Homecoming

            Though she didn’t understand it, Arienne began to relax once she arrived at River City Airport.  Smells and sounds she forgotten washed over her warmly, as though in welcome, reminding her that this was where she truly belonged.  Not on the Italian stage, nor sitting by a runway in Lagos or Abuja; she belonged here, at home.

Indeed, it really was home.

A limousine and two security officers awaited were waiting for her.  One held up a giant sign proclaiming, Mademoiselle Juneau.

            Arienne smiled broadly at the man, nodding as she approached, saying, “I am Arienne.”

            “Mademoiselle,” the man bowed his head slightly, lowering his sign.  He must have been briefed on her appearance because he didn’t ask for identification.  “We are to take you to the house in St. Verde.  You uncle is staying there.”

            Arienne’s good mood immediately dimmed at the thought of staying with her cranky old uncle.  “And…Thierry?”

            “The Governor is handling some important post-election business and will be unavailable for some time,” the security officer replied.  “However, the First Lady has also taken up residence in St. Verde.”

            Arienne was not so easily pacified.  “And…my uncle?” she haltingly asked.

            The security’s lips twitched, resisting a tell-tale smirk.  “Mr. Juneau has not been feeling well, Mademoiselle.  He’s bedbound in St. Verde.”

            Arienne inwardly sighed, grateful for small favors.  She had no desire to spend any extended amount of time with her uncle, and while she had never really gotten to know Kathryn, she was sure the woman’s company would be a welcome alternative to that crotchety old man.

            Getting to St. Verde took longer than she remembered; it took over two hours to reach the green valley, where time apparently stood still, resisting change.  Though she hadn’t been there for many years, and had very few memories of her visit, what she remembered hadn’t changed.

Crossing the entire town took merely minutes; Arienne gaped through her tintied window in awe at the sight of sleepy, smoky cottages along the lazy stream.  She noticed it was loud and quiet in St. Verde; there were footsteps thumping across the wooden bridges of the stream, and the rushing of waterfalls in the distance.  But there was no speech; the residents smiled at one another, greeting with slight, polite bows instead of words.  Most of the residents were in their fifties or older, with woolen coats and dark head wraps to ward off autumn’s deepening chill.

            St. Verde was homey, idyllic, and Arienne was suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of staying her with her cousin.

            The tall, dark châteaux stood just north of St. Verde, at the base of the mighty mountains.  Shrouded in mist, they were surrounded by vast, sprawling green lawns dotted with eerily dry, chipped fountains.  The limousine drove past three or four of them before it finally pulled into a circular driveway of a giant, dreary château which seemed to have an endless number of rooms, and whose front double doors appeared to be carved from black stone.  On the left door was a sphinx, and on the right, a phoenix.

Speechless, Arienne slid out of the limousine as soon as the door was opened for her.  She drifted towards the black doors in as though in a dream, feeling the moist cold air on her skin and forgetting which way the sun lay.  St. Verde had felt real up until now; this place, however, seemed removed from reality, as though she’d stepped through a portal into an alternate dimension.

As she climbed the stone steps of the front verandah, the double doors opened on cue, and to her surprise, Arienne was greeted not by a butler or a maid, but Kathryn Dunvale-Juneau herself.

Arienne’s sister-in-law was a slender, green-eyed blonde in her forties.  Kathryn was taller than Arienne by a few inches; she wore a stern dark gray suit, complete with a blazer, black stockings and heels, and even prim white pearls clasped around her neck.

Arienne didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe.

“Arienne,” Kathryn greeted kindly, giving a smile which didn’t reach her eyes.  “Welcome to Château Amaranthe.  I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

Staring at Kathryn in a daze, Arienne nodded.  “It was a smooth flight.”

            “Good,” Kathryn nodded briskly.  “You and I have never actually met before, but Thierry talks about you all the time.  He will be very glad to have you home with us, as am I.”

            “Thank you.”

            “As you can see,” Kathryn led her into the large, empty foyer, “we have no shortage of space here.  In case you’re wondering why everything’s so bare, we haven’t finished decorating yet; we still technically live in the Governor’s mansion back in River City.  Now, your apartments are on the second floor in the North Wing, while your uncle--”

            “Apartments?” Arienne stopped short.  “I have…apartments?”

            Kathryn smiled a little more warmly this time.  “According to legend, the d’Auvignes built these châteaux almost a century ago as a dumping ground for their more irritating relatives.  Softening isolation with luxury, each family member was granted a few rooms to themselves.  I hope you like yours; they belonged to Clairene Ninette d’Auvigne, when she first began her exile.”

