Michel smiled again, looking back up at the man before him. Just one more thing to ask for, then. "Also, as I'm certain I'll be the most qualified of your staff, I'd like supervisory capacity over the teachers."

This request did not go over as well; Paul's eyes narrowed. "I'm sure you understand that this is Madame Renard's job."

The younger man wondered for a second how this man's mistress had attained the honorific he had given her, but didn't speak his thoughts; he persisted. "No, Madame Renard, if you've led me to understand correctly, is the school's Matron. She, therefore, will oversee the students and their needs, and, to some extent, their basic interactions with the teachers. Madame Wolfe, of course, as Headmistress, will help you in overseeing the school in general. That means you still need someone who will directly oversee the teaching staff--their training, their needs, and any minor discipline." He nodded once. "And that's a job I'm more than qualified to fill--and one I will need, if I'm to accept your offer."

Nikita could hear the reverberation of her heartbeat in her ears and wondered if it sounded as loud to her companions; she realized she was barely breathing, everything in her on hold. Michel was right, of course--and he had every qualification for the role he had asked for. Still, knowing the pair beside her as she was unfortunately coming to, she wasn't at all sure that they would allow him such leeway. She swallowed heavily and waited.

Paul was about to speak again, but it was Madeline who interrupted him; she could feel his annoyance and was quite certain that anything he was about to say would break any deal irreparably. She couldn't allow that. The man she knew so well, after all, tended to forget certain truths, at times, and one of these was that titles meant nothing. Whatever her official capacity, she would still run the school with Paul. Nikita, too, was already installed as a figurehead; why not one more, just for appearances' sake? "That can be done," her voice was calm. "But you'll receive no extra compensation for the added responsibility."

Michel smiled. "Until we've achieved the percentage we'll agree on."

There was another deadly silence. Paul used it to look over to his mistress, who was locked in a silent battle with their teacher-to-be; he smiled inwardly. He only saw half her logic at the moment, of course, but the rest he could determine later. Any battle of wills she was engaged in, she would win; that went without saying--and she never gave up any amount of power without an eye out for more. . . . God, he loved her.

The older woman finally spoke. "Agreed."

God. The heavy breath Nikita let out had to be covered as a small cough. She smiled shakily at the group before her, to be met by Michel's kind smile. It was still very disconcerting how warming it was. She really was going to have to keep her emotions better hidden than this.

Her determination, however, had yet to be truly effective; Madeline caught the look between the two of them, and her own, cold smile deepened. Now was the time to sow the seeds of doubt; she focused back on the younger man. "With that settled, Professor Samuelle, there is only one more matter for our immediate attention. In your new capacity, do you have any recommendations for our staff? I'm certain you know that we're in need of excellent teachers in quite a few areas."

There was a smile on his face, as he answered her, but it was half superficial. Yes, this was the perfect opportunity to introduce Rene to the school, but he was certain that the question was nowhere near as innocent as it seemed. "I do have an idea or two." He waited to see where this was going.

Madeline's faux smile warmed. "Excellent. And can we assume that Simone Phan will be among them? From what we've heard, she would no doubt hate to be separated from you for so much of the year."

Oh. Nikita looked down. She had seen the look on Professor Samuelle's face, the flash of emotions in his eyes, had seen the truth of Madeline's words. He was taken.

She repressed a heavy sigh, trying not to be too upset. After all, she herself was married. It wasn't like she had any right to look. And what did she expect, anyway, from a man as beautiful as he was? Did she think he would really be free? She swallowed heavily, pulling herself into reality. No. She had no doubt simply been imagining things in his eyes before, had gotten lost in her fantasies again; she really had to stop that.

The object of her affections didn't see her distress, however, was temporarily oblivious to the woman who so deeply affected him; his eyes narrowed at his verbal sparring partner, instead. So that had been what she was angling at. The witch. "Simone is happy where she is for now. If that changes, I will inform you, of course."

Nikita continued to listen to him, swallowing heavily once more. Oh. The caress of his voice made the woman's name sound so intimate; there was just no mistaking their relationship. Oh God.

She closed her eyes, trying to pull herself together, telling herself how abominably foolish she was being, but she couldn't help it. Her heart hurt. It really was just too much.

It didn't take long for her distress to be seen now, though. Michel felt a sense of alarm ring through him, in fact, at the look of confusion and pain on her face; it went *way* beyond any possible shock of Renard's tricks. "Ni-kita, Madame Wolfe, are you well?" He reached his hand out to her instinctively.

So it had started, as they had predicted it might; a look passed between the older couple a second before Madeline moved toward her, but the younger woman shuddered away from her a bit. "I'm fine," she whispered. From the look on her face, however, and the way her body was hunched over slightly, it obviously wasn't true.

It was a few more seconds, as well--ones spent in either silence or shock by those around her--before Nikita drew a deep breath again, coming back to herself; she hadn't entirely realized what was happening, until it had begun. All she had known was the, probably irrational, pain of the news she had just received--but then, a few seconds later, that pain had become real, physical, her heart seeming to flutter and twist just slightly in her chest. It had only actually lasted a very few, terrible seconds, but it had definitely been the worst one yet. Dear God. What was happening to her?

Michel was kneeling before her now, was holding onto both of her arms gently, as he looked up into her face; he had entirely forgotten about decorum. His own heart was beating quickly in terror, as he looked over the beautiful woman who had so thoroughly captivated him, his mind whirling through the realizations of the last few moments. She looked so very healthy. He could never have imagined that this was one of her sorrows.

Her eyes opened to see the naked concern on his face, her attention now riveted to the soft, tender strokes of his hands over her upper arms; she took a very unsteady breath--and it had nothing to do with the attack. Dear Lord. What was it about this man that had this effect on her? And, she began to wonder now, would she even live long enough to hope to find it out?

The moment between the two of them was brief, of course, but was watched closely by the older couple. The intimacy between the pair before them was obvious and immediate. It was very difficult to believe that they had just met.

It took the two young people a few more moments, too, before they seemed to remember their surroundings completely; it was Paul who brought them back. "My wife is not entirely well, Professor Samuelle, as you see. I fear the strain of interviewing has been too much for her." He looked her over quietly--but rather as one might some defective, and expensive, piece of merchandise. "Might I suggest that you take her place on the committee from now on?"

Despite the fact that he had already pegged Wolfe as a rather callous man, his words, and his thoroughly businesslike tone, were hard for Michel to accept, but he swallowed back his anger; he had to. He just nodded once, as he stood back from Nikita finally, reluctantly--remembering his place here. An instant later, as well, Madame Renard was leading her away. "Of course," he answered mechanically. It was all he could manage.

He watched her, though, watched as slightly desperate blue eyes looked back at him once more, before this beautiful woman was led away from him around the corner. His heart ached; he was having trouble processing any of this. He could never quite have imagined that anyone who seemed so vital could truly be so ill. His own parents had been anything but, near the end. Still, he had just been faced with too powerful evidence of it, could no longer deny. . . . He just wished there was something he could do.

There was a moment, then, indeed, when this last thought rang through him--was a moment before his internal world changed completely; he let out a deep, quiet sigh, his vow silent but unbreakable. He had failed his parents, had been able to do nothing to protect them or soothe their pain, but he could change this, he was certain--was determined to. He was here now, indeed, was part of this place; he *would* look after her. He had to. Every time he looked into her eyes, after all, he felt alive once more, felt more than he had ever imagined possible before. He swallowed heavily. He just couldn't let that sense of life abandon him again.

