Chapter 12

It had been a great day so far--infinitely better than she ever could have anticipated. She had taken a course with her students which she had never imagined would work, one she had actually been afraid was going to destroy her rapport with them forever--yet, here she was, whole and victorious, for the very first time. She smiled, her heart full. For once, then--in what had many times seemed her far too long life--everything was going great.

Nikita was on her way to the teachers' lounge now, was on her way to thank the man who had given her such unexpectedly sound advice; she practically felt like skipping. She had been anticipating this lunch with him for most of the morning, in fact, ever since she had realized that the entire dynamics of her class had, at least temporarily, changed for the better. Her heart thumped happily. She just couldn't wait to thank him for being there.

She let out a deep breath, as she rounded a corner, then, just a hallway away from her destination--her mind still whirling happily; she couldn't keep the smile off her face. Perhaps the best part of it all, too, had been the fact that it had all been handled without the input of either her husband or Madeline, had even been taken care of without their knowledge; it was glorious. She was just so pleased that she had finally found someone here she could trust.

Her contentment grew deeper, as she headed into the beginning of the last, long, corridor before the teachers' lounge; she had to keep herself from running in joy, had to work to find her decorum. It was just so wonderful to have found someone who was both sympathetic and capable of understanding her problems; only Jurgen had been able to do that before, when it came to her career. Both Julie and Carla had been sweet, of course, but neither of them had been able to give her the advice of a mentor. Now, just maybe, she had discovered a new one, as well.

She was about half a hallway away from him now, away from this man who made her whole life shine so brightly--in so many ways. She could just visualize his beautiful face, could feel the warmth which had surrounded her when he had embraced her yesterday. She smiled, her heart warming again. . . . But it was just a second after that when all her happiness came to an end.

It started, actually, with a cold sensation, one which seemed to freeze something deep within her--one which was *way* too familiar; she knew someone was watching her from behind--but this someone was far more deadly than most. She stopped, as the rich, quiet voice reached out to her, snaring her as its prey, as it had so very often before. "Nikita, may I speak with you?" . . . Only a fool would have thought it to be anything but a command.

She took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together. Of course, she had absolutely no idea what she could have done now to upset the woman who seemed to believe she ruled her, but that had never stopped Madeline from passing judgment on her before. She swallowed heavily. She just prayed that she hadn't overestimated her victory with her students this morning, prayed that Karen hadn't gone to her to whine once more. Oh please . . .

She turned to meet the older woman's eyes, attempting to stay calm, trying not to show her fear; it would certainly do her no good, if she did. "Yes?"

Madeline's dark eyes swept over her, evaluating as always; she seemed content with her silent answers once she met the younger woman's gaze again. Her opponent was too wise to trust her small smile, as well. "I just wanted to tell you that I'm very pleased with how you handled your latest . . . disturbances with your students. I know you've always feared that you weren't up to the job." Her smile went deeper. "I'm glad to see that you're beginning to take advice."

Nikita's mouth hung open just slightly for a second, before she was able to close it again. Dear God. She knew? How could she possibly have known? Maybe she could have heard about the problems in class from her other students; maybe she had guessed at her fears, but the advice . . . The only person she had told, the only one she had asked for help, the only person who had given it, was . . . Her heart sank very low. Oh God.

Her soul seemed to be withering within her; she had to turn herself as close as she could to stone in order to be able to fight off the tears which suddenly pricked so strongly at her eyes. Her fantasies, her delusions, had misled her again. Her new "friend" was just like both of her other companions, was just looking out to be sure she held up their "standards"--as he himself had called them. He had even said as much yesterday. She swallowed heavily, everything in her sinking. All of her hope was being swept away, all of her previous joy and belief overturned, as one question ached deep inside her: how could she possibly have misjudged him so badly?

The torment, the whirling, painful revelations which were overtaking the younger woman were evident in her eyes, despite her attempts to repress them. Her companion smiled. Good. She went on. "Of course, next time, you could just come to Paul or myself." She shook her head. "There's really no reason to take your problems any further than that." Her gaze went deeper. "Is there?"

The heartbroken woman swallowed heavily again, allowing her gaze to finally, inevitably, fall to the floor. She had no will left for these mental battles, had no will left for anything. "No," she agreed quietly.

Madeline's polite look continued, as she nodded. "Good. There's just one more thing, then." The silently distraught woman lifted her head with some effort, forcing herself to meet her nemesis's gaze. "You and Professor Samuelle have yet to take your turn at lunch duty. I suggest that you begin next week."

As much as she wanted to be able to hide them, the younger woman knew that the tears she was fighting back were becoming evident in her eyes; she swallowed heavily once more. She wanted to tell Madeline, of course, that she would rather have taken her turn in the students' dining hall with the devil himself than Michel--but she understood that to do so would be to give both of them a victory they didn't deserve. Besides, she just needed to get far away--and the only way to do that was agree. She just nodded, then. "Of course."

Her tormentor smiled, very pleased. "Good," she said once more. She began to turn away before stopping herself. "Do come see me if you have any more problems." She smiled once again and moved away down the hall.

Nikita listened to the sound of the heels of the woman's perfect, not exactly matronly, shoes, as they echoed away from her; her heart sank further with every one. She swallowed heavily again. He had told them; he had gone to the people she was sure he understood to be her tormentors and he had told them precisely what he had to know she wanted to remain secret. She closed her eyes. Damn him. This was a betrayal she couldn't--she *wouldn't*--forgive.

This latest blow was just too much for her; there was no more she could take. Her hurt, angry eyes burned for a second at the closed door of the lounge she had almost reached, before she turned and walked off quickly in the other direction. She would never open herself to him again.

This determination to get away, though, didn't entirely help her right now; it wasn't like she truly had anywhere else to go. If she went to her room, or anywhere in the living quarters of the school, it was likely she would run into Paul; if she went to the dining hall, as well, she would have to deal with Karen and Janette. Everywhere she could think of, there seemed to be enemies. She let out a shaky breath. She supposed, however, that that was simply the story of her life.

She decided finally, then--mostly unconsciously--to head out into the gardens. Of course, since the term had begun, it was not the place of solitude it had once been, but there were still frequently spots where you could be alone for a few minutes, if you looked hard enough. And, right now, she had more than enough reason to look.

Her legs moved her along quickly, more quickly than she could have explained, should anyone be watching; the fact that it really wouldn't have been anyone's business to ask her never even occurred to her. It had never stopped them before. Her entire life, truly, had taught her that her soul was not--and never would be--her own; every action and inaction was scrutinized and judged, always would be. The one person she had thought might provide her some respite from this had just proven, once again, that there was no way out; she was and always would be a prisoner. . . . She would never be free while she was alive.

She moved along quickly through the school and out into the grounds, however, not caring about appearances. She needed to get away, just for a little while, needed to pretend that that was possible. She knew that nothing she thought was her own, of course, but at least her tears could be private for a few minutes, if she could just find the right spot. Maybe, truly, that was all she could really ask of her existence anymore.

She managed to plaster a smile on her face, as she passed a few of the students and teachers in the grounds, keeping up something like a facade. Without even fully realizing where she was going, she was headed toward the arbor, toward the spot which had already come to symbolize Michel to her; her heart sank again, when she came to understand her subconscious destination, the pain inside her shuddering deep. He had seemed so beautiful, so caring, like such a wonderful friend--until she had discovered his duplicity. . . . Oh. If only anything about him had been real.

She reached the spot she needed finally, having run a little at the end; she was incredibly grateful when she discovered herself to be alone. The bench, after all, was fairly protected by trees and flowers from the view of others in the garden. Maybe, then, she could be allowed to cry for just a few moments in peace.

