Tangled Ashes (16 page)

At the castle gates, Beck stood with a twin on either side of him. Eva had pressed up against his leg and grabbed one of his hands, but he’d been so focused on the rescue taking place and Jojo’s nearly hypnotic powers that he’d done little more than acknowledge her hand with a slight squeeze of his own. On his other side, Philippe had climbed onto the lowest crossbar of the gate, his face
still pressed between two wrought-iron bars, his eyes wide and fearful. He looked over at Beck every so often, as if he needed to remind himself that there was a strong man nearby, then swiveled his head again to watch the unfolding drama.

Jade hurried out of the castle and ran to the gate. Like Beck and the children, her attention was quickly riveted on Jojo.

“Is Jojo going to save the horse?” Eva asked, awestruck, at Beck’s side.

Jade smoothed a hand over her hair. “I don’t know, Eva. But I think he’s going to try.” Beck felt her small hand clutch his more tightly, and something softened in his chest.

Immobile but for the motion of his lips, both hands hanging loosely at his sides, Jojo stood four feet from the still-quivering horse. The stallion’s nostrils flared again and he looked about to take another startled leap away, but something stilled the impulse.

After what seemed interminable moments and without any visible impetus from Jojo, the stallion shook his mane and seemed to stand down. He took a couple of tentative steps toward Jojo, his gaze as unwavering as the old man’s, then closed the distance and nuzzled the recluse’s chest with his nose. Jojo lifted a hand to rub the stallion’s neck and reached for his bridle with the other. He turned to the jockey and his companions and walked the now-docile racehorse across the space that separated them, handing the reins over to the stunned professionals. Then he turned on his heels and headed back toward the gatehouse, passing through the castle’s gates with a wink aimed at Eva and Philippe and a nod toward Beck. He cast a sideways glance at Jade and nearly smiled. Then he was gone, hunched over and worn, his shuffling steps inaudible on the lawn’s thick grass.

T
HE RACEHORSE INCIDENT
had elevated Jojo to the rank of demigod in the children’s eyes. They now spent much of their outside time in the front of the castle rather than in the park at the back, whiling away the hours climbing trees and going on treasure hunts, always with an eye trained on the gatehouse in case Jojo might make another miraculous rescue.

After lunch every day, Philippe and Eva walked with Jade to Jojo’s dilapidated home, eyeing its broken glass, sagging shutters, and rotting wooden door with a sort of rapt repulsion. The path leading to the door was overgrown with young oak shoots, brambles, and weeds. Smoke occasionally drifted up from the chimney that seemed to teeter precariously on the decomposing roof lacking many of its shingles. A little unnerved by the structure and the mythical creature inside, the children usually stood back a few paces while Jade left a plate of food on the stoop, then spent the return
trip to the kitchen looking over their shoulders just in case Jojo might be following them home.

A day without a Jojo sighting was a wasted day to the twins, yet as much as they anticipated his next appearance, it came only occasionally. The sole advantage of their obsession was that it kept them from hanging around the work site as they’d been tempted to do before, which left Becker to focus uninterrupted on his work.

With the carved elements of the staircase nearly finished and only the railing and assembly still pending, Beck was able to spend more time lending a hand with the rest of the work going on in the castle and making sure each aspect of the renovation was as meticulously executed as if he were doing it himself. He had started to eat his lunch in the kitchen occasionally, mostly on the days when his repeated attempts at weaning himself from the bottle played havoc with his mind and made concentration impossible. His longest dry spell to date had been three days—three full days of more or less visible tremors, raging headaches, and frustrated, sleepless nights. Those nights were the driving motivation behind his experiments in sobriety. If he wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t dreaming, and a night without dreams was a rare and welcome luxury. The discomfort was a small price to pay.

On those nights when his body was so strung out that being still became a physical ache, he spent the hours carving in his office or running sprints in the long hallway upstairs. Morning always came with glaring clarity, the victories of the night tempered by fatigue that made insurmountable obstacles of minor setbacks.