Chapter 6

He knew he had nothing to complain about, knew that his life was going quite well. He sighed. Still, there was something . . . no--was *someone* missing. His heart tugged a little. And, right now, for a single, brief flash of those sorrowful blue eyes, he would have given up nearly everything else he possessed.

It had been almost two weeks since Michel had talked to her now--had been an eternity. He had seen her once or twice, mostly by accident, had caught her staring out of her bedroom window like some imprisoned princess from a fairy tale--all beauty and soft torment--but even those moments had been all too brief, . . . and it had been days since the last one. Still, he had treasured every one, had nearly obsessed over the way their gazes had touched so fleetingly--had lain his head down on his pillow every night with no other thought but these; they rolled through his soul, even now, like the precursors of some torrential summer storm--whipping through him in howls of emotional winds too elemental to ignore, full of possibilities both lovely and terrifying. It just seemed impossible to explain.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried to pull himself under control, however, wasn't like he hadn't tried to lose himself in his work, focusing heavily on interviews and arrangements; he even had much of the staff set up now and was actively in the middle of recruiting students. To a certain extent, therefore, he had been successful in this purposeful distraction, had at least given himself some other, temporary focus. He sighed again. Nothing else, though, was her.

He was walking through the gardens which surrounded the school again now, was feeling the effects of her once more; even in her absence she shook him to his soul. He could explain none of this, of course, had no words or logic which could come close to reaching it, yet there was something powerful happening inside of him, something which frightened him almost more than he could sanely cope with--but it was also a force which he felt incapable of, and unwilling to, fully fight. Whatever it was she had begun in him, truly, whatever this elemental movement in his soul might be, it was sublime--held a beauty absolutely equal to its terror. He was simply incapable, then, of letting it go.

He knew, at the same time, though, that this internal revolution was more fundamental than this. This feeling which shook through him, which frightened him so very much, was one he had been missing for a long time now: it was life. For the first time since his parents' deaths, he felt something completely, was capable of focusing on something other than the blank void of pain that everything inside him had seemed to have been blanched into for so long; it was new and miraculous, was a sensation he needed to hold very close to his heart for fear of discovering that it had been entirely illusory. He wasn't able to let it go.

He understood, of course, that his feelings were certainly not proper or appropriate ones; after all, he was--in the situation's most basic elements--yearning for his employer's wife. He could imagine, as well, nothing either more foolish or more uncharacteristic of him--but none of this changed his emotions at all. He still needed her presence desperately.

His mind turned once more, as he stood, looking through the expanse of gardens around him--but their loveliness was lost on him now, provided little solace for his storm-wracked soul. Shaken as he was by all of these new, internal discoveries, however, he still couldn't eliminate their power, couldn't create any twist of logic to explain their strength. His emotions were not simple, in any way; he was not in lust and was not just responding to the rather pathetic situation which Madame Wolfe seemed to live in. It was far more than that.

His emotions rolled through him further as he tried to examine them, shaking him once again. He knew that they stemmed from some place too far inside him, too entwined with the essence of who he was, to be able to search out quickly--or, possibly, at all. It was a mystery unlike any he had ever discovered before--went far beyond the furthest reaches of any science he knew. It was a realm his philosophy of life had yet to reach--and he just didn't know how to deal with it at all.

He forced himself to continue walking, realized that he was keeping himself back from the place which had, too often, become his unconscious destination these last several afternoons. He could delay himself no longer. . . . He had to see her again.

His eyes watched the subtle rise and fall of the grass beneath his feet, as his thoughts continued. All of his recent emotions, of course, were very hard for him to decipher, thoroughly overturned every belief he had ever had about himself. He wasn't a romantic--not like Rene or Simone; while he had always half-wished for the opportunity to meet the perfect woman, he had no expectations at all that this would happen--wasn't entirely certain that such a creature even existed, not for himself anyway. After all, he knew women who fit every detail he could have ever consciously given of his ideal, women like Simone or Elena--and still he knew, deep within his heart, that he wanted something more. It, truly, had just seemed impossible.

He let out a slight sigh now, wondering where it was that he had lost himself, when he had so essentially changed. For so long, he had lived with the knowledge that he was looking for something unreal, understood that he was simply deluding himself with dreams. Perhaps--he had even told himself, more than once--he was just afraid to make a commitment, was only creating a comforting lie in order to make his actions seem more reasonable; certainly, it was the only logical explanation he could find for having let poor Elena go. He sighed once more. That whole situation had been terrible for everyone.

He looked back at that time again now, a lingering sorrow still fraying his emotions. He had broken her heart completely, had nearly shattered her very fragile sense of self when he had split up with her, despite how gentle he had tried to be, and the only reason he could give at all, at least to himself, was that it just didn't feel right, was that--no matter how loving, tender, and good-humored she was, no matter how appreciative and giving a lover--he just didn't want to wake up beside her every day for the rest of his life, wanted something more, something he couldn't name at all. He had needed, then, to let her go before he had led her on any further.

He had even come to believe, at one point, that he simply wasn't capable of a full-time, committed relationship, not over the long-term, anyway. Yet, here he was now, in the middle of thoughts and feelings he couldn't comprehend in the least, ones which pulled him in so many directions at once that he feared being buffeted to pieces. . . . He just had no idea where anything was going now.

He sighed once more, swallowing heavily, as he continued to trace back over the now-familiar path at his feet; he couldn't believe that he was here once more. He thought back. He had come out to the garden for the first time on the day after Nikita's sudden spell of ill health had led her into retirement, had been taking a break from using the school's phone to arrange for interviews with several possible candidates; he hadn't even thought about where he was going. Still, as though he had already known the way, his feet had simply led him along until he was under the window which was now part of her bedroom, and he had looked up to the heart-rending--and heart-creating--sight of her sad eyes. That, too, had only been his first such vigil here.

He closed his eyes for a second, as he continued along, trying to force back his thoughts, his multiple fears. He disliked the idea which plagued him now, truly, but he simply couldn't avoid it; he felt foolish. . . . But there was just no way back anymore.

He sighed, looking to the path ahead of him again, as he slowly continued toward the destination he couldn't escape. The gardens weren't that huge, of course, but he was dawdling, so much on his mind--his heart in turmoil. He had never acted like this before, had never been so completely lacking in circumspection. He knew, logically, that he should simply keep his distance from Nikita--from Madame Wolfe. She was ill, married, one of his employers, and still very young; she didn't need the distraction of having him moon over her, didn't need the trouble which this would no doubt bring her from both her husband and that man's mistress. She was surrounded and watched by them enough as it was. The very last thing she needed was to have him making her situation worse.

There were, of course, many facts he was ignoring in these last thoughts, but he was trying to; it terrified him too much to focus that deeply. He didn't want to think about how her eyes had shone as they had talked, about how much she seemed to return at least some of his feelings. He didn't want to think about how sad her gaze always was when she was alone--or with her constant companions--her keepers, didn't want to think about how much her eyes seemed to plead for release. He didn't want to think, either, about the torment she must go through in her marriage or in the physical symptoms she seemed to suffer from. None of it gave him peace. And none of it, as well, seemed likely to lead him in any direction except the most dangerous one imaginable.

He came up close to the spot below her window once more, but he didn't look up, stared out into the garden, instead; it was these last thoughts, after all, which plagued him the most. He had, indeed, made an impulsive and silent vow to this woman from the day they had met two weeks ago--a vow to be her guardian, as much as that was possible. He might be twisted into pieces by his feelings for her, but he couldn't abandon her now, couldn't allow her to suffer alone. Her health and sanity was his sole quest, was becoming his only true one. . . . Her emotions were for someone else.