She made it to the bench, sitting heavily on it, before the tears finally came; she leaned over to weep into her hand softly. She had a lot of experience with crying silently, after all; Dominic had taught her that lesson long ago. And it was one she needed very badly at the moment.

Her despair, her torment, began to overwhelm her, to swamp her thoroughly, as she wept; her body shook convulsively in reaction to her attempts to keep down the noise of her sobs. None of her pain was aided, either, by the fact that--after about a month's respite--her heart was beginning to physically ache again. She clutched at it, as she shook through another soft sob, her distraught mind turning a little. Maybe she would be fortunate now and the pain would finally kill her. It was the closest her thoughts came to hopeful, at the moment.

There was no real place to turn from her sorrow, however, was no avenue out--no matter where she tried to look. It didn't even help her that her pain seemed so unreasonable, in a certain sense. After all, Michel had never actually promised that he would keep her secrets from Madeline and Paul; he was probably really just doing his job by informing them of his justifiable doubts about her abilities. They needed to know. She was useless as a teacher, as she had already proven; "advice" was the least of what she needed. She was just lucky that she had people with some ability to run the school for her. She certainly had no right to call it her own.

His defection from her, then--she knew--was just common sense. There was no reason to believe he would want her. It was only her overly-sentimentalized view of him which would ever lead her to think any differently.

Her sobs had softened a little now, but not by much. She was still too lost to them to notice her intruder; his gentle voice nearly frightened her. "Madame Wolfe? Nikita?" He came to sit quickly down on the bench beside her, evidently frightened for her health. "Are you alright?"

It took her a second, but she did manage to pull herself together enough to look up. The heart pang had passed, fortunately, but Rene was still gently stroking over her back; she saw the fear for her in his eyes. "I'm fine," she lied, looking away again.

Despite himself, he let out a very small laugh. How could he not? After all, he had found her weeping inconsolably, her face twisted in pain, as her hand caressed over her heart. He was supposed now to believe that everything was okay?

He continued to stroke softly over her back, then, hoping to calm her enough to allow her to be capable of opening up to him; she obviously needed that now. He started on only one of his fears, too, his voice very soft. "Is it your heart?"

She let out a small, ironic laugh. The words were too true--if not entirely in the way he had meant. She didn't actually answer, though.

His questions continued. "I thought you had seen the doctor again." His voice was concerned. "Is it getting worse?"

She gave another derisive laugh. Yes, she had seen the doctor--the one Paul and Madeline had chosen for her. The man creeped her out as much as her father's did. Still, nothing was different about that; it was just another example of her utter lack of control over her own life. She shrugged, dismissive. "It's just the usual pain. They've given me some medication for it." As though anything could help.

He wondered for a second just who "they" were, but he allowed the subject to drop; there was more at stake now than this, he was sure. His eyes looked into her more deeply, though, as his concern lingered for another few seconds. As far as he had been able to tell before, she hadn't had any pain for awhile; the fact that it was back was not positive news. He sighed quietly. He just wished there was something he could do.

He continued to look at her softly, then, hoping to open her up. It was possible that her new pain was linked to whatever was plaguing her now; he needed to see what it was--and she obviously needed to be able to show her heart to someone.

His mind turned on her current state for another few seconds, however, wondering how to begin--as his sadness for her grew. Just the fact that she was not inside with Michel, as had become their joint habit for nearly a month, said more than he liked. Something had happened--and he feared greatly that his friend was involved. For the psychological health of so many he cared for, then, he had to know what was going on.

He started to try to softly coax her to speak, hoping to get through to her. "Ni-kita, please." His gentle tone at least reluctantly drew her eyes to him. "Tell me what's wrong."

She realized finally that he was stroking her back and shrugged just slightly to force him to stop; it had felt too comforting to give up before. She looked into him for a second, too, as her mind worked, as her emotions soured further. Her look reflected it. She just could find no hope in anything. "You're his friend. I'm sure you know everything already." She stood up, ready to leave. "Besides, he was just doing his job." She started to walk away.

To say Rene was puzzled would have been too mild--but he knew that he couldn't let her go like this. Whatever was going on, he needed to help work it out. Michel could be foolish at times, it was true--and he had already seen the way the man's soul had taken unconscious possession of this woman too well to think him incapable of unintentionally disturbing her in some way. Still, his friend would never do anything to harm her in any conscious way; that he was certain of. He needed to get to the bottom of this, then, for everyone's sakes. . . . Besides, with how red her eyes were, it was far too obvious that she had been weeping. He couldn't let her go back to her captors like this.

He moved to block her way, therefore, touching her arm gently. His eyes probed into her. "What is it?" She looked at him disgustedly and tried to move past him, but he didn't let her go, catching her eyes once more. "Believe me when I tell you that Michel has told me nothing." She seemed to be considering; he took a quiet breath. "Please tell me what's wrong."

She looked into him deeply for several seconds, trying to consider all the possible repercussions of talking to him, trying to evaluate him. After a minute, her thoughts finally congealed. "How good a friend are you to him?"

His eyes widened a little, as he moved back slightly. "I'm his best friend." She looked disgusted again, beginning to move away, but he just moved in front of her once more, continuing his thought. "Which means that--if he's done something wrong--I'm more than capable of telling him that." He looked into her more deeply again, his eyes begging. "What's wrong?"

She stood there, evaluating him for a few more seconds, weighing the possible costs of any decision. Finally, though, she gave in. She had already lost one friend today; if this man wasn't truly one, as well, she might as well know it now. She nodded, but there was little trust to the look. "Alright."

He could tell that this wasn't quite a reprieve, but he took the opportunity, nonetheless. At least it might give him a chance to discover what had occurred.

He followed her quietly back to sit on the bench, watching her as she stared out into the garden; her face was a little hard, as she spoke. "It's not really important, anyway." He kept from responding with the obvious, waiting for more, and she looked back at him finally, shrugging, her face blank. "I had some trouble with some students the other day, not for the first time. I discussed it with Michel." She refocused on the garden. "He did his duty and discussed it with Madame Renard." She shrugged again. "It's nothing."

Right. He let out a small breath of a laugh, but there was no humor anywhere in his soul at the moment; he was looking at her closely. "Did you ask him to do that?"

Ask? Her mind whirled with the very thought, as she looked at him in disgust, before refocusing on the garden once more. Ask him to talk about her failings with the people who gave her nightmares? That was likely. "No," she responded simply.

He let out a quiet breath, his soul swirling a little. He was beginning to piece together now what must have happened--but he wasn't liking any of the conclusions he was coming to--or the very cold feeling which was taking hold of his soul, the one which always presaged danger. He continued to probe her softly. "Did he tell you he had discussed it with them?"

She shook her head, her look still sickened. "No."

"Then . . .?" he prompted.

"Madeline did." Her voice was still rather flat, as she stared out into the garden.

Dear God. His understanding grew clearer--but the cold sensation was growing exponentially along with it; he let out another quiet breath. Whatever terrible path had just opened itself before them, it was one which only the greatest caution could free them of. . . . If only he knew where to begin.

He felt a little like he was baiting a wild animal by probing into all of this further, of course, but he couldn't just let it go. Still, he could see what dangerous territory he was wandering into; whatever had been done to this beautiful woman in her life, after all, it had certainly involved a great deal of betrayal and pain. He went on, nonetheless. "And you're certain that he was the one to tell her?"

Her gaze spun back to him, her eyes flashing wildly; there was a lioness in her eyes suddenly--and it was a very hungry one. He kept his look calm in the face of it, trying to hold his ground, as she answered. "There was no one else in the room, Rene. There was no one else I told." She looked into him for another few seconds, her gaze becoming more disgusted by the moment. "There was no one else to tell them but him."

