NORTH
The Past
The fear that at the time seemed irrational, the fear that had nearly kept Kingsley from stepping into the chapel, had proved itself justified beyond all belief. One month from the day Marie-Laure arrived at Saint Ignatius and glimpsed Søren for the first time, she and Kingsley returned to the chapel, hand in hand again. Midnight on December 21…the time chosen by Marie-Laure. His birthday, she’d said, smiling. And the longest night of the year, Kingsley had said, staring at his sister until she blushed. Blushed….is sister who had taken half of Paris to her bed had actually blushed.
“Can you think of a better choice for a wedding night?” she’d finally said, and Kingsley’s stomach had churned.
And now he waited in the narthex of the chapel. Checking his watch, he mourned the time—one minute until midnight.
She looked beautiful; he couldn’t deny that. More beautiful than he’d ever seen her. A blizzard had kept the entire school trapped in their valley. There had been no opportunity for shopping for wedding dresses. Instead, she’d taken one of her own dresses and some of the old lace altar cloths and sewn a train and a veil by hand. She wore no makeup, as she’d run out a week ago and could not go anywhere to procure more. Her naked face had never shone so brightly, nor had she ever looked so innocent. Innocent…almost virginal. Her hands twisted together. Nerves? His sister who had worn next to nothing to dance on a stage before tens of thousands during her two years in the Paris Ballet Company? She was nervous?
Kingsley took her hand in his and held it. Her fingers felt like ice against his skin.
“Are you scared?” he asked, trying to feign support, affection, while anger lurked under his calm exterior.
“Oui…so much.” She took a breath in and let it out. A white cloud surrounded her face like a halo. The chapel was nearly impossible to keep warm in the winter, but she’d insisted they be married in the church. Kingsley prayed for a short ceremony or they all would die of hypothermia before dawn.
“Then why are you marrying him?” He asked the question with more honest emotion in his voice than he’d meant to betray. But Marie-Laure, lost in her own thoughts and fears, seemed not to notice.
“I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never…. I love him.” She turned her face to Kingsley’s and the intensity of her smile brought light and warmth to the cold, candlelit chapel.
“You’ve known him one month.”
“It doesn’t matter. I loved him the moment I saw him. And I told him that.”
“Did he say he loved you, too?” Kingsley asked, fearing the answer. Søren had never even said those words to him, although they escaped Kingsley’s lips every time Søren entered him. He’d said “I love you” almost as often as he’d said “I hate you” to Søren. It never mattered which one he said—love or hate—as they meant the same to Kingsley. They meant “I am yours no matter what.” But he knew Søren loved him. He never needed the words—only the bruises and the welts and the memories of their bodies joined in the deepest hours of the night, when even God had given up and gone to sleep. And Marie-Laure…with his own money Søren had brought Marie-Laure to Kingsley. That had been love. And for once, Kingsley wished Søren had loved him a little less.
She shook her head. “No. Not in so many words. But he said something better than ‘I love you.’ He said, ‘We can be married.’ He didn’t hesitate, not a moment. It was as if he’d been waiting for me to tell him I loved him so he could ask.”
“What do you mean—”
“Shh…” Marie-Laure raised a finger to her lips. A light appeared at the altar; a single candle had been lit. “It’s time.”
She held out her arm and Kingsley took it. And in utter silence but for Marie-Laure’s shallow breaths, Kingsley escorted his sister to where Søren waited next to Father Henry. Father Henry, as usual, wore a smile. So did Marie-Laure. But Søren and Kingsley didn’t smile as their eyes met. Kingsley looked for something in Søren’s eyes—an apology, a hint of explanation, a purpose or a plan…something to explain this madness. But he saw nothing in Søren’s eyes at all.
Marie-Laure’s smile only broadened as Father Henry began to speak. Kingsley heard his voice, but his mind could comprehend none of the words. Another silence descended and Kingsley realized that he’d just been asked a question.