None of these thoughts, however, could keep his heart from beating louder just from being here, near the place where he had come simply to be near her presence so often. He let out a deep, shuddering breath, as he prepared himself to look up at her room once more, to gaze on the place where he had seen her for several days of these past two weeks. Walking into the garden had become his custom, in fact, had become a habit which he hoped his other employers wouldn't question too deeply. Still, he doubted that subtlety was with him at the moment. Everything he felt for her was always in his eyes.

His gaze traveled up finally, his breath pausing, heart thumping more loudly, as he prayed for her vision--and a sadness more profound than he had words for overcame him when he saw that the window was empty. Madame Renard must be with her, must be keeping her in bed once more; it had become her habit of late, as far as he could ascertain. He sighed, eyes lowering, as the sorrow of her absence rang through him; he swallowed heavily. There would be no sunlight today.

He turned away from the house again, making his way toward a bench in the small arbor which stood at the center of the school's gardens, trying to let his mind wander, trying to distract himself. They had done a nice job at revitalizing this place--outwardly, at least; he remembered it all too well from his childhood. After the murder, after the terrible events which had finally ended Madame Delasalle's life, the school had closed, of course--and everything around it had begun to wither and die. The buildings had become the targets of stones thrown in contests of local boys like himself and Rene; they had even dared each other to go inside, after embellishing on old stories of the late Madame's beautiful and vengeful spirit. He smiled slightly. The whole place had been overgrown and deserted then to the point of being treacherous, until the village had worked together to seal off all access, keeping children like himself out. He wondered if it had ever truly worked.

His mind shifted once more, as he looked around himself again. Still, all those memories of his childhood seemed very distant now. There were rose bushes in bloom, were flowering shrubs and vines--was even the beginning of a small vegetable garden at one end of the property. His gaze scanned back to the building for a second, before he turned to retrace his path. Rotting wood inside the school had been torn out and replaced; paint had been refinished; new landscaping had begun. He smiled. The place had a life once more now that it hadn't known for sometime--possibly ever, if the whispers he had overheard from his parents' conversations as a child were true. This was finally a place where children might be happy, if only he could find the right sort of people to surround them with. He sighed, his smile fading. He just hoped that his choices would make the beautiful Nikita's dreams a reality.

He came to the place he had been searching for and looked back at the school, his eyes drawn once more to the window which was hers; he sighed once again, his mind inevitably drawn back to her. They had given her Madame Delasalle's old room, the one she had finally died in; they had put her into the center of a lingering family horror. He felt something like a shudder inside him. He could imagine nothing more terrible than that.

He swallowed heavily once more, as his mind circled around the woman who had taken up such a large place in his soul, his heart saddening further. It seemed awful enough that she should be married to a man like Wolfe, a man who had lived down to nearly every pedantic, controlling expectation of him in the last two weeks which Michel had originally surmised. He still had no idea what had led to the match, truly, but it certainly wasn't love, or even affection; neither of them showed anything like that. While they were both quite civil with one another, it was an almost studied politeness, one which had been worked on. It was all very hard to figure out.

He let out another saddened breath, as he sat on the stone bench near him, thinking into this again, obsessing--as had become habit by now. The closest he had come to understanding the pairing before him, however, was that it had been arranged--but even that made little sense. This wasn't the 18th century, after all, and Nikita certainly seemed to be no fragile spirit of a girl who needed, or sought, constant outside direction. Indeed, she seemed quite sensible and brave, if also quite idealistic. Absolutely none of that, though, backed up any decent theory of why she would marry a man such as Wolfe. His heart sank even further. It just made no sense at all.

He continued trying to see into her reasons for several more minutes once again, however, unable to stop himself--but absolutely nothing logical came to mind. The closest he could guess was that it might have something to do with her illness; perhaps she had simply been too sick to argue when it had been pressed upon her. He sighed. It was the nearest he could come to anything like reason.

His thoughts of her were wracking, though. He could feel the shift in him, the winds of loneliness and torment beginning to howl once more through his soul, as his eyes continued to scan over her room as though she were suddenly going to appear. . . . It didn't matter how obvious it was that she wouldn't.

He could avoid it no longer, then--the ache which gripped so tightly at his chest at the loss of her, the shattering sense of disappointment which had gripped him when she had failed to appear on each successive day. He was beginning to wonder, in fact, whether Wolfe and Madame Renard ever planned on allowing her to surface again; the ache within him set in more completely. He hoped so, of course, but he truly wasn't certain. They really did seem more than happy to run things on their own.

He sat for another few minutes simply staring at that room, the ache in his chest growing stronger all the time. What made the feeling even worse, though, was how familiar all of this seemed, was how uncomfortably close it was to the stories he had heard of the Delasalles and Nicole Horner; he shuddered just slightly. But that was a thought better left far away. After all, it wasn't likely that two more such people would come to inhabit the very same spot, wasn't quite credible that any other pair would try to repeat such past atrocities--was it? He shook the thought from his head. No. This was a new school and a thoroughly new era; Nikita Wolfe was not the shrinking violet her aunt had once been. Things could never go the same way twice.

He forced himself on, therefore, forced himself to believe this; any other possibility was simply too terrible to contemplate. Still, he supposed that his fears had something to do with one of the reasons why--despite the awkwardness of his situation--he couldn't give up his current obsession, couldn't give *her* up at all. Even if he had little defense against whatever physical pains were assailing her--even if the thought vastly overturned every old theory of reality he had ever formed before, the beautiful Nikita had found a way into him, had brought life to a heart--and to a school--he had thought long since withered into nothing. He just wasn't certain that either of them would quite exist anymore without her near.

He swallowed heavily again, a deep shudder of spiritual craving making him ache. He couldn't abandon her, had to keep her close, had to know she was well. One headmistress who had died long before her time was enough for any school, truly. . . . Even if it was partly for such very selfish reasons, then, he just wouldn't let it happen again.

Chapter 7

She knew, objectively, that the day was bright; the way she had to squint into the sun told her that. Still, nothing really made it feel very warm to her; nothing could take away the light frost, the despair which seemed to be forming around her heart. She wasn't certain, truly, that anything ever could. He wasn't hers, after all. . . . That thought alone was enough to ice over all her emotions for good.

Nikita was walking sadly, slowly through the gardens around the school now, was lost in her painful thoughts. Even the fact that she had finally been let out of the solitary confinement which Madeline had ordered, under the guise of treatment, just wasn't enough to make her happy. Without Michel, she wasn't certain that she ever would be again.

She walked along the path which led behind the school quietly, half-noticing the amazing landscaping of the place. Paul had hired an American expatriate named Walter to work on them. He was a strange old guy, one who had been past his prime even in the decade he still seemed to belong in--but he carried his '60s traditions with him, nonetheless. She even half-suspected that he was growing something rather illicit in a locked basement in the school. She smiled slightly to herself. He was harmless enough, though, was even rather sweet--kind of like a kooky old uncle, only with more of a glint in his eye. She liked him.

They had only spoken once or twice, then, but she had grown rather fond of him already--and he had taken to calling her by some nickname he alone had created for her. He was the easiest member of staff to get along with so far. . . . If only all the rest of them made her feel so welcome.

She had little else to learn from any mental perusal of the older gardener, of course, but she let her mind turn on one other point before her thoughts went on. God only knew why Paul had had the sense to hire him, of course; despite his obvious horticultural talents, he really wasn't her husband's type of person. Still, she supposed that, in some things, Paul would sacrifice his personal preferences to get the job done. That was like him, too.