It was all too much for her now; she was sick of discussing it. She gazed into him for another few seconds, then, before she shook her head, rising. "Now you see why it's all unimportant, anyway. I've taken his advice. Next time, I'll just go to Madeline, instead." Her eyes rounded on him again. "You can tell him that, if you'd like." She began to walk away.

God. He watched her for just a second, stunned, before he moved to stop her. There was something very fierce about this woman when she was riled, something which--just possibly--needed to be summoned up more often, if for the right reasons. It just gave her a life and an energy which too often seemed to be missing in her, one her despair usually undermined badly. If only she could channel this energy toward her true tormentors, . . .

He gave up on these brief thoughts, however, as he caught up with her quietly. "Nikita." She stopped, sighing, her back to him, as he came up to her side. "If Michel has done this, you have *every* right to be furious." She looked at him cautiously. "But I can't believe that he would." He took a deep breath at her dangerous look, his gaze placating. "Just let me talk to him."

She seemed to consider it for just a second--her face almost hopeful--before she dismissed it. She shook her head, preparing to move away. "There's nothing to talk about."

No. He laid his hand on her arm to stop her, but she didn't look at him. His heart was pounding a little with the immensity of what was in the balance; he just had to get through to her. "Please." She looked at him with a sigh. "If nothing else, give *me* the benefit of the doubt." He worked on her logic. "I've done nothing to harm you yet, correct?" There was a pause before she nodded reluctantly. "Good. Then just allow me to look into this."

She still looked doubtful; he could see that he hadn't won yet. He continued to try to coax her, then. He just prayed he was winning, as he went on. "You may keep your fury, if you'd like. But, please, don't aim it at me just yet." He smiled slightly. "One chance?"

Despite his eloquence, he hadn't been entirely successful yet; she let out a small, unhappy laugh. She wanted to just go ahead and write him off now, truly; it would have been so much easier to, to just give in to the truth. She was dying, after all, and there was no one around her to make her last days any brighter. It was a fact which needed to be accepted so she could move on toward her fate. She knew that she really should start to.

She sighed, as she gazed into him further, however; he did seem so earnest. There was something about him, too, which seemed to invite confidences, which gave her more comfort than she normally felt, even around Michel; comfort, after all, was not really one of her primary emotions with that man--even on the best of days. Somehow, Rene was a hard man not to like.

She nodded reluctantly, then. If Rene betrayed her, as she suspected he would--as she knew anyone would in the end, now--she could finally rid herself of the illusion of warmth in her life. It would be easier that way, would be easier just waiting and hoping for death. She sighed. But she supposed she could wait another few days, or hours, until she started on that path. It was only down to time now, anyway. "Alright."

He let out the breath he had been holding finally. Good. He squeezed her arm softly before letting her go. "Thank you." She nodded at him again and moved off toward the school.

He watched her go, his mind whirling. He was pleased, of course, that she hadn't pushed him away completely; it would have been catastrophic, if she had. She *had* to have someone to trust right now, or he feared very greatly that she was lost. He just had to do something to prevent that.

The cold fear inside him grew stronger, though, as he looked up to the building which, once more, seemed so very dark and intimidating to him; all of his early experience with it seemed to be coming back. Something was going on, he was convinced now, that was far more than just a controlling older husband and his mistress working full-time to manipulate a beautiful younger woman. Something here was . . . off. Now, he just had to discover what it was.

He began to move back toward his classes, though, as the cold within him grew, his fears icing over the edges of his soul. He wasn't certain, of course, just what it was that he was looking for around him, but he prayed that, whatever it was, it wouldn't be half as immense as he feared. He swallowed heavily. If it were, truly, then he had no idea how to save her anymore.

His heart shuddered a little wildly, as the dark cloud which surrounded the school seemed to move into his soul. He didn't want to believe, of course, what his fears were telling him, but he knew that ignoring his instincts would only help out whatever evil was building so strongly here. He didn't know if anyone could stop it, either--certainly, no one had all those years before--but he knew he had to try. He felt a cold wind, as it blew into his soul. God help them all, if he failed.

Chapter 13

It was amazing how everything could change so very quickly, how fast sorrow could come. Michel knew this intimately, of course--had for longer than he would ever have liked--but each new reminder only grieved him further. He may have survived both of his beloved parents' passings, but he was entirely uncertain that he could make it through this as well. . . . There was only so much beauty, after all, that he could live through being denied in one lifetime.

It had been a very long day for poor Michel. It had, in fact, been since just after lunchtime yesterday that Nikita had said anything to him at all. Without any warning, without any explanations, she had grown cold and distant--an anger too deep to fully comprehend flashing in her hurt, sorrowful eyes each time he grew too near. His heart throbbed painfully. He had no idea what had happened at all.

His sadness ached in him now, of course, but he could only work off of his theories; they were rather thin at the moment, too. The last he had truly seen of her had been when they had had their discussion in the teachers' lounge the other day, after her terrible class. He had had no word of her for nearly a day after that, however--and the waiting had been unbearable.

His torment had seemed unending--but it was nothing to what was to come. He had spent the entire next lunch period, as well, worrying about her more intensely by the moment, trying to determine whether she were even alright or not. It was the first day in over a month, after all, that they had not spent the hour or so break together; he had been slightly frantic, then, when she hadn't shown up, had worried a little desperately about the possibility that her class may have brought on a new attack, may have brought back, after all these weeks, whatever illness seemed to plague her so. He shuddered, remembering. It was a fear which always lived too close to his heart.

He had waited in the lounge until the end of the lunch period, therefore, just hoping that she would show up, praying that his advice had worked for her--had made plans to go look for her at the end of it, too, if he hadn't seen her before then. When it was nearly time for his class, therefore, he had left his place of anxious vigil, had passed by her classroom just as she was approaching it--but the look of disgust and hurt on her face, the one which was aimed *entirely* at him, had stolen his joy at seeing her well, had nearly robbed him of breath. God, it made him ache to remember. He hadn't even been certain how to begin.

Her obvious rage with him, however, hadn't made him back down; he had been determined to try to talk to her, had needed to figure out just what was wrong--had ached to help her with it, whatever it may be. It had been in the next few moments, though, that she had effectively ended all discussion between them to date; her blue eyes had flashed an unbearable depth of pain and betrayal at him, as he had come closer. As he had begun to speak to her, as well, she had responded to him only with a cold, "Good day, Professor Samuelle," before closing the door to her classroom and beginning her class early. . . . She hadn't even looked back out the window on the door to see whether he had left.

He shuddered once more, as he thought through it all obsessively again, as he attempted, once more, to decipher just what had led them to this place. It wasn't only her look of pain at seeing him, either, which made their distance so clear but the very fact that she hadn't called him by his first name; it had been weeks since she had done that. It all ached in him deeply--and he just couldn't figure it out.

He tried to understand it once more, however, wrestled with it yet again--looking into himself. He had done nothing wrong, nothing to hurt her--not that he knew of, anyway. Yes, he had left her the other day with his advice for her class, but he had tried to let her know that he would still be there to discuss her problems, should she need to. His mind spun. Could she really be so angry that he had given her his insights?

He shook his head a second later, though, trying to calm himself once more. No. She just wasn't so petty, never could be; even a simple, few months' acquaintance had taught him that. What, therefore, had he done?

He was wandering down a hallway of the school, lost and hurt, as these thoughts plagued him once again. He was at least glad that classes were over for the day--for the week, actually; at least he wouldn't have to pretend to be involved with the lessons for awhile. Still, since it wasn't his weekend off, he had no way to get away from--or deal with--any of his problems. All he could really do was brood.

