Speak Softly, Love

Chapter 13: A Looming Overture

June 1, 1939

     Lila's heels clacked against the wooden floor, rhythmic and carefree. They grew closer and closer until he saw a glimpse of dark green velvet as it brushed roughly against his skin. His eyes trailed up to the pearls that fitted her neck, dazzling in a taunting way. Then, up again, to those eyes absent of light. Her lips pursed and moved, until he felt something wet pressed unto his cheek. He saw teeth and rouge as she smiled. 

     It disgusted him to see her smile at him like that. 

     As soon as she crossed the hall, he wiped his sleeve abrasively against his skin and his eyes averted down to the desk. Hastily, he grabbed the piece of paper from the bottom of a stack and grazed the freshly printed ink with a cautious finger. It made his chest tighten, as if the words would be gone if he blinked for just a second.

Cher Marinette,

     You must have figured out that Father knows now. We need to talk soon. Come to the estate at night, I'll make sure he doesn't see you.

Sincèrement vôtre, Adrien

     He didn't remember how many times he read it, but he stared at the sheet until the words jumbled together and no longer made sense. Looking around cautiously, he opened a drawer and slipped the letter inside, placed in a careful manner so that it peeked out between two black notebooks. The other day his father assigned Nathalie to check his room every week in an attempt to weed out all his secrets.

     Nathalie found the letter in less than three days.

     Her face was troubled when she came to him with the paper in her hand. Her lips were in a thinner line than usual, pointing downwards, and her eyes held a sea of uncertainty. There was a hidden panic to her as she glanced down the steps every once in a while, as if his father would emerge from his room at any moment. It left a prickling feeling, seeing her worry because of him, but she was the only kind one here.

     "Please give it to her." He pleaded.

     "You know I can't." She said, frowning. "Your father might punish you even more if he finds out you did this."

     "Let him then. Do I just stand here like a coward and pretend that nothing happened? We need to talk about it, Nathalie."

     She shook her head, though more uncertain this time.

     "He will see you, I know he will."

     "So be it." He pressed. "It's just one talk, so please give it to her. Then, I'll stop. I'll listen. You have my word."

     Nathalie's eyes flickered to the letter within her palms. Her hand slid into her right pocket and she turned from him, her voice the weakest he's ever heard it at. It was a soft, quiet noise that had lost all of its usual richness (though still eerily maternal) and the very sound made him question if what he was doing was any good at all.

     Her head turned in the slightest. 

     "Tomorrow."

     And when tomorrow came, he sat by the desk and dazed out the window, waiting for the woman to return with the reply. His leg jerked up and down and the wait drew out to a lethargic pace. An impatient sigh left his mouth.

     The view outside gave him enough distraction to his inner turmoil and he allowed himself to become lost for a moment. He had never realized that the orange blossoms began their full bloom: little buds and bulbs of fruit topping the white flowers of each branch. He heard children playing outside the stone walls, yelling and chanting brightly, as their bikes grazed the dirt pathway. There were butterflies fluttering in the air, like feathers, as a bird perched on the window sill, peering at him inquisitively.