The Frost of Springtime by Rachel L. Demeter

washed away.
    Just what was that moment? It was always lodged inside his thoughts
like a raw canker sore, irritating and inescapable, reminding him of the
emptiness. And only Sofia soothed away the pain.
    Aleksender was jolted from his distressed thoughts as Elise, the pretty
servant girl, shyly approached him. At only fifteen years, she’d proven herself
as one of the chateau’s finest caretakers. Aleksender paid her a rather hefty
salary—perhaps, one that was a bit too generous—well aware that she was nursing
her bedridden mother during her “leisure time.” As expected, golden curls were
fastened in a customary bun like an old spinster might wear—yet her eyes were
wide and brimming with innocence.
    “Monsieur le Vicomte shall be arriving quite soon.”
    Successfully departing from the family nest, his little brother had
purchased an estate off the outskirts of Loire Valley months before the war.
Aleksender envied his freedom greatly. He was bound to Chateau de Lefèvre by his
inheritance. And without the warmth of his father, the halls felt colder,
vaster and infinitely more empty .
    Elise set down a brunch tray that was near to overflowing. Red wine and
a plethora of elegant treats were laid out beautifully, presenting a feast for a
king. Aleksender glared down at the food and swallowed his gut. He had no
appetite.
    “Yes, Elise,” he murmured, “that should do just fine.”
    Elise reached inside her starch white apron and withdrew several
newspapers: Le Figaro, La Gazette , and several publications
of Le Père Duchêne were arranged in front of Aleksender, ordered by
date.
    “Shall you be requiring anything else, monsieur?”
    “No, no,” he said, throwing a nonchalant wave in her general direction.
“You are dismissed.” Before departing to the side, Elise curtsied, blushed once
more, and straightened out the conservative material of her uniform. For
reasons she couldn’t begin to comprehend, she refused to meet his gaze.
    Aleksender’s eyes ran across the blackened words that jumped out at
him. His heartbeat quickened as he thumbed through the various newspaper
headlines:
    Vive la Commune! Citizens fight for a free and social republic
    Latest decree of the Commune: any and all places that favor gambling
and prostitution shall immediately be closed down and rendered illegal
    AFTER THE SIEGE
    Reclaiming liberty beneath the Commune’s red flag
    Mind spinning with the ferocity of a toy top, Aleksender flipped
through the most recent edition of Le Père Duchêne . His fingers were
numb, unusually stiff. Blood rushed into his ears as he stared down at a
remarkably familiar caricature.
    Parade of the pretenders was centered above
a single-file line of six rather absurd looking characters. Prime Minister
Thiers headed them at the front, a stupid grin plastered to an even stupider
face. Comte de Chambord was squatted at the farthest end and depicted as
nothing more than a ball of shriveled flesh. Then came several notable
monarchists: Marquees Boury, Baron Rieu and Le Pere Bandigue. But it was the
soldier standing directly before Adolphe Thiers who defined the caricature. Muscled
arms were crossed over a puffed out chest, an arrogant nose pointing straight
to the heavens. And Comte de
Paris? was inscribed just below his
heels.
    Aleksender scraped the picture aside with a sharp intake of air. A
stinging fear crept into his bones. The newsprint might as well been written in
blood. And he could already feel the guillotine’s crisp blade slicing through
his neck. It would be the Reign of Terror all over again. He stretched against
the chair with a groan and downed a generous swig of red wine.
    Aleksender couldn’t say how much time passed before the playful voice
interrupted his concentration: “ Frère ainé! You look
positively terrible!”
    “Richard.”
    “Monsieur le Comte,” Aleksender’s brother greeted with a small grin.
    Richard de Lefèvre really was a spitting image of their father.