He was only barely broken from his thoughts, as he looked up to see Rene coming toward him, the usual smile on his face; he tried, half-heartedly, to return it. Even Rene wouldn't be here to talk with this weekend, after all. He sighed. He would be very much alone.

"Michel," his friend clapped him on the shoulder, beginning to turn to walk with him, "just the person I was looking for."

He sighed quietly again but allowed the blonde man to lead him; his attempt at pleasantries was still half-hearted, at best. Any words came hard. "Ready for your weekend off?"

Rene's eyes searched into him sadly, looking too clearly into his heart. He knew very well what an effort any of these niceties were, at the moment. He smiled outwardly, though. "Of course--but I need to discuss something with you first."

The auburn man nodded, still distracted, lost to his thoughts, as he allowed his friend to lead him along; he wasn't focusing enough to question why they were headed into the teachers' lounge. "What is it?"

His friend smiled, but Michel was too distracted to see just how little pleasure the look truly reflected. "In private," he responded quietly. Michel looked at him curiously but was too depressed to inquire further. He waited.

Once they were finally alone at their destination, though, Rene shut the door and turned to him, his eyes looking around and outside of the windows for a moment. Before he spoke, too, he looked at the other man with serious eyes and put his finger to his lips. "You remember the problem I was having with Karen?"

There was a confused look in the sad green eyes, as something finally registered in the depressed man's mind beyond his own emotions. After all, Rene had never spoken to him of anything of the sort; he had only guessed at the child's dislike of him from seeing them together. His friend's whole demeanor, as well . . . His confusion registered more deeply on his face--but the blue eyes before him grew deadly serious, the finger before his lips firm; Michel shook his head but went along with this charade. "Of course."

His friend let out a silent breath of relief. Michel was brilliant, of course, but he was more than a little distracted at the moment. Besides, he had always been practical in the extreme--and, while he could play politics if he needed to, he had no desire to play make believe alone with his friends. He was glad to see, then, that he understood.

Rene went on, beginning his test--as the auburn man near him stared in confusion. "Well, it's grown much worse. I suspect that she and Janette were plagiarizing their last papers, but I have no real proof. Still, I can't let this go on."

The green eyes before him were still incredibly confused. If anything, as far as he could tell, Karen had simply written off Rene's class, simply hadn't ever cared enough to cheat. From what he knew of her usual tactics, as well, she would probably either not write the paper at all or would write something meaningless and less than half-hearted the night before. He had no idea, then, what this was about--but he tried to keep things convincing; Rene rarely did anything, no matter how apparently inexplicable, without reason. "But you've dealt with these sort of students before. Why not just use your old techniques?"

"Mm, I suppose." The blue eyes thanked him for his temporary understanding. "Still, she seems to complain so loudly when she's upset; she's done it with at least three of the other teachers now. I'd hate to have Renard down my throat for this." His eyes went to the p.a.

God. His friend's gaze widened; he had to stop himself from letting out an audible breath. He managed to answer calmly, though, in what he hoped was the way he needed to, his eyes still staring in horror at the p.a. "She's not so bad, Rene. Besides, you can't let these sorts of problems continue."

Rene's heart beat a little less quickly, thankful; he had understood. The blond man's words went on, keeping up the pretense. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I'll handle it, when I return. Anyway," he seemed to be changing the subject, "is there anything I can bring you from Paris this weekend?"

"Well," Michel began.

"Why don't you walk me to my car? We can discuss it on the way."

The two men left the building, keeping up a half-conversation along the way--but Michel would have been hard-pressed to actually tell what it was they were discussing. His mind was spinning. He followed his friend's lead, however, waiting for an opportunity to question him; it was only once they were near the man's car that he spoke freely, his eyes sparking with a hundred different emotions. "What was that about?"

Rene cocked his head. "What do you think?"

The man before him shook his head in amazement; he really didn't want this to be true. "They're monitoring us?" Rene nodded. He stared off into the distance letting out a breath; a second later, though, his mind filtered through to the real meaning here. His horror was reflected on his face. "They heard my conversations with Nikita."

His friend nodded again. "Probably every one of them. However, Madeline seems to have used the last one in particular."

God--no. Michel covered his eyes for a second, the meaning of this new knowledge almost too much for him. "She thinks I told them what was happening in her classes." And her fears about her teaching abilities, his mind added. He looked up at his friend, who nodded once more, and his heart beat more quickly; he took a deep breath, about to leave. "I have to tell her the truth."

To his surprise, however--and for one of the few times since he had known the man--Rene didn't back him. "No." He put his hand on his arm, stopping him. "Do nothing."

"What?"

"*Nothing*," he repeated. He shook his head, as his friend started to speak; his gaze held an urgency, a gravity which couldn't be ignored. "Something is going on here, Michel, something more than just their plans to pull the two of you apart."

The man before him swallowed heavily, fighting back his fears; he was confused, didn't want to believe. "You think they're trying to hurt her in some way?"

Rene let go of his arm, taking a steadying breath; his eyes were deep. He debated for a second with telling him the truth of his fears, wondering whether it would help for him to know. After all, there was just something about the pair who ran this place which was altogether too familiar, was some air of malevolence they possessed, was something evil in the walls around them . . .

He stopped his thoughts, as he looked into his friend further, his mind shifting. He couldn't tell Michel these things, however; it was just too dangerous. He had no idea what the man might do, of course, but he was fairly certain that it wouldn't be helpful, in the long run; he was far too lost to the beautiful Nikita to trust his judgment now. He tried to refocus him, then. "I don't know. But I'm certain that, if my suspicion about their surveillance is correct, we'll be better off not letting them know that we've figured it out, hm?"

His friend swallowed a little, finding it hard to accept; his green eyes showed a hint of terror, as his mind turned again. "But she thinks I've betrayed her."

Rene nodded, understanding too well; he tried to reassure him--hoping to keep him from doing anything too foolish. "We'll deal with that. Right now," he started to get in his car, as he spotted someone coming out the door of the building, their eyes piercing, "just wait and see whether my theory is correct."

He knew it was the correct advice to give, of course, but the green eyes before him were still haunted; Rene's heart ached a little to see his pain. He put his hand on his friend's, as it rested against his car door; his voice was a whisper, his gaze strong but gentle. "We'll look after her, Michel," he reassured him.

It took a few seconds, but his friend finally nodded in acknowledgement, almost imperceptibly. Rene watched him cautiously before looking back to the school once more; he let out a sigh. He had to move on. He just prayed his message had gotten through.

Michel watched, as Rene closed the car door; he managed to move away, still a little stunned. He understood, somewhere inside him, of course, that they couldn't be seen talking together for too long, but this knowledge didn't help the new feeling in him: the feeling that told him he had just been tossed into a very violent storm--and that his one lifeline was being taken away. "See you on Sunday!" his friend said more loudly. He drove off, then--leaving him behind to fight through on his own.

Michel waved, but his mind was very much elsewhere, was reeling; he just could not accept this, didn't know how to begin. He just wasn't at all certain what to do.

He turned back toward the house, the sensation of being untethered still swaying through him, and looked up to see Paul Wolfe nod to him in his usual, cold manner, before the older man moved off into the garden. Michel shuddered a little, still trying to comprehend it. He had been in jobs where his conduct was closely watched, of course; his was a career where such supervision was expected, to an extent. Still, this went far beyond all of his previous experience. He was entirely unsure how to process it now.

