NORTH
The Past
Kingsley wouldn’t believe it until he saw her. Over a year had passed since he’d seen his sister, since their grandparents had wrenched him from Marie-Laure’s grasp at their parents’ funeral. How had Søren done it…arranged for her to come all this way to see him? Søren claimed to have money, and from what Kingsley had heard, that claim was something of an understatement. Søren’s father had married money, then taken the family fortune and with ruthless business acumen trebled it in twenty years.
Money was the least of Søren’s allure for Kingsley. Had he been poor as a church mouse, Kingsley still would have slept at his feet, kissed his hands and crawled on command across burning coals if Søren asked that of him.
It wasn’t the cost of bringing Marie-Laure to visit him that engendered such disbelief in Kingsley. During their nights together, when Kingsley knelt at Søren’s feet or lay beneath him or submitted to his discipline, Søren always told him how little he mattered, how little he was worth. Kingsley knew he was nothing but a body to Søren, a body to be used and abused and discarded when he’d had his fill. So why…why would Søren do this kindness for him?
It made no sense.
And yet…
A black car wove its careful way down the one road that led from the narrow highway to the school. Kingsley stood alone in the bitter December air, waiting for its arrival. Søren had played a thousand terrible mind games with him since their first night together at the hermitage. Some days Søren would refuse to acknowledge his existence. Kingsley would speak to him and Søren would carry on with whatever he was doing as if Kingsley were some kind of ghost trying and failing to connect with the living. Other days Søren would watch his every move, watch and criticize. Kingsley’s shoes would have to be retied, his homework rewritten in a neater hand, his clothes changed for no reason other than Søren ordered it of him. Once, at the hermitage, Søren had told Kingsley that he no longer wished to continue this game together, that he’d tired of it, tired of him. Kingsley had dropped to his knees in dismay and pleaded with Søren to give him another night, another chance. Tears lined the corner of Kingsley’s eyes until he’d noticed the subtlest of smiles playing at the corner of Søren’s lips. In fury, he had come to his feet and thrown a punch at Søren. Søren had caught it with shocking strength and deftness.
“Temper, Kingsley,” he had whispered as Kingsley had struggled to wrest himself from that iron grip.
“I hate you.” Kingsley said the words in English. They were too ugly for French.
“I know. I know you hate me. But I don’t hate you. Hate is far too strong a word to describe what I feel for you.”
“Why…why do you do this to me?”
At that Søren had released his hand. Kingsley rushed at him again and Søren had kicked him hard in the thigh and sent him sprawling across the floor. He’d started to stand, unwilling to give up the fight even though he knew how useless the struggle was. But Søren straddled him at the knees and pushed him back to the floor. Digging his hands into Kingsley’s hair, Søren held him immobile against the cold hardwood.
“I do it for one reason and one reason only…” Søren hissed into his ear. Kingsley’s body tensed with fury and the far more unwelcome rush of desire that he could never defeat when Søren touched him. “I enjoy it as much as you do.”
And that night, as Søren beat him and fucked him over and over again, he had done so in complete silence, even as Kingsley begged for the grace of a single word. Only at dawn had Søren spoken to him again, and then only one word.
Goodbye.
So it wouldn’t have surprised Kingsley at all if the promise of a visit from his sister had been nothing but an elaborate ruse on Søren’s behalf. Somewhere in one of the buildings, Søren stood at a window watching the scene unfold, Kingsley was certain. The car would pull up in front of Kingsley and stop, and someone—a priest, a nun, a rabbi for all Kingsley knew—would get out and look at him in surprise. And no Marie-Laure. Why he even bothered going through with the charade was beyond him. But Søren had arranged this joke and Kingsley would do anything for Søren—even debase himself by standing in the freezing cold and waiting an hour for his sister, who would never come.
The car drew nearer and nearer. Kingsley dug his hands deeper in his pockets. Glancing around, he saw faces at the windows of the classroom building, the offices, the library…his classmates, all waiting in the warmth and comfort indoors, watching him. He tried to prepare himself for the humiliation he’d feel when Marie-Laure’s visit was revealed to be nothing more than a mind game of Søren’s. Søren…. Kingsley saw the face of the pianist he’d come to hate as much as love waiting in the uppermost room of the classroom building. Kingsley exhaled and wrenched his eyes from Søren’s perfect face and back to the car. It had slowed almost to a stop. But it hadn’t stopped. Not yet. And still the passenger door started to open and two small feet in black shoes with ribbons that laced around the ankles appeared.
“Kingsley!” called a voice he hadn’t heard in over a year. His eyes could barely take in the scene, his heart could barely contain his happiness, his legs could scarcely keep him standing as his sister raced to him and enveloped him in her arms.