It was on one of those days that Philippe came bursting into his office, emboldened by excitement over his latest discovery. “I found a saber,” he yelled, rushing to Beck. “I found it in the guard tower!”

Eva came in close on her brother’s heels, obviously trying to match his enthusiasm over his find. “It’s really, really old!” she exclaimed.

Beck, who had been using a router to carve an artistic flourish
into a fragile piece of cherrywood, was so taken aback by their entrance that he jumped at the saw, causing the cut to go off course. He felt anger rising in him like bile and fought it down. This was about his nerves and cravings, not about Philippe’s intrusion, and he knew it—still, the gash in the cherrywood was an unforgiving flaw.

“Philippe,” he said, trying to maintain a friendly tone with the beaming boy who held his treasure out on the palms of both hands, “I’m busy right now.” He hoped the statement would indicate to the boy that his timing was bad and send him running to Jade for the praise he obviously wanted.

“But look—I found a saber!” Philippe repeated, stepping close enough to Beck that he could hold the rusted object up to his face.

Eva stepped forward too. “Philippe said you could tell us if it was a treasure.” She was so enraptured with their discovery that she fairly shrieked the words.

Beck could tell at first glance that this was not a historical artifact. It looked like an old farmer’s knife, its wooden handle mostly rotted away and the blade rough with corrosion.

“Do you think it goes with the helmet?” Philippe asked.

“It’s just a normal knife,” Beck said, eager to get the consultation over with and evaluate how much damage had been done by the slip of the saw.

“But it’s old, right?” This from Eva, the light beginning to dim in her eyes.

“Sure, it’s old. Look at it—it’s been in the ground for a while. But it’s just a knife.”

“It’s a saber,” Philippe said, his jaw beginning to jut out in defiance.

“Philippe . . .” Becker didn’t have the time for the boy’s stubbornness.

“It’s a saber.” Eva parroted her brother, crossing her arms and daring Beck to contradict her.

Philippe wasn’t finished yet. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! It’s a saber! It’s a saber!” He leaned in, looking straight up at Beck, the rusted knife clenched in his hands.

“Yeah!” Eva seconded, in frail support of her brother’s belligerence.

Becker’s thin control over his temper snapped. “Out!” he said in a clipped, no-nonsense voice, pointing at the door. “Both of you—out. Now!”

Philippe was so angry that it took him a couple seconds to draw in a breath and find something strong enough to blurt at the man who had so heartlessly dismissed his discovery. “You’re . . .” He sputtered. “You’re
mean
!” he said with all the sincerity of a hurt six-year-old.

Eva, still not to be undone, yelled, “Yeah!” but there was a quiver to her chin that made Beck wonder if he’d been too blunt.

He took a calming breath. “Look,” he said, trying for a kinder voice and holding his hands up in apology. “I’m sorry that your knife isn’t a saber, but . . .”

The damage had been done. To the children’s minds, a grown-up had insulted and hurt them. “I think you’re stupid,” Philippe said, squinting with rage, “and I’m never going to talk to you ever again!” With that, he spun around and sprinted out of the office, leaving Eva standing there fighting tears and unsure what to do.

Beck sat down and let out an exasperated breath. He’d been called a lot of insulting things before, but none had pierced his armor like that well-aimed
stupid
from a six-year-old. He contemplated the fight for composure being waged on Eva’s face and wondered what a normal person would do. Go to her? Probably. Hug her? Maybe. Somehow find a way to comfort her? Absolutely. The best he could muster at that moment was a gentle dismissal. “It’s okay, Eva,” he said. “You can go find your brother.”

And with a bit of a hiccup, she did just that.

Becker was calculating the amount of damage done to the carving when Jade pushed the door open with more force than she’d used before and came to stand a couple of feet away from him, arms crossed and eyes ablaze. Beck was again taken aback by the pallor of her skin and the circles under her eyes, but repeated inquiries had yielded only instructions to mind his own business. On this particular day, he had a feeling Jade was about to mind it for him.

