Dark Memories (The Phantom Diaries, #2) (23 page)

Was I really going to do this?

Three steps in and the gloom gave way to a hint of red light at the bottom. Cobwebs and dust covered books, desks and chairs that had not been used in decades.

How was I supposed to sort all this out and find Narcisse and Herminie?

Blindly and with no direction, I rummaged through the desk, tossing aside a series of useless newspaper articles. Then I hit a bundle of clippings, letters and legal notices made out to the name of Narcisse Forcier.

My meager understanding of written French was going to be put to the test. Everything was in French and much of it was handwritten, but I could make out the meaning of the majority of the documents.

The first I came upon was an engagement notice. It was clipped to a yellowed wedding photo. Narcisse had a proud smile under his thick mustache while Herminie was delicate and shy.

I opened a bundle of letters and latched onto every word I could understand. Herminie had elegant penmanship and wrote with a pleasant flourish. Love was mentioned repeatedly and words referring to loneliness were prominent.
 
It appeared Narcisse worked out of town and only saw Herminie occasionally. She worked for a wealthy family and they often treated her shabbily, adding to her loneliness.

 
Then there was the mention of a pregnancy. Sorrow, regret and pain all surrounded the announcement. Money was short and a new mouth to feed only exacerbated the situation.

With an urgent desire to know more, I scanned page after page, looking for hints and clues to who these people were.

Finally I came upon the birth of the baby – a girl.

A girl!

My breath stayed in my lungs as I quickly scanned the rest of the page.
 
The birth of her daughter had brought Herminie to consider leaving her position at the manor and returning to her home.

Another page.
Two days after the birth, Narcisse was in prison for having fatally struck Mathurin Aragon in a brawl.
 
Herminie was distraught and life at the wealthy manor had become unbearable.

My eyes returned to the name. Aragon.
 
Did that family affect everyone in and around
Paris
?
 
Why was it so prevalent in the life of Kristine?
 
But even as I questioned this, I felt I’d seen the name on other pages. With my concentration focused on Narcisse and Herminie, I’d passed over it without pause.

I turned another page. Found guilty of murder, Narcisse was to be hung.

Grimacing, I thought of Herminie’s heartache.
 
A young bride.
A young mother.
 
An intolerable employer.
Little money… and now to resign herself to the notion of soon becoming a young widow.

Another page.
 

There it was!

Preceded
with words such as love, beauty, sweet and delight came the word I’d been searching – Kristine. This was indeed her life I held in my hands.

Herminie loved her daughter and spent every moment with her. The child was a delight and brought a ray of sunshine to the
most dreary
of days.
 
Tiny bright blond curls, an easy smile and a disposition that charmed everyone who met her.

However, little Kristine would never meet her father.

Before her first birthday Narcisse was hung.
 
He was only twenty-three.

I was overwhelmed with a sudden sadness.
 
What a dreadful way to start a life.

My sympathy for the little girl Kristine had been turned to confusion with the next letter.

The letters that had up until now had been addressed to Narcisse were now addressed to Mathurin.

My God.
I choked and felt sick.

Filled with love, passion and a clear sense of victory, Herminie spoke only of the future she dreamed of having with Mathurin. If Kristine was mentioned at all, it was as an afterthought. The little girl now seemed to be a burden on Herminie.

The pages flew through my hands with increased speed, desperate to find what had happened to the little girl. Then the letters stopped.

An article mentioning Kristine’s arrival on the
Paris
stage was tied to another bundle of pages. I was missing the bulk of her childhood.

Feeling like I’d never understand the mystery of Kristine, I pulled the string and released the bundle of clippings.
Photos, praise, accolades and prizes.
She was the darling of the opera scene and was adored by all.

So beautiful, all men craved her.
 
A delight to befriend, she was well-liked by the women of high society. Her youth drew out their protective instincts, while her wisdom and talent drew their respect and admiration.

Then a full page article showed a picture of the young starlet looking less than happy, and the headline explained why.
 

Kristine, fille d’un meurtrier.

The article spelled out everything.

The mystery of the opera’s latest star is finally revealed.
 
Kristine has not spent the past seven years in a boarding school as she’s claimed.
 
She has been living on the outskirts of
Paris
with her mother Herminie.

The widower who was once a young maid to the
Aragon
manor had claimed to have raised Kristine alone after the execution of her husband, Narcisse Forcier, but it appears a step-father has had a hand in raising the bubbly little girl.