She looked around at the lovely results of Walter's work but was thoroughly unable to take in the beautiful gardens before her; everything in nature now just seemed to reflect her mood. Instead of the gorgeous, full blooms of the trees which Walter had nurtured, she instead imagined the worms which crawled within them, ready to eat away their beauty from within. Instead of the bright sun above her, she could only focus on the dark clouds which hovered at the edge of the sky. None of it held the beauty for her heart which her head claimed it saw; none of it seemed quite real. Without one very essential ingredient, after all, it meant nothing. And that ingredient was not hers to have.

She sighed heavily, as she continued along the path, only half-conscious of where she was heading--attempting to ignore the pain which pulled tight within her; she tried to focus on analyzing her more surface thoughts, instead. She was trying to remember back to a literature class she had had once, to the term one critic had used for such personal perceptions of the outer world, to a trait of English Romantic poets; it took her a second to find it. The pathetic fallacy--that was it. She smiled. Well, that was her, alright--pathetic. If only she would wise up someday.

She felt a very small pull in her chest and grimaced slightly. Hm. No, that obviously wasn't somewhere she should go; she refocused her mind quickly. She had never quite understood the venom of that term for such perceptions, of course. After all, didn't everyone see the world from their own eyes? What would Michel's chosen field of study say about it, anyway? Wasn't it just the theory of relativity in action? She shook her head. Too bad that didn't help her at all.

Her heart pulled again in her chest, but this time it was more an emotional than a physical pain; she gave an ironic smile, as she stared down at the path before her. Well, she had managed not to think about him for a whole two minutes or so; she supposed that was good. All she needed now was a medal to show for it.

She tried to just move along, thinking about nothing for a few moments, but couldn't quite work up the will to. Her mind was drawn back, instead, to the one path which had preoccupied it so thoroughly for these past two weeks; her smile faded. She just couldn't get away from him at all.

She gave in to her thoughts of him once more, then, but was overwhelmed again by the torment of sensations he brought with him. The man was a whirlwind to her, whipped up all of the old desires and dreams she had tried so hard to lay to rest, destroyed all of her attempts to live a quiet, resigned life as the wife of a man who didn't love her in the least. She couldn't get over him no matter how hard she tried. . . . It was just too bad that he didn't care at all in return.

The pain of this thought was overwhelming, blew through her like the first hints of a violent, terrible storm; she did her best to frost over her emotions in response, sighing heavily, as she stared ahead of her, looking blindly off into the distance, her mind turning. Well, no, she supposed her last thought wasn't quite right; he did seem concerned for her, at least--but she suspected that he would have felt the same concern for any ailing colleague. After all, if all the things which Madeline had told her recently about Simone Phan were true, she herself really wasn't his type at all; she was too young, too immature, too ungainly and too foolish to attract such a beautiful man. He, indeed, had the sense to prefer a woman closer to his own age, a beautiful artist, one who--she had no doubt--simply reeked of charm, wit, and refinement. The unsophisticated, unstylish girl whose mind could switch into gutter language in under a second, if she wasn't watching herself very closely, would never appeal to him. He just felt sorry for her because of her heart. He was just being kind.

She closed her eyes tightly, as she followed the path's curve, the whirlwind within her blowing more wildly; her torment was overwhelming. It hadn't been helped, either, by the conscious realization of her motives in taking this particular path through the gardens. This, after all, was Michel's walk, was where she had seen him enjoying the air more than once. The fact that he had sometimes looked up to her window was no doubt either just a mild concern for her health or, perhaps, merely a disconnected study of the building's architecture. She had no ability to please a man such as him. She was not capable of capturing the attentions of such a god.

She sighed again, as she opened her eyes, then, swallowing back her tears heavily; she still couldn't let herself cry, couldn't be so foolish. It wasn't Michel's fault that he was so perfect, that--as he would stand in this garden below her--his hair would reflect the sun in passionate streaks of red, his eyes a forest of kindness and intelligence. It wasn't his fault that he was so achingly beautiful he made her want to cry, made her want to reach out and touch the glass before her--as though it could somehow bring her closer to him. It wasn't his fault that nature had bestowed him with every loveliness at her disposal. She swallowed heavily. She just hoped that Simone was worthy of him, in spirit, as she seemed to be in looks. He deserved the very best.

This mental path, though, didn't last for long; she listened to her own thoughts for a minute, growing angry. God. What was it with her lately--what was wrong? It wasn't just that her heart seemed to have plans all of its own, physically; even emotionally, it was completely uncontrollable. Here she was, a sensible, married woman, the proprietor of a soon-to-be-opened school, and she was acting like some love-struck teenager, instead. The realization rankled. It was ridiculous, was the stuff of the romance novels that Abby had always read so copiously, without Dominic's permission, not the thoughts of a woman who had, up until just recently, demanded the things she wanted out of life--despite the wishes of all those around her; the breath she let out was slightly enraged. When the hell had she ever become so disgustingly sappy?

This fury, however, only lasted for a few long seconds. She sighed once again, as it drifted off, too, trying to look on the bright side of it. At least her anger had temporarily chased away her tears. That, she supposed, was something.

Her mind looked back over the changes of the last few weeks, as well, as she resigned herself to the internal shift. There had been way more alterations to herself, and her life, than she had liked. Ever since that weird turn her heart had taken at Michel's interview, in fact, things had been changing--and not for the better. . . . She didn't like it at all.

She tried to calm herself further, though, knowing this turmoil wasn't good for her. She supposed, too--in many ways--that she might be able to blame some of it on the emotional flux her new condition had her in. After all, she really had wanted to believe, in most conscious ways, that the heart condition her father's doctor had diagnosed wasn't as serious as everyone thought. She had had a heart murmur ever since she was a child, indeed, and nothing particular had come of that; she had never even felt it until recently. Every medical resource she had checked out, too, seemed to say that it shouldn't have been a big deal, should have been easily coped with. She swallowed back her sorrow. She still didn't understand why her heart had suddenly decided to make other plans.

She continued on the path in front of her slowly, her sadness welling through her, as her thoughts went on. She could no longer deny, of course, that things had changed, that her health was declining; the other week had just been the worst of it yet. She couldn't ignore it anymore.

She sighed once again, therefore, trying to be strong, as she always had been before. She knew that she was probably just having trouble coping with her own mortality, might well just be suffering from the fallout of the new and unpleasant fact that her death was no longer only an eventual certainty. Maybe, then, Michel was just her way of avoiding the truth, of finding a place to hide. Maybe she just wanted something to believe in at the last.

She was trying to be logical now, of course, but none of these thoughts really helped her; none of them made her feel any better at all. The sorrow, instead, just grew within her until it seemed to be lodged in a huge ball in her throat, impossible to hold back again. . . . It was just so very hard to be strong.

She forced her mind to try to be rational, however; she knew she needed that. It made sense to her--her infatuation with Michel--seemed obvious in too many ways. Not only was he a very beautiful, intelligent, and kind man, but her own emotional needs were very raw at the moment. She needed someone who would listen to her, who might, at least, not judge her as much as her husband and Madeline always did; she needed a focus away from the painful truths of her life. But she also needed--she supposed--something to believe in, some source of strength and beauty which nothing else in her life was providing for her at all; Michel, therefore, was it. She smiled ruefully. Poor bastard.

She stopped walking for a moment and looked up at the window to her room, sighing, letting her mind switch paths again slightly. Her illness wasn't really the only source of her pain at the moment; she shuddered a little before dropping her head and continuing along another path, lost in thought. She was feeling things in the school, as well, which went against every bit of good sense she had ever had--things she knew very well weren't real. Sadly, she just couldn't make herself have enough sense to dismiss them all.