“Marie-Laure…” Kingsley breathed her name into her dark hair. She’d let it grow long and loose in their year apart. She’d been the most beautiful girl in Paris when he’d last seen her. Now, he noted with brotherly pride, she’d become the most beautiful girl in the world. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
She wrapped her graceful ballerina arms around him. In perfect Parisian French she whispered to him how much she’d missed him, how she thought she’d die if she didn’t see him soon, how awful it was without him, how she would never let anyone pull them apart again. With his chin on her shoulder and her mouth at his ear, Kingsley looked up and saw Søren still at the window, still watching.
Kingsley mouthed a single word at Søren.
Merci.
And Søren merely nodded in return, before disappearing from the window. Kingsley turned his attention back to Marie-Laure.
“How…? I can’t—”
“I’m here,” she said. “A plane ticket came to my apartment. And an invitation to visit you. I couldn’t believe it.” Marie-Laure took his face in her gloved hands and kissed him on each cheek.
“I didn’t believe it, either…until I saw you. I’m not sure I even believe it now.”
“How…” She shook her head and tendrils of hair blew across her face. “Was it Grandmère and Grandpère? Did you…?”
Kingsley rolled his eyes. In her presence, he fell instantly back into his old French habits.
“It is a long story. I will tell it to you…but not yet.”
“I don’t care. All that matters is that I’m here and so are you.” She took him into her arms again and Kingsley embraced her. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that he and Marie-Laure were no longer alone in the cold. Several of the other boys had come outside, no doubt to get a better look at Marie-Laure. They hadn’t seen a woman in months—at least not a young woman who hadn’t taken a vow of chastity.
“This must be the sister.” Father Henry’s jovial voice came from behind them. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said, shaking Marie-Laure’s hand.
Kingsley took his sister’s arm as the priest ushered them into his office. Kingsley barely heard a word as Father Henry welcomed Marie-Laure to the school and apologized in advance for any of the flirting the boys would subject her to.
“We don’t usually allow female visitors,” Father Henry said, stammering slightly. “Not unmarried women, at least. Or women who aren’t in an order. But Mr. Stearns explained the situation to me, that you two had been separated since your parents’ death. We’re happy to have you here for the duration of your visit. Kingsley will have to attend classes and keep up his schoolwork. But you’re welcome to join us in the dining hall for all our meals. We have private guest quarters on the top floor of this building. I’ll have one of the boys carry your things up.”
“Merci, mon père,” Marie-Laure said, beaming a wide smile at Father Henry. Kingsley nearly laughed out loud at the blush that utterly enveloped Father Henry from his collar to the top of his bald head. Marie-Laure had the same effect on men as Kingsley knew he had on women. All either of them had to do was smile.
Kingsley and Marie-Laure went directly to her room on the top floor of the office building. She wandered around, laughing at all the icons on the walls—the crosses, the pictures of saints, the Virgin Mary statuettes strewn about.
“Catholic school?” she teased. “Papa is turning in his grave.”
Kingsley laughed and shrugged. “I know. It wasn’t my idea. The boys at my old school hated me.”
“For seducing all their girlfriends and sisters, no doubt.” Marie-Laure wagged a finger at him.
“Well…of course. But stabbing me was an overreaction.”
Her eyes widened. “Stabbed? You said it was a scratch.”
“A big scratch.”
“I don’t know if Papa would be proud of you or if he would try to kill you himself.”
“Both,” Kingsley said, and they laughed. “What about you? Are you still breaking every heart in Paris?”
“Of course.” She sat next to him on the sofa and crossed her muscular, graceful legs. “I have to break their hearts before they break mine.”
“You should find a rich old man and marry him. He would die soon and leave you all his money. Then you could stay in America with me.”
“Stay in America? Why would I do that? If I married a rich man, I’d pull you out of this awful place and take you back to Paris with me.”
Kingsley leaned back on the couch and crossed his ankle over his knee.
“I don’t know. I think I might like it here. America…it’s not so bad.”
“What is this? My brother…monsieur Paris is the Only City in the World…wants to stay in America? What’s her name?”
Kingsley’s eyes widened.
“Don’t look so innocent,” Marie-Laure said, poking him in the chest. “What is her name? You must be in love to want to stay in this country.”
With a groan to cover his awkwardness, Kingsley turned his face to Marie-Laure.
“I promise you…I’m not in love with any girl in this entire country. Not even Canada, which is half a meter that way.” He pointed north. “I like America. Paris is decadent, luxurious…but America…there’s something untamed about this place, something wild.”
Marie-Laure sighed. “If you love it here, then I would love it here. For now, all that matters is that you are here.”
“Me and fifty boys who haven’t seen a pretty girl in months?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I won’t complain about that part. Now perhaps you should show me around this place, if I’m going to be living here for the next month.”
Kingsley stood up and took her hand, pulling her to her feet.
“A month?”
“It’s all I can stay. I had to lie to the director of my company and tell him I had a sprain that had to heal for a month. If I’m gone any longer than that, I’ll lose my place in the chorus.”
“You shouldn’t be in the chorus. You are the prima ballerina.”