He walked back into the school, still more than a little shaken; he tried to calm himself. First of all, he was telling himself, Rene might be wrong. Perhaps someone had been outside of the door when he had discussed Nikita's class with her; perhaps they had simply seen how upset she was and had surmised the rest. Perhaps, too, there was nothing more to be concerned with here than a rather cold husband whose possessiveness was greater than he had expected. True, he couldn't imagine that Paul actually cared for his wife, in any way, but he did think it likely--given his obsession with appearances--that he would want to keep any possible admirers far away from her. It would be just like him. And Madeline, too, would be only too happy to aid him in making the other woman miserable.

He was trying to convince himself of this, but he couldn't keep his mind from spinning, as he wandered through the school, heading for his room; his attempts at explanations only took him so far. The building still looked different to him now than it had even just a few minutes ago. Not only every classroom but every hallway, public area, dormitory, and bedroom seemed charged with duplicity; every one of them had a p.a. box. If his employers were listening, then, there was little place to ever hope to be able to hide from them again.

His thoughts--his soul--were in turmoil, were lost in an overpowering storm--not surprisingly; his equilibrium wasn't helped, either, when he rounded a corner to come face-to-face with the woman he cared so deeply about, with the one who now so obviously thought him to be her enemy. His own heart ached, as well, as he saw her rubbing absently over her own; something in him shuddered deep. He just prayed that, whatever Rene had in mind to help them, he could see it through before the pair who controlled her destroyed all of this beautiful woman's hopes and love of life. Oh God. The fear ate into him, froze over his soul. He just couldn't go on living if that happened.

He wasn't broken from these fears, either, as her eyes met his. There was a sorrow so profound in them now that he flinched slightly. It hurt to look into them. He just wanted to comfort her, to take her in his arms and tell her that he would protect her, that he would never share her secrets or fears with anyone else, would never betray her soul; he took a deep breath. Still, he forced himself not to. He just looked at her with undying love, instead.

She tried to walk past him without stopping to speak, of course--obviously wanting to get away. Unfortunately for her, however, he had expected that--and he couldn't let her go without spending just a few more seconds in her presence; he adored her too much not to be near her whenever possible--even if she did hate him now. Nothing on earth could change the way he felt anymore.

He stepped into her path softly, then, taking any opportunity to be close, and told her what he was certain she already knew--just to have an excuse to prolong the moment. "We've been put on lunch duty together for next week."

Her anger and torment were roaring in her--were only matched by her sorrow; her eyes were cold and accusing, as they finally met his own. Why on earth had he stopped her? Did he really think she wanted to talk to him again?

He could see her torment--and hated it, hated himself a little for strengthening it by giving into his own need. At least, though, he noticed that she had stopped rubbing over her heart. Her voice was flat. "I've seen that."

He wanted to stay near her, wanted any excuse to. Still, there really wasn't much else he could say, no matter how much the need to be close burned in his soul. Despite his desire to tell her the truth, he forced himself to trust Rene enough not to. He just nodded, therefore--his eyes still loving, wishing he didn't have to let her go. He sighed, his heart throbbing. "I'll see you then." He prayed that his next full sighting of her would be sooner, but . . .

God. The sorrow was too much, was far too intense; she had felt her soul throbbing throughout this entire, overtly pointless, conversation, had barely withstood it. His closeness hurt, reminded her of all she now knew he wasn't. . . . She just wasn't certain how to survive.

She didn't want to have to talk to him at all now, of course, didn't want to feel all that she still did in his presence. It was just too much to ask of her, made her ache. She felt, truly, like all of the will was draining from her body once more, as she spoke with him. She let it go, though, not needing it any longer, resigned once again to simple existence. It was just so much easier that way.

"Fine," she whispered, before she moved away, trying to ignore the weeping part inside of her, the one which begged for all of her old fantasies to be real. Oh God. If only they had been. Her heart ached, and a new thought moved through her. . . . She just prayed that she would survive his proximity again.

God. He could feel that she was giving up, could feel the sorrow of it collapsing his own heart. He turned to watch her go, feeling as though something vital inside him were deserting him, as well. He didn't know whether either of them could survive.

It was sometime during that Saturday, as well, when Rene's theory was finally proved correct. Michel had been lying on his bed in his room--this room which was so much smaller, was *far* more spartan, than the one he had given up at his old school. He was wondering, as well, for the first time, if he had made the right decision in coming here. Of course, if he hadn't, he never would have met Nikita. He sighed. For all of the pain that the relationship was bringing him at the moment, too, he still couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for having met her. No hell he could ever face could do that.

He sighed once more. He was absolutely unfocused on the preparations he needed to make for the week to come, of course, was too lost in his pain to be able to think so clearly. His mind, instead, was rumbling through so many of his torments and fears--his eyes focused solely on the p.a. which was in the corner of his bedroom, his gaze burning at it; he still jumped a little when he heard a voice from it, though. "Professor Samuelle, are you in there?"

His mind answered silently, before his mouth could. "I suppose I've been too quiet to be heard."

"Yes," he answered aloud.

"Would you come down to my office, please?" Madeline's soft voice commanded.

About five different responses passed through his mind to what obviously wasn't a request, but only one of them was suitable for public consumption. "Of course." All the rest of them, though, were his company, as he followed her order.

A few minutes later, therefore, he was standing in Renard's office; she smiled, pointing him toward a chair, which he took reluctantly, as she began. "You've been doing quite well, Professor Samuelle. You seem to be controlling your faculty quite admirably."

He managed to cover up his emotions, although it took some effort--giving only a small nod of acknowledgment. The very fact that she saw his job as being about "control," rather than support, said a great deal about her.

She saw that she would get nothing further from him yet; she went on, then. She knew what buttons to push to reach her goal. "Of course, there do seem to be a few in your staff who've been having problems lately."

Ah. Rene's words were being proved true, finally. If only that were good.

He didn't want to give her any hints of his suspicions, though; he looked unsure. "What do you mean?"

She smiled subtly again. "From what I can tell, both Madame Wolfe and Monsieur Dian seem to have had some trouble with cheating in their classes--or, at least, so they seem to believe." He made no response, his face still blank, so she continued. "Perhaps it would be for the best if you mentioned at your next staff meeting the differences between the *fear* of cheating and the reality of it. Or, perhaps, your staff simply needs to come up with better tests and assignments."

Michel managed to keep his eyes from narrowing at her, but only barely. He was trying not to feel ill. His voice just managed to be calm. "And if the cheating is real?"

Her smile continued. "Then they should take better control of their classes, in order to prevent such situations."

He couldn't help it; he was beginning to feel a little sick to his stomach, despite his efforts, but he managed a tight smile. His disgust lingered, though. It wasn't just the fact that she was suggesting that two excellent teachers were somehow at fault for their problem students' behavior, it was also the rapidly sinking feeling within him at the knowledge that they were indeed all being monitored, and that she was now asking him to take part in it--to reinforce this message--as well. His soul burned with wrath. Damn her.

It took a great deal of effort to remain blank, to keep his emotions under control--to not let slip his horror at these new revelations. Still, he knew that going against this woman openly was not the right plan. He didn't need Rene here to tell him that. "Of course," he replied.

Her smile deepened--almost genuine. "Good." She leaned back in her chair a little. "Now, about Madame Wolfe, . . ."

He bristled slightly, but tried to hide it. There were no words for the rage which was growing within him. His voice was still calm, however. "Yes?"

Her look was quiet, but this fact was deceptive, as was so much about this woman; it still resembled that of some predatory beast--a very cunning one. He fought down his disgust, as she readied her verbal blade. "I've put the two of you on duty together next week," he knew that already, "but I think it may be time to make it clear to one and all that there's nothing . . . unseemly going on between the two of you."