Mathurin, thought to have died at the hands of Narcisse has been secretly living with Herminie all the time.
 
The police have been called to the residence several times to calm quarrels between Herminie and Mathurin, but of late it has been Kristine who has caused some uproar.

Having learned of the circumstances surrounding her father’s execution, Kristine has repeatedly tried to kill the man Narcisse was accused of murdering.

The article was clipped to a number of smaller articles in which Kristine fervently denied the accusations. And though she was ultimately found innocent, her career took a stumble. It would take years before she could regain the public’s love and trust.

I set the page down and stared into the gloom. From all sides, Kristine had so many reasons to hate the Aragons.

Chapter 20

I walked out the back entrance of the church and stepped through the low gate into the cemetery.
 
A thin layer of snow covered the ground in patches.
 
Weeds sprouted out around the majority of gravestones.
 
The day was growing old and a damp chill clung to the ground.
 
Large trees shaded the last glimmers of the sun, leaving portions of the cemetery in premature darkness.
 
I pulled my coat tightly around me and sought out Kristine’s stone.

The cemetery was relatively small and finding Kristine should have been easy.
 
But many of the gravestones were faded or stained. Barely legible, the engravings had worn down with time. To a large extent, they all resembled one another.

I turned around, my eyes quickly passing over the nearby headstones then skimming over the rows that went on and on. Suddenly the small cemetery didn’t seem so small. The wind brought a new chill. Perhaps I should return the following morning. My eyes couldn’t focus, whether due to the dimming light or from fatigue it was hard to tell. Or was it the thought of searching through a cemetery at dusk that had me bleary-eyed?

Shaking it off, I scrunched down to try to read the stone in front of me. I pushed aside the weeds which only exposed more faded engravings.
 

A short faint sound had me bolting to my feet. Several birds fluttered around, but that didn’t explain the odd sound; like metal hitting stone.
 
As though in answer to my questions, the sound came again.

Stepping towards the next row, I noticed movement several rows ahead.
 
At the far end of the cemetery I could make out the shadow of a man. Knelt before a stone, his head was low, though he appeared not in prayer. Respectfully and quietly I approached.

“I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”

The man’s voice was deep and clear… and familiar.

“It’s time we move on.
 
You must move on.
 
I know I now need to start a new life.”

“Eric?”

He rose and turned to me. His fingers fidgeted around the stem of a pretty yellow rose a moment before his lips curved into a timid smile. He set the rose on the tombstone. “I had a feeling you might come here.”

My heart tried to understand what he was doing there.
 
Why would he want to see Kristine?
 
I glanced at the stone. Though somewhat faded, her name could be clearly read. A new shiver took over me, bringing a wave of nausea with it. Being here, at her burial place… it was surreal.

Only when I felt a piercing pain on my fingers did I realize how tightly I was gripping my ruby cross.

“What are you doing here?” The pain strained my voice.

His smile was instantly reassuring and warm. “I believe they call it closure.”
 
He reached for the oversized men’s ring atop the gravestone.
 
“It was time I gave this back.” The strange ancient ring was engraved with the image of a monkey.

I couldn’t resist cocking a brow at the strange image.

“She gave me
this
two weeks before I was to murder Rupert.
 
Now that I think about it, it had never felt right on my finger.”

“You’ve kept it all this time?” For some reason his need to remain attached to Kristine lay in that ring.

“I guess I felt a bit insecure when I first decided to leave
Paris
. This was a link to my home.” He set it back on the stone.

“A link to her.”

His gaze met mine with frank candor. “I was young and my heart was confused. I hadn’t realized until I met you just how much I’d been holding onto the past.” He reached out to lightly squeeze my arm, then stepped back to allow me a moment with Kristine.

Feeling the strange aura that surrounded us, I reached for his hand. “Don’t go too far.”

“I’ll be right here.”

I turned to the stone and put one hand to Kristine’s name and the other to the cross at my neck.
 
Though I had no idea why, I glanced back at the church. The young woman who’d guided me to my past was standing on the back steps.
 
She held my gaze a moment before hanging her head and clasping her hands before her.

Remembering Joana’s advice, I said the Lord’s Prayer.

“Amen.” I remained knelt, waiting to feel something.
 
Would the chill leave my skin?
 
Would a warm glow indicate she’d moved on?

Nothing.

“Ready to go?”
Eric said.