“I do,” he answered, remembering that he had one line in this farce—Father Henry had asked him who gives this woman to be married to this man. I do—two words. All Kingsley had to say. Seeing his parents’ bodies become ash to be stored in silver urns hurt less than those two words had. He knew he was to stand at Marie-Laure’s side now—as the only woman at Saint Ignatius, Marie-Laure had no one to ask to serve as an attendant. But Kingsley couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand with his own sister. He went to Søren’s side instead. Marie-Laure didn’t even notice his defection.
The service proceeded. There would be no communion. Only last evening had Marie-Laure been baptized. For Søren she had converted and become Catholic, so theirs could be a union blessed by the Church. What would Kingsley’s father say had he been alive to see this? Monsieur Auguste Boissonneault, proud descendant of the Huguenots…he would have died in the chapel at the sight of his daughter becoming Catholic to marry a Catholic. Kingsley counted his father’s death a blessing now. Better to be dead than to live through this. He, too, wished for death. If only he and Søren could have had one last night together…Kingsley would have begged for Søren to kill him. And he knew in his love and power and mercy, Søren would have granted that request.
Kingsley came back to the moment as Father Henry beamed his smile at Søren and Marie-Laure.
“May almighty God, with his word of blessing, unite your hearts in the never-ending bond of pure love.”
The assembled students and priests, the only guests, intoned in unison a solemn “Amen.”
Amen…so be it.
Only Kingsley and Søren did not speak the amen.
Father Henry nodded at Søren, who took Marie-Laure by the arm. And together they left the chapel. For once that hellish day, Kingsley felt the touch of God’s mercy. For whatever reason—propriety or by request of the groom—there had been no kiss.
Kingsley walked on leaden feet behind Father Henry up the aisle and to the narthex. Søren and Marie-Laure waited in the shadows by the door. Søren had taken off the jacket of his suit and given it to Marie-Laure. Had he given her the keys to a kingdom, she could not have smiled with more love and gratitude. It sickened Kingsley to see it.
“Father Henry, will you take her to her room?” Søren asked as Kingsley waited by the shrine of the Virgin Mary.
Distress crossed Marie-Laure’s wide amber eyes. Søren soothed her fears with a smile.
“I’ll be there soon,” he pledged. Her smile returned and Father Henry threw another robe about her and bustled her out into the cold.
For nearly a minute, Søren and Kingsley stood not speaking to each other as the students and other priests filed out of the chapel and into the cold. None of them congratulated Søren. None of them even glanced their way. Jealousy…all of them ached with jealousy. One perfect girl had come into their midst and all of them adored her. Yet she had chosen the one they all feared. The last to leave, Kingsley’s friend Christian, turned back and glanced at him on the way out the door.
“Are you all right?” Christian mouthed to Kingsley, not even granting Søren the courtesy of eye contact.
Kingsley nodded. The nod had been a lie.
“You aren’t.” Søren finally spoke once they stood alone in the chapel.
“No. I’m not.”
“I did this for us, Kingsley,” Søren said.
“I wish you hadn’t.”
“This will help you both.”
Kingsley exhaled and the air that came out of him turned opaque in the cold. He looked like he’d been breathing fire.
“She’s not ours. Remember our dream? The girl wilder than both of us together. Green hair and black eyes.”
“Black hair and green eyes,” Søren corrected. “Untamed.”
“But not untamable.” Kingsley remembered every word of their dream. “We were going to share her.”
“Because no one man would be enough for her.”
“The unholy trinity.” As the final student left the chapel, Kingsley reached out and took Søren’s hand in his own.
“You know I come from a wealthy family. And try as he might, my father can’t seem to sire another son. At age twenty-one I would have inherited my trust fund. But if I married, I’d inherit it immediately.”
“You married my sister so you could have your money?”
“No.” Søren turned and gazed down into Kingsley’s eyes. “I married her so we could have it. You and I. And her, too, of course. I know how much you love her, how much you missed her. Now all of us can be together.”