He couldn't help it; his look lasered her, despite his attempts to stay calm, his fury beginning to singe through him. He could imagine no good way to answer her inference, of course--which was obviously just what she had planned; he said only a few of the things he was thinking, then. "Since there never has been, that shouldn't be a problem." Her subtle smile met him, as he took a quiet breath to calm his rage. "Besides," his look bore in a little deeper, despite himself, "I think you'll find that there's more of a distance between us now."

Her smile still wasn't warm, but it grew deeper; her voice was rich with pleasure. "Excellent. Of course, if there are any further problems with her teaching, you will let me know."

He managed to smile, despite the bile which was rising in his throat. He would open Nikita's secrets to this woman only in Hell. "Certainly."

"Good. That will be all."

Michel nodded and left--with quite a few things on his mind; his determination to protect the woman who had captivated him so had only grown more fierce. He would not let her down; he was resolved. He would die before he allowed himself to lose this battle.

Still, he knew sadly, he had no particular path yet which would ensure his victory. Mostly, then, he was hoping that Rene would return soon with a plan to keep his angel safe. Something here needed to be done, indeed; Nikita's soul had to be reclaimed from the monsters who lived to torment her. . . . None of them would survive for long without that.

Madeline watched him, as he left, a smile still on her lips; he was a very intriguing opponent. She was going to enjoy this immensely.

She looked over to the door at the back of her office, waiting for her companion to arrive--but he didn't seem happy when he did. His words were, as always, to the point. "Are you sure this was wise?"

She gazed back at him briefly and then returned her focus to the door the younger man had left by. "I believe so. I think it went rather well."

The snake-like blue eyes were glowering. "He suspects."

Always doubting, she thought. She sighed slightly, then, but her smile continued. "He suspects something, but he has no idea what." She looked back to him, her eyes calm as always. "At most, he thinks we're controlling and vaguely omniscient." She shook her head. "That's not a bad thing."

Paul wasn't convinced; his eyes narrowed further. "And if he figures it out?"

She turned back toward the door. "He won't. Besides, we have options, should that happen."

Sometimes, her overconfidence galled him; it could so easily lead to their downfall. He moved closer to her. "We should never have tried to divide them. They were distracted before."

There was a small laugh. "On the contrary." She looked back to him. "Nikita's suspicion of him is helpful. It keeps him from becoming too close, from asking too many questions." Her eyes went deep. "That could be far more dangerous than any distance we may instill."

He didn't like it, however; his impatience showed. He leaned against her desk, staring at the wall, his gaze distant. "This could all blow up in our faces."

Ah--so distrustful, as always. She stood, smiling a little to herself, before she reached her perfectly-manicured fingers up to turn his head back to her; her look was still pleasantly calm, as she saw into his real objections. "Give it time. It's early yet." He gazed into her uncertainly, as she folded her hands in front of her. "Anything worth having is worth the wait," she reminded.

It took him a few seconds, but he smiled at her finally; a perverse sort of tenderness grew in his gaze, as his memories ran back. "You were." Her smile grew.

He looked her over for a second, eyes almost tender, before gazing off once more, thinking into her claims. His smile grew deeper finally, as he allowed himself to share her optimism. Yes, he supposed she was right; frustratingly, she usually was. She always had been the one with patience.

He made himself take a long-term view, then, forced himself to share her optimism. Things would work out, no doubt, in the long run; they always did for the two of them. They could use the budding relationship between the pair to their advantage in their plans, could easily twist them in whatever ways might be necessary--and then their goals would be realized. His smile deepened. Everything here would be theirs alone.

Chapter 14

There had been many times, quite obviously, when life had not gone well for him, when terrible events had simply seemed to compound; he was sure that, by this point, he should have grown used to it. Still, no matter what his preparation, he had not been ready for this latest turn of events. He wasn't sure, indeed, that anything could have actually prepared him for this at all.

It had been a week now since Michel's suspicions, the ones which Rene had instilled in him, had been confirmed--had been a week full of quiet shock. True, he had told himself more than once, he shouldn't be allowing his employers' surveillance to get to him this badly, but he found it hard not to, nonetheless. It may be a fact that they had yet to fully act on any of their intelligence gathering, but he feared too greatly that those days could end at any time. He had no idea, as well, where things might go, when they did.

His heart ached, as he thought into it all again. It was this sense of uncertainty, truly, which made his life so stressful at the moment, was his fear of the possible scope of the pair's duplicity which upset him so much. He had never worked in an atmosphere quite like this before, had never felt so much like not just his every word, but his every move, was being monitored--and he didn't like it at all.

It was the fact that he had no experience with such unacceptably curious masters that made him all the more unsure, as well. If they had begun the school with such measures already in place, he had thought more than once, what new lengths might they go to in the future--especially if they began to further suspect his true feelings for Nikita? He shuddered slightly. There was no way to know. And it was this very lack of knowledge which upset him the most.

Michel sighed once more; he was sitting on the floor, leaning against the seat of the couch behind him, his mind wandering. Of course, if he allowed himself to be entirely honest just now, he knew that it wasn't the simple fact that everything he said in the school might be monitored which really upset him the most. No. What made him feel the most empty--what hollowed out his soul until he felt like the beating of his heart was thunderous, echoing--was the fact of his continuing distance from Nikita. She still didn't know what was happening, what was really going on--and she still, therefore, distrusted him. Dear God. He just wished that fact hurt less.

His heart ached deeply with this memory, however, defying his wishes; there was no use in pretending otherwise. He knew, in fact, that this much abused organ would probably never quite recover. Rene, of course, had promised to use this weekend to try to smooth things over with Nikita for him, had hinted that he would let her know of some of her tormentors' duplicity. He hoped his friend kept that promise, too--no matter what new fears it might bring his beloved; he wasn't certain he even cared how selfish he was being. If the man didn't, after all, . . . well, he just wasn't certain that he could survive for too much longer with that look of pained accusation shining out at him from her beautiful eyes. Every time that happened, something in him died. He just didn't want to exist for much longer like that.

His musings, though, only lasted for so long; he was broken from his thoughts slightly by the voice of his companion. His mind thought into his present company briefly. He had originally planned to spend his weekend off with his sister and her family, of course, but, somehow, he had just needed an old friend, instead; as dearly as he loved Monique, there was only so far he could open up to a sister who was nearly half his age. Simone, however, . . . He sighed, as her voice worked through to him. "You're quiet tonight, Michel." Her dark eyes flashed mischief at him, a look he had seen so often before. "Someone on your mind?"

God. A pang of regret ran through him, as he looked up further, to where she smiled at him from the kitchen, washing up after the wonderful dinner she had cooked for them; she had already shooed him away from helping. He began to hate himself a little. She was so very beautiful, had always been so devoted to his welfare and happiness--and he was here now to ask her to help him deal with his pain over the distance of another woman. What a bastard he had become.

He didn't really know how to respond, therefore; he looked guiltily back to the floor, his voice soft. "I'm sorry."

Oh. She gave a small laugh, as she looked him over. Poor, dear Michel. When life went badly for him, he could torture himself about nearly anything--could blame himself for so much he had had no part in creating. She shook her head, hoping she could break him out of this self-castigating mood; her voice was gentle. "Do you think I don't know who it is--this woman who makes your eyes flash with light and then with sorrow?" He obviously hadn't understood her real message; he only closed his eyes, guilt etched into every feature, despite her teasing tone. She shook her head again and put a dish back into the sink; they could wait. He needed her now.

She picked up her wine glass and came over to him, her voice caressing his name tenderly. "Michel." He forced open his eyes, but it was a struggle; he couldn't believe now that he had been callous enough to come to her. She went on, though. "Why do you blame yourself?"

He looked up at her finally, eyes so apologetic, his sorrow welling again. "I shouldn't have come, shouldn't have . . ." He shook his head, looking away.