She sighed, however, forcing herself to be rational. Some of her new unease, of course, went back to the obvious--to her situation within the uneasy triangle which she made up with Madeline and Paul. Their presence was never really comforting, despite their professed intentions, never made her feel any better. Madeline may even have stayed with her for much of the last two weeks, but there was still no sense of tenderness in her nursing; if anything, she seemed to watch her with a clinical sort of detachment, as though she were conducting a science experiment. She tried to repress her shudder. It wasn't a very comfortable thing to be on the receiving end of.

This, though, wasn't all of her discomfort with Paul's permanent partner. The woman, truly, had shoved pills on her as though they were going out of style; she only had a vague idea of what they were about, half the time. It was hard, too, to even tell the effects of them, since her good days seemed to fluctuate. Her nurse had finally run out of some of them, at one point, however, and was now waiting with Paul to find "the right doctor" to take her to. . . . She wasn't even given a choice in that.

Her heart ached a little again at these thoughts, but it wasn't really a physical pain. It wasn't only Madeline's tender mercies which had left her so uncertain, either. Monsieur Zalman had also kept her on her toes. Every time she had gotten out of the shower, in fact, there he had been, claiming that he needed to fix something in the room; she had barely gotten a towel around her once or twice before he had barged in. Madeline, as well, had simply led him into the room a few times, seemingly unaware that this might cause her some discomfort--leaving her open to the slimy looks which the man gave her as though nothing were unusual about it. It wasn't really a particularly pleasant way to recover her balance.

This, however, wasn't all of the causes of her discomfort. For all that these other problems disturbed her, there was something which made her even more jumpy than them--as much as she tried to repress the reaction. No matter how often she told herself, truly, that her sense of unease had more to do with Zalman's too-frequent presence in places he shouldn't be, she feared, too deeply, that there might be more. She just didn't like it at all.

Her mind worked around these fears, though, no matter how much she tried to hide. She was, after all, showering in the very tub where her aunt's husband had once pretended to come back from the dead, was stepping out of that shower onto a bath mat which lay over the spot where Christina had died. Sometimes, late at night, she could swear there were sounds and voices where there shouldn't be, as well--ones she couldn't quite attribute to her dreams. She swallowed heavily. It just all seemed too upsetting, certainly didn't help out her heart. It only made her life seem likely to be much, much shorter.

She felt utterly lost at the moment, of course, felt battered by doubts and anxieties. Her mind was tossing through all of these thoughts, as well, as she turned another corner of the path; she wasn't even watching where she was going. His voice, then, surprised her. "Ni-ki-ta--Madame Wolfe! I didn't expect to see you out here today."

Ohh. She looked up to see him, the man who plagued her thoughts, the one good focus in her whole decaying world; she had no idea how wide or desperate her eyes were. She let out a small sound and bit her lip, too, holding back the tears. She felt silly as hell, but--especially after her last, disturbing memories--it just felt too good to see him. If only she could get herself in line.

She swallowed heavily, trying to compose herself--but with little success. "Michel," she whispered.

God. He knew his eyes were wide, were drinking her in, knew that--once again--they showed her everything he felt so deeply. Still, especially given the saddened state she was obviously in, he couldn't help the surprise and concern there. "You look as though you're unwell." He took her by her arm and led her softly to the bench. "Please have a seat."

In some ways, of course, she knew that she should probably just turn and go, knew she should distance herself from this man before she made too great a fool of herself to ever recover from. She just couldn't, though. The comfort of his gaze, of his sheer presence, warmed her for the first time in weeks, made her feel some true sense of life again--however illusory it might be. She just couldn't turn away.

She swallowed heavily once again and allowed him to lead her, then, but it still disturbed her how good even so simple a touch from him felt. She took a very deep breath. She really had to get a handle on herself.

He watched her closely, as he sat beside her, looked into the sadness in her eyes; his heart thumped again. Dear God, he wanted to help her. It really was almost the only thing which was beginning to matter to him.

He knew that his concern for--as well as his growing devotion to--her was evident in his eyes. Still, he couldn't quite make his hand leave her sleeve; even being this close seemed immense, was too important to back away from yet. He couldn't make himself not ask. "What's wrong?"

She gave a very small laugh, knowing it was a question she could never answer truthfully. She only wished she could.

She took a deep breath before she looked back to him, then--covering with a less important concern. "You've been doing a great deal to help the school to open on time, I hear." He gave a soft smile, not quite answering. "I just wish I could help out more."

It wasn't quite the answer he wanted; despite himself, he felt his heart drop a little, felt something like disappointment ache inside him. Of course, he wasn't at all certain what he had expected her to say--"I hate my husband; run off with me and love me forever"? He repressed a laugh. Hardly likely--or sane. He couldn't, after all, expect her to share his feelings to anything like the same degree.

He pushed back the slight sadness in him, therefore, and answered; he finally made himself stop stroking her arm. "You'll be a great part of this school, when you're recovered. Until then, it's your health that's important."

He had expected, of course, that she would take this . . . well, in any way but the one she did. She laughed a little derisively, shaking her head, as she looked away from him; his words, however kindly intended, had struck too deep. "I'm dying, Professor Samuelle. If I wait for recovery, I'll never see this school in action at all."

No. Everything in him seized for several seconds, something within him dying at the words; the breath he let out was nearly tear-filled. No, he wouldn't believe this, not of her--and he couldn't let her think it, either. His mother had thought the same thing near the end, after all, had simply allowed herself to die of grief--had seen nothing in her future to live for; he couldn't bear for that to happen again. . . . He wouldn't live, if it did.

It took him a few seconds to be able to pull himself together; his voice was still a little shaky, as he spoke, a slightly begging tone evident. "You can't believe that, Madame Wolfe. Anyone can heal." She looked back at him, a little anger in her gaze now, as his eyes begged her to listen. "*Anyone*."

She didn't want to be angry with him, of course; she didn't want to feel this way. Her desires, however, were meaningless now. He had hit on a spot which was far too sore at the moment, had reminded her of how very little she had to live for, anyway. She misdirected her anger, then, her emotions lashing out without conscious thought, as her eyes narrowed, her tone a little cutting. "When the heart stops, life ends, Michel. Or hasn't your science taught you that yet?"

No. It was too much. He felt an inner freezing, an ice storm of pain; her words were far more cruel than she could ever have known. He winced and looked away, giant fragments of sadness breaking loose inside of him, damming up his soul; his voice almost disappeared entirely, as he began to crawl back inside himself, no longer open to life. "I know."

Oh. Everything changed for her once more at that moment, her volatile emotions swinging again. Her eyes widened at his reaction, a shudder of torment ringing through her--a second before her rage melted into despair, and then self-hatred. Her cutting fury surged. What was she doing? Why was she lashing out at him? She knew it wasn't his fault that she had nothing to live for, wasn't his fault that he was in love with someone far more like himself--that he had the sense not to feel the same sort of infatuation with her that she had fallen into with him. She closed her eyes tightly for a second, a tear running down her cheek, before she stood again, horrified by her behavior, by how childish she had suddenly become. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She began to leave.

It was her last movement, though, which tore him from his hiding place deep within himself, which forced him to move; the thought of her abandonment shook him to his soul. He was assaulted in that moment, in fact, by about a hundred different desires, a thousand different needs. He just couldn't let her leave him at all.