“She thinks you love her.”
“She’ll understand. If she has half your intelligence and insight, she’ll see the wisdom of this arrangement.”
Kingsley’s eyes widened. Intelligence and insight? Had those words come from Søren’s lips? How many times had Søren held him down and with disdain whispered how worthless Kingsley was, how useless? Did Søren not actually believe that?
“She’s my sister.”
“I know. And I know how you care for her. I have no intention…” Søren stopped, and the words he didn’t speak said everything Kingsley needed to hear.
“You won’t?”
“I can’t…. You know that better than anyone.” A slight smile, the first Kingsley had seen on Søren’s face in days, appeared at the corner of his lips.
“You could….” He could if he hurt Marie-Laure. If he treated her the way he treated Kingsley—with violence and scorn, beating her and humiliating her and subjecting her to every type of sexual degradation…then they could be lovers. But only then.
“I wouldn’t. I have no interest in her like that. Only you.”
Hope filled Kingsley’s heart. “Only me? Why?”
The slight smile on Søren’s lips spread to his entire face. Kingsley could scarcely breathe from the sight of it. Not even Marie-Laure, flush with love and in her bridal glory, had looked more beautiful than that one smile.
Søren cradled the left side of Kingsley’s face and Kingsley closed his eyes, relishing the touch of Søren’s skin on his. How long would it be before he felt it again?
“Do you even have to ask?” Søren whispered.
“Yes.”
Søren spoke no more, but Kingsley felt the touch of lips on his. And he understood the truth then. Søren hadn’t married Marie-Laure because he loved her. Søren had married Marie-Laure because he loved him.
Kingsley sensed Søren’s reluctance when he pulled away. Such a kiss as that had always been a precursor to a night of passion. Passion…Kingsley never understood passion until he’d come to a Catholic school and learned of Christ’s passion. Passion…before Søren it had been merely a synonym for lust, for sexual hunger and pleasure. Now it took on new meaning, true meaning. Now passion meant what he felt for Søren. And passion meant what Søren did to him.
“I have to go,” Søren said as Kingsley opened his eyes.
“I understand.”
“I knew you would. And she will, too…eventually.”
“Will you tell her what you are?” Kingsley asked.
“She is your sister. What do you think? Tell her? Or no?”
Marie-Laure would be devastated to learn what kind of man she’d married, but more devastated if he didn’t touch her with no explanation why.
A choice lay before Kingsley. And he knew the right answer.
“Don’t tell her,” he said. “Not yet.”
“If you think that’s what is best.”
“I do,” he lied without meeting Søren’s eyes.
He looked up and found Søren staring at the door to the chapel, staring at it like an enemy that must be defeated.
“You don’t want to go to her.”
“No,” Søren said. “I want to stay with you.”
“Then stay with me. Stay forever.”
Søren found his mouth again and kissed him…a deep kiss, a slow kiss, a kiss of utter ownership. He ended the kiss and stood tall and straight. Kingsley had never seen him look more handsome or more miserable.
“That’s why I married her, Kingsley. So I could.”
The kiss still burned on Kingsley’s lips, the moment still hovered in the air like the final note of a piano sonata.
Søren looked away and took one step, but paused, turned around and shoved Kingsley hard into the wall of the chapel. This first kiss had been an apology of sorts from Søren, the second kiss an explanation. But this kiss, the third and final, it was an attack. Kingsley let Søren bite his lips, his tongue, dig his fingers into his throat….
“Mercy…” Kingsley whispered against Søren’s teeth.
Søren stopped immediately.
“Mercy? Or merci?” he asked.
Kingsley raised his hand and wiped the blood from his mouth.
“Does it matter?”
Søren shook his head.
“No.”