She wasn't accepting his apologies. She laughed again; she knew him far too well.

She took her place on the rug near him, then, her gaze deep. "So--you were planning on using me for sex, planning on forgetting her for one night?" He looked back to her, hurt that she would think it, but she just shook her head again. "Don't you think we know each other better than that by now?"

Oh. Some of the hurt had left his eyes, as he recognized the truth of her words, but his heart still throbbed with so many kinds of sorrow. If only it would leave him. He lowered his head. "Still, I . . ."

She broke him off. "What? You should stop treating me as a friend, asking for help with your problems, just because you're in love?"

His eyes shot up to her, his heart beating wildly; he had no idea how transparent he was. He tried to deny it. "I didn't say tha . . ." He looked into her eyes, though, and realized he was talking to his long-time lover; he broke off, sighing. "I . . .," he tried again, only to give up once more at the sight of her tender gaze. Ugh. He put down his wine glass and lowered his head into his hand, groaning slightly.

She laughed again, loving him but still amused; her heart was light, her hand ruffling through his hair. "Ah, poor Michel." Her laugh deepened, as she raised his head to meet her gaze. "Do you really think there's anything I don't know by now?"

Despite his efforts at self-hatred, his soul let out a small sigh at her understanding. It did feel good to be with someone who knew him so well.

He laughed a little, therefore, despite himself again, shaking his head. "No." He kissed her hand gallantly, without passion, before letting it go. "I just didn't want you to think . . ."

Once more, she wouldn't allow him to finish; there was no purpose in it. She waved her hand dismissively. "Eh, leave it." Her eyes shone. "I know you didn't come here to use me." She shrugged. "You never have. Our relationship has always been one of," she cocked her head, with a smile--her eyes alight a little in pleasant memory, "mutual passions."

She knew he shared the peace of the memories, but he only smiled at her wanly; her eyes looked deeper into him, then, as she became more serious, stating what they both knew. "You came, because you needed a little distance--and a friend. Rene is already there, of course," her smile faded, "but you're too afraid that anything you say to him may be overheard."

His heart warmed a little, as he smiled down at the floor; he was putting together a few pieces he knew very well should have been connected for him before. He sighed slightly. He had just been too distracted to notice. "Rene was here last weekend."

She gave a smaller, slightly shy, smile; her thoughts of him were in her eyes. "He slept on the couch, yes."

He was pleased by the information--but not by her reticence; he looked up at her, more seriously--about to tell her what he had so many times by now. "Simone, . . ."

Her smile grew deeper, as she shook her head. "No." She knew what he would say, of course; he had been trying to push her toward Rene for quite sometime now, had been pointing out what she had only recently realized to be true--and she blessed him for that. Still, this wasn't the time. "This visit isn't about me. It's about you--and your own needs."

He nodded a little, understanding her words, trying to accept them; he looked down to the floor, nonetheless, though--his guilt evident again. "Still . . ."

No. That was all she would take. She made a sort of "tsk-tsk" noise and lifted his head firmly; her eyes brooked no nonsense. "No more apologies tonight, Michel." She saw a little of his contrition, and her look softened. "Let's discuss this love of yours, instead."

He smiled weakly, agreeing, his heart thanking her--but he still moved out of her touch to look away. There were too many levels to this current conversation for him to be comfortable looking into her gently incisive gaze. He tried to deny her words. "I never said I was in love with her."

Oh, of course. She made another small, dismissive, noise--shrugging. "You never told me you were a man, either, but I think I came to understand that long ago, as well." Her tone was soft but reproving; he looked at her a little miserably, though, and her look and voice softened again, trying to be gentle with him. He certainly wasn't being that with himself. "There's nothing wrong with this," she encouraged quietly, her eyes lighting a little more. "From what Rene's told me, she sounds quite perfect for you."

He almost opened his mouth to apologize again, but the change in her look stopped him; he knew when he had been beaten. He sighed, then, switching subjects slightly--wanting to hear his other friend's insights. "What did he tell you?"

She shrugged once more; it should all have been so obvious to him, but she indulged him nonetheless. "That she was immensely beautiful. Long blonde hair. Flashing or sad, deep blue eyes," she tilted her head, her look playful, "depending on her mood." Her smile deepened. "A body which could drive a man quite insane."

He looked a little surprised, his tone unsure. "He said that."

She laughed, pleased that he seemed to be reacting to her more normally. "I know that look in Rene's eyes." She went on listing. "A deep mind, an innocent, loving soul." She laughed again. "But no doubt with passions which would be altogether fiery if roused." She shook her head. "I don't have to even meet her. She's perfect for you."

Oh. His eyes shone at her a little, as his heart thumped. Amazing. They had both definitely captured her--to an extent. His face grew a bit more serious, as he looked down, however. "She's a lot more than that."

She wasn't put off by this change, understood it too well. "Of course she is," she echoed sincerely. "You're in love with her." He looked back up to her smile. "And, given that I have yet to see that happen," her eyes grew ironic, "and also given the incredible quality of woman who normally attract you," he smiled with her, "well, the rest is obvious."

He didn't keep up the teasing mood she had begun, however. Something in him was shuddering lightly from her words; they had struck him far more deeply than he had expected. He gazed down to the floor, his look distant, his mind tracing back. "Have I never really been in love before?" It was the sort of thing he could only fully discuss with this woman, the one who knew him so very well. He looked even more thoughtful, trying to object. "I cared for Elena deeply."

She was still smiling. "Not deeply enough to want to marry her."

He looked back up. "I care for you."

She laughed again. "Listen to yourself. You 'care for' us--not love." She shook her head before he could contradict. "Yes, I know you love me, but you know as well as I do that you're not *in* love with me; we've never even pretended that was true." She understood his reluctance to fully comprehend this; her smile was sweet, then, as her eyes asked him to face the truth. "I've never seen you like that before, not with Elena or anyone else." She sighed, her look gentle and proud--like a loving mother whose son had finally found *just* the right girl. "This is a first."

God. Something in him was shaking. He couldn't deny her truths. If only that were still possible now.

He could only barely bring himself to speak about this, however; it was just too immense. He closed his eyes with a sigh before looking back to the ground. It was too obvious she was right. His voice was soft. "I'm scared."

Oh. Her heart tugged for him, for this poor, gentle--but so very insular--soul. She knew how he felt, of course; she was experiencing it ever more frequently with Rene. Still, she understood, as well, that it must be even harder for him. It overturned all of his old philosophy. She sympathized, then, but her answer was light. "That's how you know."

He laughed to himself, his memories flowing with her words. She and Rene--ever the romantics and philosophers. He had enjoyed their happiness in their beliefs more than once--even if he couldn't bring himself to share it. His smile faded a little. Still, he supposed, for the first time, that they both might be right.

He was beginning to understand the world in a slightly different way--not for the first time since he had met Nikita. His mind shifted paths, however, digging more deeply into his current situation; he shook his head. "This is more complicated than most, though."

She nodded, understanding--hiding her fears. If he only knew. Rene had already discussed with her his deeper, pressing anxieties of what was truly happening behind-the-scenes at the school, had told her of his terror about what he felt too strongly all around him there. She, like he, of course, didn't really want to believe it, but she knew that ignoring it could only make things worse. They had both agreed, however, not to discuss it with Michel. . . . He was far too fragile as it was.

She changed subjects only slightly, then, refusing to face this head-on with him. "Would you like to hear my plans for next semester?" He looked up, a little lost, dragged back from his myriad worries. She laughed lightly at his obvious confusion. "How much do you think your little school might need a quite excellent art teacher?"

