miss it?"

"Never," he nodded, clearly wondering what I was hiding.

"I have a hard time believing that."

He arched a brow.

"Doctors are addicts," I murmured, "Obsessive. They get to play God," I leaned back, "I imagine someone like you would have a hard time giving that up."

"Someone like me..." He smirked again, digging through his bag for a roll of tape, and began strapping the ice to my ankle. "I am an addict. I am obsessed. But a doctor, I'm not."

I shivered, feeling the ice press deeper.

"Well, what do you do instead?" I narrowed my eyes, "I'm guessing prescriptions for antidepressants isn't how half the Räu Collection ended up in your house."

"Electro-convulsion was more my speed," he cut the tape, "But no. I'm in a different line of work now."

Shock therapy? I shuddered, hoping he wasn't serious.

"Estoty..." I breathed, "Do you really sell rocks?"

He stood up slowly, and refilled my wine.

"I'm surprised," he tipped up the bottle, "Did you really not read up on me, Penny?"

My face flushed, and I shrugged.

"Should I have?"

"No," he shook his head, setting out a glass for himself, "But I am surprised. And I'm curious. Just what is it you think I do for a living?"

"I don't know," my eyes ran anxiously around the cavernous kitchen, "Arms dealer? Drug lord? Sex trafficker?" I grasped my glass by the stem, "Just please God, tell me you're not in finance."

"I'm not in finance..." he chuckled, "Sláinte."

Our glasses clinked. Irish? I squinted at him as he sipped.

"Alright," I nodded, "What, then?"

"Diamonds, Penny," he swallowed.

Diamonds? My skin paled.

"Like...like, blood diamonds?" I slid to the edge of my stool.

"No blood," he swirled his wine, "Strictly domestic. I have a mine up near Yellowknife."

A mine? My eyes widened. Now I know he's screwing with me.

"Is um, is that really any better?" I breathed.

"I'd like to think so," he ran a rough hand through his hair, "I didn't grow up with a silver spoon, Miss Foster. I make it a point not to stand on anyone's neck," his eyes flashed, "At least, not unless they ask me to."

Is that supposed to be funny? I glared at him.

He cocked his head, "Are you really so concerned?"

I shrugged again, and sank my incisors into my lip.

"You know you told me yesterday that you like to know somebody before you get into bed with them... like, business-wise, I mean," I blushed, "Don't you think I deserve the same courtesy?"

He leaned his arm on the counter, eyeing me up and down.

"Alright," he nodded, "What do you want to know?"

All of it. I felt a chill. I should've been over the moon. Here was Dmitri Caine, outright offering to answer anything. And though I'd known him only a known a few days, it was already long enough to know this was likely a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But still, there something in his glare, in the grim lower register of his words—it made me think twice before ripping aside that crimson curtain. It made me afraid of what I might find.

"Monsieur d'Hiver," I sipped, and set aside my glass, "He said you're not cruel. But you're not kind, either," I glanced down, "He said I should know that if I'm going to work for you."

He gave a wry smirk, and rolled his eyes, "You and Jules had quite the talk, didn't you?"

"What did he mean?" I murmured.

"Same as Polonius, I imagine."

"I'm serious."

He sighed.

"I'm a martinet when it comes to the rules. I don't tolerate negligence, or defiance," he sank onto the stool beside me, "But beyond that, Miss Foster, I think you'll find me a fairly benevolent overlord."

I scoffed.

"You doubt it?" He drank, "I run the mine as a co-operative. All my workers get dividends. Safety's incentivized. I give good pensions. Plenty of leave in the winter, when it's too cold to work. There are more lucrative ways I could operate," he shifted, "But why? I have everything I want that money can buy," he cocked his head at me, "And time left to chase the things that it can't."

I dropped my eyes, uncertain. It was a relief, I guess, to know he wasn't a tyrant, and nothing I'd heard so far was nearly so sinister as those diabolical gargoyles of him I'd already sketched out in my head.

Maybe Peter was wrong, I swallowed. Maybe he's not so bad. Just odd, and eccentric. A little reclusive. And really, just obnoxiously good-looking... I stole a glance while his head was turned. Bernini's 'David,' I bit harder, wound tight as a trebuchet.

"You paint a pretty picture, sir," I swallowed my last sip, feeling light, and a little emboldened by the wine, "But I still don't understand how you go from doctoring to running a diamond mine."

"Long story," he leaned back, "Long and dull."

I heard the echo.

"I doubt that," I ran my finger round the rim.

"Really. It's not as glamorous as it sounds," he stole my glass away, and rinsed it with his in the sink, "You get your hands dirty. Most of the stones go to industrial buyers. Only about eight percent are polished into gems."

I drummed my nails. Maybe. But he's still hiding something, isn't he? I bent low to peel the ice away from my ankle.

"Leave it," he stopped me, "You have six more minutes, Miss Foster."

I froze. Is he really keeping track?

"And I can't help but notice," he turned, "I had Jules set out a plate for you, yet you haven't eaten a bite."

"I'm not really hungry, sir," I lied, still reeling, "I think I'd better just go to bed."

He laid his icy blue eyes on me. My cheeks burned. My ankle blanched.