Seen and Not Heard by Anne Stuart Read Free Book Online Page B

he missed it. Times when he longed for confession and absolution, longed for a penance to wipe some of the evil from his tainted soul.
    But then the sun would shine, and he would put such dark memories behind him and think ahead to the good life that awaited him. He would marry Jeanne next month, and they’d have children, lots of children. He was in line for a promotion—with luck they might be able to afford a small house in the suburbs, one with room for the children to play.
    But there’d be no garden.
    He still couldn’t walk into a formal garden without feeling nauseated. It was the smell of roses that got him, he realized. The sickly sweet scent of pink roses in summer that reminded him of pain and fear and death. And the stench of flesh burning his nostrils.
    The roses had burned along with the orphanage. Everything had been destroyed by the fire—he could remember the blackened timbers of the old wooden building that had been his home for three years, the skeletal branches of therosebushes, pointing at him, the ashes of the gardener’s shed in one corner of the decimated garden. With the remains of the gardener lying there in the embers.
    Grand-mère
Estelle had been found in the basement of the main building. The authorities had decided she’d fallen through when all the debris from the upper floors had collapsed. There was no need for Madame Marti to be in the cellar of the building. It hadn’t been difficult to identify her—who else would be found dead in the orphanage she’d run for more than forty years? What remained incomprehensible, and was finally dismissed with a Gallic shrug, was the peculiar condition of her body. It had taken a strong-stomached employee of the district three days to find all the pieces of Mme. Marti. They never did find her feet.
    Yvon sat up, nausea churning in his own stomach. He hated remembering, hated the sick, dark clouds that beat around his head. If only Jeanne had stayed, her incessant chatter could have drowned out the steady beat of the rain against the windows. Could have drowned out the things he didn’t want to remember, drowned out what he had to do.
    He moved over to the window, looking down into the wet, dirty streets. Maybe if he quit his job, moved to the country, maybe somewhere in the south. His employers thought highly of him—they’d write him a good letter of recommendation and he’d be able to find something suitable. In the south, in a climate where it seldom rained.
    But he knew he couldn’t do that. It would follow him, the memories, the nightmares, the pledge he’d made so many years ago. The longer he delayed the worse it got. There was no sleep for him on rainy nights.
    And every now and then, when he least expected it, he’d catch the faint, inexplicable scent of pink roses.
    The rain turned to spring snow flurries that scattered in front of the fierce wind. The sun was bright yellow in a clear blue sky, and the puffy white clouds scudded along, carrying the smog with them. It was a glorious day, Claire thought as she heated the milk for Marc’s coffee. Surely nothing terrible could happen on such a beautiful day.
    Nicole sat in silence, sipping at her hot chocolate, her small, spotless hands careful around the Limoges cup. Claire had wanted to get her something less fragile, but Marc had refused. “She must learn to eat and drink like civilized people, darling. It will do her no good to coddle her.”
    Claire nodded, disagreeing. As far as she was concerned, Nicole could have benefited from some coddling. Not that the child would let anyone close enough to do so. Maybe her
grand-mère
would be allowed to dispense affection. Someone to fill the terrible gap left by the loss of her mother.
    Nicole fixed her flat dark gaze on Claire’s face. “How did you cut your lip, Claire?” she asked, and Claire felt the color flood her face as the memory of the night before swept back through her.
    Unfortunately Marc was there, listening. He