Something in him warmed again, was brought back from the cold place he was taken whenever he considered his fears. He smiled slightly for a second, as well, immediately adjusting to the plan, before his pleased look faded a little; he couldn't let her do something so foolish. "Simone, I don't want you to get into this just for me. Something's wrong there. They listen."

He had hoped this would convince her, of course--even if he secretly wished for her calming presence; she and Rene had been his anchors for so long. He sighed, though, changing subjects only slightly at her happily determined look. "And I have no idea what Madame Renard may do with you, how she might use you, might work you to come between myself and Ni-ki-ta." He shook his head. "It wouldn't necessarily be a safe move."

Her smile now was a little forced, even if she was determined to keep it up. She had a feeling, after all, that this was actually a vast understatement. Still, the way he unconsciously caressed the other woman's name, the look in his eyes as he talked about her--these things couldn't be denied. Her old, beautiful friend had finally come upon a woman who was right for him, who was truly meant to be part of him, who was fated to share his life; even Rene agreed. She couldn't just allow them both to fumble through alone.

She held back her fears, then, and put her hand on his calf, patting gently--her gaze reassuring. "I know. But I could be a good distraction, so long as your beautiful headmistress understands that I'm just there as a sham."

Oh. Her words had struck him too hard, had brought back his pained memories. Something in him trembled just a bit, as he looked down, his mind going back to the terrible past week--the one which had seen her utter silence with him, even when they were on lunch duty together; her cold, slightly stilted, politeness was killing him. His heart ached. "She hates me, at the moment." He shook his head. "I don't think she would believe anything I told her."

His companion nodded, not swayed. "Yes, but Rene is handling that." She smiled, as he looked back to her, her eyes still gentle. "Give her time, Michel. Her situation there is a hard one. She needs you to be patient."

He didn't say anything in response to this now--but he didn't need to; his eyes told her everything she had to know. He would wait for this woman forever, if need be. He could obviously never let her go.

She sighed happily at the truths she saw in his eyes, her heart warming; perverse as her feelings might be, his newfound devotion pleased her. She could see that--even if she had wanted to fight for him, to try to win him back to her, even had that been any part of her nature or their relationship--she still would have lost. Her old friend and sometime lover was in love so deeply that he could see no way out, could see no path toward the future without his beloved--and he obviously wanted none. She smiled at him, her happiness growing further. Good. As Rene had told her, Michel had obviously found his heart's match. That fact may be frightening the hell out of him--but it was the best news she had been given in quite sometime.

She clapped him on the leg once more, then, as she stood, breaking their silent communication--absolutely resolved. "Good, then it's settled. You'll discuss my hiring with the wicked witch and her consort--and I'll be there to help you in your quest come the winter."

God, what a woman she was. He looked at her lovingly, softly--but then his expression fell a little, his thoughts turning. "Poor Angie." He looked away. "Now she'll be losing you, too."

"Eh." She shrugged. "It wasn't me she wanted; it was you." He looked back to her sadly, as she nodded. "She'll make it through," she reassured; her eyes shone, as her thoughts turned. "You'll just have to come back to visit her." Her smile went deep. "Maybe you can bring your new wife soon."

God. He smiled up at her gently, shaking his head a little. She was an amazing woman. His eyes showed his devotion. "I should be in love with you, you know."

She laughed softly, adoring his friendship, and leaned down to pat his cheek; her eyes held their usual, slightly wicked, light. "Of course you should. I'm irresistible." She gave him a gentle kiss, before standing again. "Now take your assigned place on the couch. No matter how much you desire me, you shan't have me again. Your Nikita would object." Her eyes flashed their mischief once more.

His heart was warm. His gaze, too, was tender, but his message still clear. "As would Rene."

Her smile grew more subtle, a warmth filling her. She nodded, then, her eyes meeting his for a few more seconds, before she moved away; there was nothing more to be said for now. "Get some sleep, Michel. No one's monitoring you here." She went into her bedroom.

He sighed, a little more happily now--his heart so very grateful. He truly did have some amazing friends.

His pleasure over this thought, however, didn't end there. What astounded him even more was something which had worried him for sometime--was just how quietly and painlessly he and Simone had just resolved their lingering relationship. He had always known, of course, that they weren't in love, had known, as did she, that it should end someday--had wanted her to be able to spend her life with Rene. Still, he had always feared, as well, that it might not go this smoothly, for either of them. He lay down, closing his eyes. What a wonder she was. He smiled. Rene was going to be a very lucky man.

Simone returned a few minutes later to find him asleep, his look more peaceful than she could remember for sometime; she smiled, as she covered him with a blanket, her hand running over his cheek once. He was so very beautiful, was such a treasure--inside and out; he had so very much to give a woman. She was happy that he had finally found one who was both worthy of and suited for him. It had taken some time.

She turned away from him finally, however, putting out the light as she went, and returned to her bedroom--sighing slightly. It was true, of course, that it seemed a little strange not to have him in here now; they had been lovers for so many years. Still, it wasn't Michel she saw in her fantasies anymore, hadn't been for sometime; it was only Rene. She smiled. Now, finally, she could make her way toward him.

These thoughts warmed through her, too, as she changed her clothes quickly and got into bed, turning out the bedside light; there was still a slight smile on her face. This was right, she knew--in so many ways. She had actually been at least half-hoping for it for longer than she could remember. Those dreams, though, had only become entirely conscious ones recently. They had frightened her a little before that. True love could be scary, indeed.

She liked to ponder this, in many ways--had often--but she let go of these thoughts slightly a moment later, nonetheless; her eyes scanned the ceiling, as she pondered over her relationship with Michel once more. She wondered now, truly, whether they would have lasted this long if it hadn't been for the deaths of this parents. They had actually already been parting--she knew--their sexual meetings less frequent, when he had been nearly destroyed by their loss. She sighed. It was a blow, too, that he had yet to entirely recover from.

Her mind focused more deeply here, as well. In a strange way, really, it was his parents' loss which had kept the two of them from parting for so long. She had taken, in fact, after a few months of his most intense grief, to simply inviting him into her body, had begun to offer herself as some small solace for his pain; it couldn't help him, in the long run, of course, couldn't come close to touching the depths of his sorrow, but--she suspected--it had given him a connection to life he had otherwise abandoned. She had been frightened to think about the possible outcome of allowing him to drift too far from his interactions with the world. She still didn't regret it at all.

She looked back again. Still, those days hadn't been about pleasure for either of them as much as they had been about catharsis, had provided him with a sort of sensual refuge from his constant torment. It wasn't that they had been unpleasant encounters, certainly--she doubted that was possible with Michel--but they had been utterly lacking in the rather youthful joy of their previous relationship, in the innocent, carefree delight in touch which had brought them to a shared bed in the beginning. That whole aspect of himself, truly, had been missing, after his grief had begun. All she had truly wanted, therefore, was to give him something back.

She sighed, a little saddened, though. Of course, there had only been just so much she could give him, so much sense of life she had been capable of imparting--or that he had been capable of taking in. Always there had been a sorrow in him deeper than she could ever touch. She smiled a little, her mind turning. Now, however, there was finally someone who could.

She closed her eyes, then, quite pleased at this new path. Their earlier relationship had been gone for sometime now, truly--and neither of them really wanted it back. They still had a friendship which was strong and trusting, one built on a complete knowledge of all of the other's moods and thoughts--and that was what they both still treasured. Everything, therefore, was going just right.

Her heart was warm now; she sighed happily, content with these thoughts. They were finally moving on to a new stage in their lives--and they were happy to be doing so; it was just so obvious this was right. Now, too, only one real challenge remained before them. All they had to do was rescue the very fortunate object of Michel's affections away from the terrible pair who tormented her--and then everything could finally be well.