He was struck in those few seconds, as well, by a million aching images, so many ways to make her stay. He wanted to grab her, to pull her very close to him, and kiss her with every ounce of passion he had ever felt or dreamed of, wanted to hear her soft moan of acceptance. He dreamed of finding a nice spot of soft grass, of making love to her tenderly, then wildly, until she admitted once more that life could be good, until she had a reason to live--until he saw the light reenter her eyes. His breath shook, his whole soul screaming. He needed so much, needed her love, her joy--needed this beautiful woman to *see* him, dammit, not to just stay so lost in despair and fear that she felt there would never be a way out; he needed her to want to be alive. . . . He needed her to want him.

It took him several long seconds, before he could regain the fraying strands of his control. With an immense effort of will, however, he did none of these things. He just moved in front of her very quickly, blocking her path, his whole manner begging for her to listen. "Please don't go."

His eyes were sparking, his breathing still a little ragged, his whole manner *wild*--despite the layer of quiet civility he attempted; she let out a small breath, looking into him deeply. She couldn't understand what was happening, though, his desire to keep her here, was thoroughly incapable of comprehending what could have motivated him to have any sympathy for her at all, much less to be in such a state of near-desperation; it took her a few seconds to speak. She just could not fathom what he wanted from her.

She did finally rediscover her voice, though--but, when she did, his, now more soft, gaze had worked through to her; she was apologetic, all her anger evaporated. She was so sorry he had ever seen it. "I didn't . . ." She couldn't finish. "I'm sorry. That wasn't what I wanted to say to you."

God. His growing calm began to dissipate once more, something lighting deep inside his eyes at her words--something which both amazed and terrified her. It was a flame she could almost touch, one hotter than she had ever imagined seeing; she took in a deep breath, as his suddenly husky voice breathed out to her. "What *did* you want to say to me?"

Oh. Her heart pounded--but not for any painful reasons. They were both caught like that for several amazing seconds, too, simply staring into each other deeply; it took Nikita that long to form some sort of an answer. "I . . . I didn't mean to lash out at you. I'm sorry."

His heart sank just slightly; he sighed a little, trying to reel back in the thousand fantasies he had been having of what she might say. Once again, he was letting his dreams run away with him. He really needed to try to control that.

The fire in his eyes didn't go away, however, even if it became more tender. He couldn't blame her for his reactions to her, after all--even if it was a little disturbing how easily she had created this thoroughly novel tendency in him. His heart warmed to her again, as he sighed quietly. "Don't be. You've obviously been under a great deal of stress lately. No one can blame you for that."

He was being too kind, she knew. "But . . ."

He shook his head. "No." He pointed back to the seat, a small smile on his lips. "Please."

Her heart thumped, as she looked at him--but in quite a pleasant way this time; the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled just made him immensely more beautiful. Ohh. If only he were hers.

She nodded softly and acquiesced, and he sat back beside her again--their eyes still locked for another long moment. Then, he watched her rest herself forward on her knees, her eyes on the ground; she seemed to be forming her next thought. He waited. "It *is* more serious than that," she said finally. He understood exactly what she meant.

He sighed once more at her words, therefore, saddened, his heart sinking again; he wasn't entirely willing to believe. Still, he had hope, had to believe that things would be well. . . . He just had to make certain that she felt it, too. "It doesn't have to be," he answered quietly.

She had been lost to her own thoughts, her own, pained, realizations, but his words worked through to her curiosity, if nothing else. She looked back at him slightly, as he went on, his head dropping a little. "My mother," he took a deep breath, "she had a heart condition for most of her life, a serious one." He focused back on her, eyes gentle. "But she believed in living. She wouldn't just die."

She listened closely, lost to him. He smiled, as well, and those crinkles showed again, making her knees water; she was glad she was sitting down. He was a very dangerous man for her equilibrium.

His gaze was tender and loving, as he looked into her still, seeing that she was listening; he continued to tell her his story. "She loved my father dearly, had two children, raised us well, and lived to her fullest every day." He looked deep, hoping he was getting through to her--but he also suspected that some, as yet, half-conscious fantasies had begun to show in his eyes. He repressed another sigh. If only she could see his real feelings.

She didn't catch all of his thoughts, but her heart thumped pleasantly again, as she listened; his eyes showed the warmth of his memories, his voice gentle. It was so lovely to see. "She was happy," he concluded.

Something inside her tugged a little at this last thought, though; she swallowed slightly. His words were so beautiful--but they *were* past tense. She braced herself to ask. "'Was'?"

He could feel himself shrink back into some inner hiding place a little, as he prepared himself to discuss it; the breath he let out was shaky. He had never really talked to anyone about his parents, since their passing, after all; even he and Monique tended to talk around the subject. He looked down at the bench, his voice barely a breath. "She died last year, soon after my father." All the light had passed from his face, the shadows of his torment clouding his features again; his eyes showed his torture. "She just stopped believing."

Oh. She couldn't bear it. The look of muted but absolute sorrow on his sweet face made her moan slightly, made her want to cry with his pain. She reached out to put her hand over his, squeezing tenderly. She was so *very* sorry for her earlier words now, was so ashamed for having given him any more sorrow. She explained quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

He smiled slightly, not meeting her eyes; he shook his head. The empathy and tenderness in her tone was a small amount of comfort, of balm for his scarred soul. He answered softly, still lost in his memories. "There was no way you could." He sighed, his thumb beginning to run instinctively over her hand.

It was this last sensation, however, which broke both of them from all their previous thoughts, which made them pause, their breaths seizing slightly. For each of them, the simple, light touch was far more, wonderfully, amazingly disturbing than they had ever imagined or experienced. Nothing else had come close. Neither of them were innocents, of course; both of them had known far more sensual and explicit sensations--and still neither of them had ever felt anything else quite so truly intimate before, had never felt so connected to anyone else. It would have been nearly impossible to explain--but it was enough to make both of them feel as though everything they had always understood to be reality before had been wrong.

It was a tantalizing, sweetly disturbing, frisson of a few seconds, then, but it passed quickly, as they came back to themselves, back to the world they knew. They looked up to meet the other's eyes, drawing back their hands--unsettled deeply by the connection, no matter how beautiful it was. Nikita cleared her throat and looked away, as Michel's eyes just widened; it took him a second to speak, trying to keep his voice calm, forcing himself back to a previous path. "Anyway, you have to believe in the future."

She was trying to keep herself in line, was trying to remain sedate--but it wasn't really working. Her breathing was coming a little faster, truly--but the thousand emotions in her, as disturbing as they were, were lovely, as well. She was no longer sure she wanted to escape this moment.

She smiled at him finally, then, a little calm regained, nodding a little. A very tiny part of her was beginning to believe his words now, could feel a desire to live just by looking in his eyes; the fact that he was already taken had been long forgotten. "I suppose I do," she whispered. His smile grew deeper, and her heart thumped pleasantly in response. "Thank you."

There were a few seconds after that, of course, when they simply stared into the other's gaze; neither of them could really understand it at all. Both of them even felt a little foolish, were entirely uncertain of what was happening, of why they were suddenly acting so very different from all they had so long been. Still, all of the tender and disturbing emotions they had felt for the last few weeks were growing more intense again--despite all reason and logic. Neither of them could escape it at all.

They were broken from their thoughts finally, however, by the sound of a man clearing his throat; Nikita's eyes widened, fears that the sound behind her was Paul's sinking deep. He may not love her, but dalliances with one of the teachers before the place had even opened wouldn't sit well with him, either. She turned back slowly, a little afraid. She wasn't at all sure what she could say to him now.