            Arienne felt her blood still in her veins.  “You bought this from the d’Auvignes?  I thought they never sold property, only acquired.”

            “About fifty years ago they were forced to sell off some these lands,” Kathryn chuckled, “We bought this from someone else; your uncle thought it would be a good place for him to finish out his retirement.  His apartments are on the first floor in the West Wing, but I’m afraid he’s not accepting guests.”

            Arienne nodded solemnly.  “I hear he’s very ill.”

            “He has ‘round the clock medical supervision, but I’m afraid he’s not long for this world.”  Kathryn said it so plainly, so simply that the only thing more shocking was how quickly Arienne accepted it.  She had no desire to see that old man again, not until his funeral.  She was home now, and she wanted to enjoy herself, not listen to his ceaseless complaints about literally everything.  And she still hadn’t forgiven him for sending her away for seven years.

            “There’s no gate around this château,” she pointed out suddenly.  “Is that safe?  I mean, with Thierry being a Governor.”

            Kathryn maintained her gentle smile and calm face, but Arienne didn’t miss a distinct dark flicker in those eyes.

            “No one comes out this way,” she replied somberly.  “Half of St. Verde thinks these old houses are haunted.  The other half just don’t want to make the trek.”  She turned and led Arienne down a shadowy hall.  It led past several rooms; all the floors were wooden, and most of the doors were shut.  Whenever she could, she grabbed a quick peek.  Almost every room seemed filled with furniture, and almost always, the furniture was covered in heavy white drapes.

            Kathryn nodded slightly.  “Some of that’s been here since the time of the d’Auvignes.  It’s all quite sturdy, if a bit stale.”

            They soon came to an old wooden staircase; Arienne followed her up the creaky stairs to the second floor.  In the distance, she could hear the clanging of pots and pans in what she guessed would be the very large kitchen.

“I take it someone’s getting started on dinner?” she asked mildly.

            “It won’t be ready for a few hours,” Kathryn told her, “so you’ll have some time to settle in and rest.  How’s your voice?”

            “I’ve been spared the flu,” Arienne asked softly.  “Why do you ask?”

            “I was hoping you would sing for us, we’re having a very special guest over this evening;” Kathryn explained.  “He’s become a close friend of your cousin’s.”  She turned left at the top of the stairs and lead Arienne through another set of carved double doors into a spacious sitting room.  Arienne’s mouth fell open as she beheld the vast Persian rug, the deep burgundy chaise, and the gold-rimmed tables and burgundy velvet armchairs.  The walls were covered with matching velvet drapes, and a small chandelier illuminated the room with small golden light.

            “The door to the left leads to your bedchamber and private bath,” Kathryn pointed.  “The door to your right leads to a study, which in turn leads to a small library.  I took the liberty of transforming the study into a piano room.  As for the library,” she shrugged, “those books have been there for ages.  It’ll be a while before the cleaning staff can work their way through all the dust.”

            “Kathryn,” Arienne gasped, “thank you.”

            The older woman smiled, but it still didn’t reach her eyes.  “Thank Thierry.  It was all his idea.”

            “You said his friend will be coming to dinner?”

            “Yes,” Kathryn nodded briskly.  “Thierry played him some of your recordings, and he’s become a bit of a fan.  I’m afraid Thierry’s already promised him a performance of ‘Vissi d’Arte’ tonight, even though I suggested he ask you first.”

            Arienne chuckled, “I’m happy to sing for Thierry’s friend.”

            “Very well.  I’ll ask Señora Velez to meet you in about an hour.  She’s a pianist staying at Château Marielle; when Thierry found out she was in the region, she somehow got her to agree to accompany you.  He’s quite bent on pleasing his friend.”

            “Thank you again, Kathryn.”  Arienne paused, wondering something.  “Who is his friend, by the way?  I don’t think Thierry’s told me about him.”  In fact, she was certain he hadn’t.  Not once in any of his emails or phone calls had a mentioned a new friend, much less a best friend, which she was beginning to think this person was.

            There was that dark flicker in Kathryn’s eyes again, despite her genial smile.

            “A political advisor who treasures his privacy above all,” she answered finally.  “He’s been very helpful; Thierry owes his reelection to him, but he never allows Thierry to so much as mention his name in public.”

            Arienne raised an eyebrow.  Was it her imagination, or was Kathryn herself avoiding the man’s name?  Was it simply habit?  If so, it was a ridiculous habit.  After all, it’s not like they were talking about Voldermort.

            “So…,” Arienne pushed, “what is his name?”

            Kathryn’s smile faltered as she briefly cleared her throat before reluctantly answering.

“His name is Trent.  Trent Hirosawa.”

Author's Note

Rough draft sneak peek.