“I will be. Someday. But we all must pay our dues. And besides, Laurent can’t make me prima yet. Everyone would be suspicious.”
“Another conquest?”
Marie-Laure batted her eyelashes. “Male dancers…they have such powerful legs.”
Kingsley waved his hand as they put on their coats and headed out the door again.
“I don’t want any details of your conquests. You might be beautiful, but you are still my sister.”
“Well, I want to know all the details about your love life. Oh, wait, you’re at an all-boys school. You don’t have one.”
She slapped him lightly on the cheek to tease him as she skipped ahead into the cold.
Ah, Marie-Laure… Kingsley sighed to himself. If she only knew.
Arm in arm, they wandered the grounds of the school. He showed her the dining hall and introduced her to Father Aldo. Marie-Laure and the priest conferred for several minutes about that evening’s menu. He’d planned a soufflé. She suggested quiche. Kingsley feigned falling asleep and Marie-Laure pinched him in the arm, as she always did when they were children.
Kingsley flinched at the pinch, hard enough that Marie-Laure started.
“When did you get so sensitive?” she asked as they left the dining hall. “I only pinched you.”
“It’s fine. You just pinched me where I already have a bruise. I’ll survive.”
“I’ll find a part of you that isn’t bruises, and that’s what I’ll pinch next time. Oui?”
“Oui.” He smiled, but he knew it would take a great deal of searching to find a part of him that didn’t carry a bruise or a welt. Last night, Søren had been absolutely merciless with him. The beating had seemed interminable. The sex even more so. Upon reflection, Kingsley realized the intensity of their night was because Marie-Laure’s presence would make meeting much more complicated. But they would find a way. They had to be together, Søren and Kingsley. They belonged together.
“What’s that?” Marie-Laure paused outside the chapel.
Kingsley cocked his head to the side and smiled. From within he heard the sound of a piano playing the haunting rhythms of…
“Bolero,” Kingsley said. “Ravel.”
“Ravel…” Marie-Laure sighed and looked at Kingsley with a mix of sadness and longing in her eyes. He knew she had lost herself in the same memory he had—Papa and his records. Of their father lying on the floor of their apartment in a patch of sunlight, eyes closed, and humming along with the music…
“I miss him,” Kingsley whispered as he took her hand and squeezed it.
“So do I. But I’ve missed you more. So much…so much I thought I’d die.”
Kingsley shook his head. “Don’t die. We’re together now.”
The music swelled and Marie-Laure turned her face toward the chapel.
“Can we go listen?”
Kingsley started to lead her there, but as soon as they crossed the threshold into the church, something deep within him warned that he should stop, go back…. The music grew louder as they neared the source of it. Kingsley shook off his sudden strange fear. Marie-Laure followed the music, her eyes as wide and mesmerized as a child of Hamlin.
At the door to the sanctuary they stopped and looked inside toward the nave. Søren sat at the ancient and battered grand piano, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms. He played the piece with such stunning virtuosity and passion that once more Kingsley felt the music come alive around him. Closing his eyes, he let the notes touch him, dance about him, tickle his face, brush through his hair, whisper secrets in his ear.
God, how he loved Søren. Loved him. Loved him like a father, like a brother, like a friend and a lover…and loved him like the enemy that forced him to be stronger, smarter, wiser, braver. Søren had become everything to him…. Kingsley opened his eyes and saw not Søren, but God at the piano, and knew he’d chosen the right man to worship. Even now he would fall on his knees before him.
Kingsley felt Marie-Laure’s hand begin to shake in his grasp. It brought him out of his communion and back to the world. He looked at his sister and smiled. He understood everything now…Søren had brought her here for him, for Kingsley. Søren had done it out of kindness. He’d done it as a grace, as a mercy. Like all of God’s gifts, it was given out of love.
Søren loved him. Kingsley knew that now in his heart. And those mind games he played were just that—mere games. Søren punished him with silence even as he gave him his undivided attention. He insulted him before bestowing the most passionate of kisses. He said Kingsley meant nothing to him before spending half the night inside him. Søren loved him. Søren loved him. Søren loved him. The refrain in his heart matched the insistent beat of the music. No one could or would understand the love they had for each other or how they showed it. Only Søren, Kingsley and the music knew, and the music would never tell.
“Mon Dieu…” Marie-Laure breathed the words, her eyes trained on Søren with a blank, unblinking stare. Once more the fear returned to Kingsley’s heart.
No…not her, too. Anyone but his sister…
She pulled her hand from his and raised it in front of her. Kingsley’s eyes widened in fear as he saw the subtle tremor that had overtaken it.
“Mon Dieu,” she had whispered. My God.
Kingsley took her hand again and pulled it tight to his chest. He would hold her close and keep her safe from the love that he knew would enter her soul like a demon.
“Don’t be afraid.” Kingsley kissed the back of her hand and smiled at her—a false smile meant to break the spell of the music and the blond god who played it. “He does that to everyone.”