Her fears, though, were, fortunately, unanswered. Instead of the disapproving, snake-like eyes of her husband--the ones which would have seen *so* clearly that, despite the outward innocence of this moment with Michel, her emotions were somewhere entirely different--an amused grin met her; she heard Walter stifle a chuckle, before he was able to speak. "Madame Renard was looking for you, Sugar." Her fears melted; God only knew how he had come up with that nickname. "I think she wanted your opinion on the school uniforms."

"That seems unlikely," her brain retorted silently. Still, she just smiled, blushing slightly, and nodded. "Um, thank you." She knew she had to go. She stood and looked back to Michel, as well, then--her gaze growing deeper. If only she could tell him the feelings he had brought to life. "And thank you."

He smiled, understanding her--in every sense. "At your service, Madame Wolfe."

She shook her head. "Nikita--remember?"

He nodded. "Ni-ki-ta."

Oh. She could get used to that, to the caress of it. She took a deep breath and smiled, before she left. He was definitely going to be interesting to work with.

Both of the men in the arbor quietly watched her go for several seconds, until one finally decided to break the silence. "She's quite something, isn't she?" the older one prodded.

"Yes," Michel answered, still lost to her.

Walter chuckled again and looked back to him. Hmm. So the quiet professor and the lonely headmistress were looking toward finding a little consolation in each other? He could get behind that. That poor, sweet woman needed something in her life other than the weird old tight-asses she was stuck with. Maybe this could be good for everyone.

He looked away again, therefore, his gaze seemingly disconnected, starting his new plan. "Nice view here." Michel gave a half-nod behind him, still watching the space where he had last seen Nikita on the path. "Of course, the flowers are even better in the greenhouse." He looked back to the younger man when there was no answer, his look slightly conspiratorial. "I could give you the key."

The man beside him began really listening again now--and it finally dawned on him that he should be suspicious. After all, he knew very little about this man--and he doubted that Wolfe would hire anyone for a non-teaching post who wasn't in his debt. He just stared at him, then, not answering.

That reaction, though, only made Walter smile more; he looked away again. The kid was paranoid. Good. If he was out for a little nooky with the gorgeous blonde proprietress, he would need to be. He shrugged casually. "Eh. Maybe I'll just leave it open for you someday, in case you decide to see it."

The younger man watched him for a second, evaluating deeply. Hmm, perhaps he was on their side. Maybe, in fact, this could be good. "Thank you," he answered, noncommittally, then, looking back to the path--repressing any sign of his newly-raised spirits, as his mind traced over thoughts of this offer. Perhaps someday he would explore it, indeed.

Chapter 8

It was amazing how much difference twenty years made in a place, how altered everything could seem. When he had been a boy, this place had seemed full of ghosts and dark secrets, ones it would only tell to the dead. Now, though, with a full, if small, staff working devotedly toward its new opening day, it had life again, one he had never witnessed in it before. It was quite amazing how that worked.

Rene smiled, as he walked through the halls of the school, ready to take a short break from the constant preparations they had all been immersed in for the last week; his mind, however, was still lost to his thoughts and impressions. He had many memories of this place, after all, but the school was a far cry from what he remembered as a boy, from the images which had inhabited his nightmares. It may not have entirely rid itself of its past, but it was progressing. He just hoped it could overcome its traumas entirely.

His mind continued on, lost in his memories. He had many things to focus on, when he thought about this place; he had been a student at the school for all of a year, before his parents had been turned off by one too many confrontations with Monsieur Delasalle and his methods and had sent their boy elsewhere. Even before the scandal which had eventually engulfed this place had occurred, as well, he had been immensely grateful for the opportunity to leave. There was a . . . sadness which had pervaded the walls here, one he had found oppressive, had never been comfortable with. He was just grateful that it was very different now.

He reached the front doors of the building, his eyes roving over the walls, his mind still looking back. He hadn't been very surprised, in some ways, when the school had been closed down, of course. His parents may have tried to keep some of the more salacious details from him, but he had picked up from the neighborhood on the basics of the devilish plans which had ended in the gentle Madame Delasalle's death; it was rather hard not to, if you were in the community at all--gossip being what it was. It had made him sad to think of all that had happened in this place, too--and of all the details he would never quite know. He was just rather glad he had gotten out when he had.

In some ways, however, he hadn't needed the scandal to tell him of the problems which pervaded the school. He might never have quite understood all the dynamics of his teachers, was rather young to have tried; he wasn't even certain that he did now, in fact, despite his much more varied experience in life. Still, he had picked up on the serious unhappiness that a man such as Monsieur Delasalle inevitably brought with him. That alone had been enough to make him want to stay well away.

He smiled a little, as his mind turned again. It seemed rather ironic to him, therefore, that he was now a part of the staff of this place, of a school which he had, for awhile, campaigned so vigorously to keep his old friend away from. Still, in the last several days, he had come to enjoy his decision, had come to think it wise in something other than an altruistic sense. Yes, of course, he had to look out for Michel; his friend was still too tormented and grief-stricken to be left entirely unwatched. Now that he was part of this place, though, he was coming to appreciate its new charms. He was quite thankful for his choice.

He took a deep breath, his new pleasure coursing through him, as he walked along a path behind the school, his eyes enraptured by the new gardens. He had never seen this place so lovely before, had never seen it even come close; his mind pondered the change. Perhaps it was the new landscaping, as well, which was beginning to give this place life again, which was bringing some beauty back to its once-dead heart. After all, when the Delasalles had run the school, there had been an aura of decay around the place--both physical and emotional, one not even the gentle headmistress could dispel--but now that was all gone. Even the old, rather scummy, pool was gone--filled in and replaced with flowers. Everything here was green once more.

He began to stare down at the path at his feet, however, as his mind turned again--not so positively this time. No, he supposed that everything wasn't truly so beautiful here as he liked to imagine; it might well simply be more the contrast to the old which appealed to him so. Not everyone who inhabited the place, truly, was so very perfect--as two of his employers well showed. Whatever the cause of the school's recent renewal, indeed, they were not part of it.

His mind dug in here, his discontent forming, beginning to bubble up in him, as a frown marred his face. Both Renard and Wolfe were tricky people--were sly, deceitful, and cunning. They understood outward forms and customs, of course, did nothing overtly wrong, but the obvious dominance they had over Wolfe's legal partner was still rather appalling--and oddly, disconcertingly, reminiscent. Once more, the school was being run by a cold, possibly even merciless, man and his chilly but brazen mistress, while his poor, ill wife received the worst end of everything. Of course, in this case, Madame Wolfe appeared to be treated more like their wayward child than anything else, her opinions only followed when it seemed convenient to them--but the similarities remained. It was really quite infuriating to see.

He allowed his fury at these facts to reign, as well, not wanting to look too deeply into these parallels; they were far too uncomfortable. After all, heart ailments did sometimes run in families, so it should be no real surprise that the niece was as afflicted as her aunt. It made sense, really, . . . or that, at least, was what he decided to believe. He just wasn't prepared to face anything else yet.

His mind turned again, then, wanting a new focus; he found a lovely one. It was Wolfe's wife who held the true, new allure of the school--who provided the sense of life it had been missing for so long. Just one of her smiles seemed to send a ripple through the teaching staff--most of them, male and female, wanting to help and follow her immediately. She was really rather enchanting. It was the sweet innocence and expectation she had presented them all with, too, which had provided the sense of anticipation everyone now felt about opening day, was she who so many of them were beginning to feel loyal toward. She was just too engaging to deny.