Søren wrenched himself away from Kingsley and stepped out into the longest night of the year. Of course, Marie-Laure would understand eventually, even if Søren didn’t tell her what he was. It was for the best for all of them. The money meant freedom—freedom for them all to do whatever they desired. For Kingsley and Søren it meant they could be together always without fearing what anyone thought. For Marie-Laure…. Kingsley didn’t know what it would mean for Marie-Laure, but surely between something as tenuous as love and as tangible as money, she would choose the latter.
Yes…of course she would understand….
Bien sûr.
But she didn’t understand.
* * *
Kingsley stood with Marie-Laure in the tiny kitchen of the guest quarters she now occupied with Søren. The Fathers at Saint Ignatius had promised she could stay for the rest of the school year, while Søren finished his first year of teaching. As much as the students feared Søren, the priests loved him. Kingsley knew Father Henry would have done anything to keep Søren at Saint Ignatius, even adopting him as a son if it came to that. And Marie-Laure had made herself useful. She tutored the younger boys in French, helped Father Aldo cook for them all. She worked every day in the school library, reshelving the books and encouraging the boys to keep working, keep studying, keep reading. In short, she became the perfect teacher’s wife. And yet…
“I don’t understand. I thought he loved me,” Marie-Laure said to Kingsley as she put the teacups carefully away in the cabinet.
Kingsley heard the distress in her voice, the sorrow.
“What is it? Did you two fight?” He kept his voice light and curious. He hated himself for being relieved at her pain. But the thought of Marie-Laure sleeping in the same bed as Søren every night sent Kingsley into paroxysms of jealousy. It should be him in bed with Søren, not her. He ached for their nights at the hermitage, and falling asleep and waking up with Søren’s body next to his.
“Non, we don’t fight. I fight. He listens. I could claw his eyes out, and he would simply sit there and listen.” She shook her head as tears started to flow from her eyes. Kingsley stood up and put a hand on her shoulder. He said nothing, only waited. “Kingsley…he doesn’t touch me. Ever. Not once. Not on our wedding night…not before, not after. Never.”
Kingsley could have cried from relief. He had feared that Søren, like every other man who’d met Marie-Laure, would succumb to her beauty.
“He’s complicated.” Kingsley’s conscience gnawed at him. “Ask him to explain why it is he won’t be with you…maybe then you’ll understand.”
“I don’t want to understand.” She set the teacup down so hard it shattered on the counter. “I want my husband to touch me.”
Marie-Laure crumpled to the floor as her slight body shuddered with the wave of grief that overtook it. Kingsley knelt next to her and gathered her in his arms.
“I’m sorry….” He didn’t know what else to say. What could he say? As much as he loved Søren, he still hated to see his sister this unhappy. They would have to tell her…or show her…something.
“What is it?” Marie-Laure whispered. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Kingsley turned her tearstained face up and smiled at her. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s him. I promise you it’s him.”
“Is there…” She paused to swallow a sob. “Is there someone else?”
Kingsley stiffened slightly. What could he say to that? He had to tell her about Søren. But he couldn’t. Søren had said he would explain in time. As much as Kingsley loved his sister, his loyalties had become Søren’s that night in the forest.
“Kingsley…” Marie-Laure put her hands on either side of his face and stared at him with more darkness and determination than he’d ever dreamed his slight sister possessed. Somehow she’d felt his tremor of fear pass through him, the fear that he would tell her even against Søren’s wishes. “He is your friend. Tell me what you know. Is there someone else?”
“There might be.”
She wrested herself from his arms and stood up.
“Marie-Laure…what is it? What—”
Her spine went ramrod straight. Her face hardened like the granite that filled the hills around them. Her eyes blazed. There might be…. Those words ignited a fire in Marie-Laure’s eyes. It burned so bright that Kingsley feared for his own safety. Such fury could burn the world down and leave nothing but ashes.
“If that is true…if there is someone else…then I will walk the world if I must…”
She stopped to breathe. Her tears had ceased. She gazed down at Kingsley and looked not at him but through him.
“Marie-Laure?” Kingsley could barely recognize her.
“And I will kill the bitch.”