“You feel better now?” she asked.

“Not particularly, no.”

“Well, good, ’cause I’ve got two kids in the kitchen that I’ve just sent to the time-out chair, but I’m thinking I’ve punished the wrong culprit!” She was as angry as he’d ever seen her.

“Why did you send them to the . . . ?”

“Because they disobeyed me,” Jade exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “They know not to disturb you in your office, and they did disturb you in your office, so now they’re sitting in the kitchen wondering why
you
were the mean guy and
they
got the punishment. You explain that to me, Mr. Becker!”

“Are you finished?” he asked, an eyebrow arched as anger once again mounted inside him. “’Cause I’m not one of your kids, Jade, and I’m not sure I enjoy being chastised by their nanny.”

“They found a saber,” she exclaimed, as if the statement held all the explanation he needed.

Beck snorted. “They found a knife,” he said under his breath.

“Whatever!” Jade wasn’t in the mood for his sarcasm. “To them, it was a saber, and they brought it to
you
because they think you’re pretty cool. ‘Beck’s so great.’ ‘Beck’s our friend.’ ‘Beck’s funny.’ ‘Beck’s brave,’” she mimicked, a bit of a sneer on her face. “And when they come to you to show you their big discovery, you tell
them to get out? Well done there, Mr. Becker. Very impressive. I’m sure your precious work hours aren’t going to be disturbed again.”

She turned to storm out of the office but stumbled a little, catching herself on the back of the couch. Beck was off his chair and by her side in an instant. “You okay?”

She shook off the hand on her arm and leaned on the back of the couch for a few moments, taking slow breaths. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice hoarse. After a few more breaths, she turned to look into Beck’s face, one hand still on the couch, and asked, “Why do you do it?”

“Why do I . . . ?”

“Why do you limit every single one of your responses to cynicism and anger?” She took another deep breath while she waited for him to answer. “I’ll tell you why,” she said when he turned slightly away, staring at the floor. “It’s the same reason you’re chained to your bottles—and don’t go thinking I haven’t seen them when I’ve taken your laundry to your room—because you’re scared.” She walked to the door, still a little unsteady. “Well, let me introduce you to a world bound by fear, Beck,” she said, turning. “It’s a very lonely place.” And she closed the door with a decisive click, leaving Beck standing in an empty room, utterly alone.

He needed to get away. That was the bottom line. He needed to catch a cab to the train station, take the RER into Paris, and let his mind focus on something other than the job and Jade’s warning. Things were moving along smoothly enough with the renovation that a day in the city wouldn’t even be noticed.

He called a cab before Jade and the kids arrived the next day and was on his way to Paris by seven. The RER car was loaded with passengers on their way to work, either holding copies of
Le Monde
like shields in front of their faces or staring at the tiny screens of their PDAs. By the time the train arrived at the Gare du Nord, a tentative sun cast vague shadows on the bustling streets of the city where car horns and yelled threats seemed to be acceptable forms of navigation.

Beck had no plans for his day. His RER ticket gave him full use of the Métro, but he opted to wander on foot for a while rather than ride the subway, absorbing the energy and culture of the City of Lights. He had a rough idea of where the Latin Quarter was and set off in that direction, making sure his wallet was out of reach of the pickpockets who swarmed the streets, particularly in the city’s most touristy places. It didn’t take long for Beck to realize that his best friends on that day would be the sidewalk salesmen, all immigrants from Africa, who started lowering their prices before he even began to bargain with them. They seemed to possess the inimitable talent of being able to close up shop and blend into the crowd at the first sight of police, even if they were in the middle of a transaction at the time. Beck merely ignored them as they spoke to him, somehow guessing that he was American and lapsing into a truly comical version of the language. “Yoo want Aifool Tawah? I geev yoo Aifool Tawah! Twantee ooros. Feefteen? Feefteen ooros.”