He smiled a little to himself, his eyes still on his feet, as he continued along the path, lost in his thoughts of the woman. Of the qualities which made her so likeable, it was this enthusiasm, the one which sometimes broke through her usual saddened exterior, which was most appealing. Her sense of passive decorum, truly, seemed only to be pressed upon her by her humorless companions, but the fleeting glimpses he had caught of her quick mind, childlike joy, and engaging humor were utterly captivating. His smile deepened, his pleasure matching it. No wonder poor Michel was so very smitten.

He continued along with these pleasant thoughts for several seconds, his gratitude to the woman growing. Still, his thoughts did turn; he frowned a little. He wasn't entirely certain, sadly, that the object of his friend's affections was entirely aware of his attention; indeed, he had been trying to keep them as subtle as possible--but they were definitely there, nonetheless. He just hoped that she was able to come to understand that in time.

His mind turned on this last thought, as he stopped to examine the detailed petals of a flower before him; it had been so long since his friend had had such hope. His soul filled with what he hoped were the precursors of joy. Yes, indeed, the beautiful headmistress had provided a possible answer to a problem he had seen for too long--to his old friend's lingering grief and misery. He knew, of course, that they were very rarely together for any length of time--and were almost never alone--but, just in the few times he had seen them near one another, the sparks had simply danced between them, had illuminated dark aspects of both of their hearts; it shone in their eyes in a way too profound to ignore. This woman was the key to Michel's soul, was the way toward his future--Rene was certain. All he had to do was to watch over them, and hopefully he would see them happy together at last.

His fingers reached out to stroke over the soft petals he was admiring, a smile on his lips. His friend, of course, would have called him a "romantic" again, with a gentle sort of derision, had he known exactly what thoughts invaded Rene's mind about the pair--but he was unmoved by any names he might be called. So what if he believed in happy endings? The entire world couldn't always be morbid and miserable. Surely some people must find the ones who made them feel whole and loved, must live rich lives with these partners; Michel's own parents had certainly done that, for so very many years. It wasn't impossible. Why, then, should he be seen as overly idealistic to think that it might happen again?

He leaned down to take in the soft scent of the flower before him, smiling once more. Yes, life could be beautiful and right, even if it certainly might not always be; he could care less how old-fashioned that notion might sound. There were roadblocks between the pair, of course--very great ones--but Rene had faith. It could be called a belief in karma or fate, he supposed, in the great wheel of life, but some things were simply supposed to happen; some people were supposed to live their lives together. All this pair needed was a little assistance--and then the plans of whatever deities might control the world would be realized. All it needed was time.

He stepped back from the object of his current pleasure with a smile and continued on his path around the school, his mind turning again; his smile faded a little with his new thoughts, though. He knew, of course, that he should probably feel a bit more unfaithful to poor Simone at the moment; he was, after all, contemplating encouraging her long-time companion to stray. Still, he suspected that he understood both Simone and her relationship with Michel well enough to have no real fears of causing her pain. For all the affection which lingered between them, his two friends had long made it clear that they were not paired for life--had even encouraged the other to follow their hearts elsewhere, from time to time. If this plan brought some joy back to the man whom they both cared so much about, then, he was certain that she would only approve.

He moved along slowly, enjoying the soft tread of the grass beneath his shoes, as his thoughts moved along once more--as he began to ponder the difficulties which lay between his intentions and their resolution. Beyond the understandable surprise which both his friend and Madame Wolfe seemed to feel over the new sensations which had sprung up inside them--the sort of surprise which true love always seemed to take you by--there was a more serious threat to their joy. Both Renard and Wolfe, indeed, were not the types to be crossed lightly; both of them would cling to anything which they perceived to be theirs--and Madame Wolfe was very definitely, in their minds, their property. To work out a resolution, therefore, one which would see the pair in question happy, while also protecting them from the machinations of the older couple, would be difficult. There would be no easy answers here.

He sighed, his pleasure muted a little, wondering on a way to begin. He did hope that life would find its way to work so that the pair were not abandoned forever to hopeless longing--but it was not a simple task, nonetheless. The couple who truly ran the school, after all, were the ones who still gave it its lingering air of depression, of confinement. All of the freedom which came with the young headmistress could be undercut in a second by the pair who claimed a right to own her. With them, the ghosts and dark secrets of the school lingered on. The outcome he wanted was the only right one, of course, . . . but they would have to be very careful to see it come to fruition at all.

He shook his head slightly, as these thoughts worked through him further, as he tried to find a way around them--but his current reflections only went on for so long. This, truly, was enough of such pondering for now; he would reach no instant answers. There was no reason, then, to obsess.

He turned another corner of the building, his thoughts running back through the last few weeks, instead. Despite some of his misgivings about coming to this place, there had only been a few truly difficult moments--almost all of them associated with leaving his old job. Michel, after all, had made his hiring here simple--and he himself had a high enough reputation to make short work of any questions. Yes, he could be unorthodox in his approach, but the children adored him--and he usually managed to overcome most of the parents' objections, eventually. He was used to teaching young girls, too, which was obviously a plus, since the school had switched over its student base as another way to distance itself from its past. He, then, would fit right in.

His heart sighed a little, though, as his mind turned slightly again. Leaving the place where he had been happy for so many years, knowing that he could not even say a proper goodbye to his favorite students--beyond the few notes he had left with Simone--had been difficult. As convinced as he was about the correctness of this path, it was always troubling to start anew.

There was a sadness to his eyes, then, as he walked more slowly through the gardens. This wasn't all of his sorrow, either. Poor Angie had nearly been beside herself, in her very quiet way, having lost both Michel, her long-time favorite, and himself in two weeks. He had hated to see the tears glistening in her eyes, as she had tried so hard to be brave. She had been so very kind to them both, truly, had been so especially understanding after Michel's losses; he hated to see her hurt--especially since she had had no part at all in their decision to move on. It was very hard to leave such a caring administrator.

Still, there was something his current musings were ignoring, was a fact he couldn't yet face. The worst part to his leave-taking, in fact, had been leaving behind Simone; it was a sadness which ached somewhere deep inside him, was an emptiness he didn't quite want to think about. Maybe they had never been more than friends, but he would miss the long nights of talks they had had so often, especially before all of the tragedy had come into Michel's life. Sometimes, in fact, poor Michel had been forced to sit by and listen to the two of them discuss so many of life's conundrums, had simply observed with a quiet smile, as he and Simone had sparred over art or literature. It was these days he missed most of all--but he had missed them for sometime, already, he knew. Ever since his friend had so lost himself to his grief, nothing had been the same for any of them. Both he and Simone felt their friend's pain too deeply for that.

His eyes had fallen rather despondently to the ground; he took a deep breath, pulling his attention back together, looking up once more. Still, he had a goal now, knew a way around his friend's pain. Never before in Michel's life--never at any other time--had Rene seen him so moved by any woman; neither Simone nor Elena--in their very different ways--had come close. True, there was nothing particularly overt about the tremendous inner changes in his friend, but Rene knew him far too well not to understand, all the same. Whenever the beautiful blonde came anywhere near him, the man's eyes took on a depth and a light which had never shone there before--no matter how much he tried to hide it. There was just no way, then, that this wasn't right.

Things changed within Rene once more, therefore, became more clear; he had no more doubts about his current path. He smiled. True, he was thinking of encouraging adultery and a sort of betrayal, but it was altogether too obvious that the Wolfes' marriage only existed for show. Hopefully, when the end he looked toward was finally accomplished, a divorce court would remember who the school had originally belonged to--and who had been the first to stray--when it came to any eventual division of property. But, even if it did not, he knew Angie would accept Michel back with open arms--and she was too inherently kind to push away any woman in need. They would have a future together, then, wherever it may be. . . . All he had to do was find a way to help them achieve it.