Chapter 60: The Child
Vivienne’s heart was pounding, and her brain was screaming in pure, unfiltered chaos. She wanted to strangle him with the book, throw it at his face, scream every swear word known to man, god, and demon, and then invent a few more curses just to make sure he understood how much she wanted to rip him limb from limb. In her head, she was already shouting, "You bastard! You demon! You filthy, obsession-driven maniac! I hope someone ties you up in the stocks, shoves you into freezing water, flogs your back with chains until you beg for death, dangles you by your ankles over a pit of screaming rats, and then feeds you nothing but bitter herbs until your tongue falls off!"
Her imagination didn’t stop there. Oh no, it had only begun. She pictured him hung by hooks in the rafters, stretched on racks like a noodle, whipped with nettles until he begged for mercy that would never come, and forced to drink vinegar while sitting in a tub of live eels. Perhaps they would shove him into a barrel lined with nails and roll him down a hill, or nail his shoes to the floor and make him dance like a madman while soldiers shot arrows just above his head. Why stop there? Let him have the thumbscrews, the iron maiden, the breaking wheel, and—oh, absolutely—flogging with fish until the smell alone would drive him mad. He could have his hands dunked in boiling oil, his ears stuffed with bees, and, for the pièce de résistance, a gag made of rotting cheese.
Vivienne’s voice, meanwhile, stayed soft. She read the book to him as delicately as if she were whispering to a baby, her lips forming gentle, lilting syllables while in her head she was a full-blown torturer’s handbook. She mentally narrated the inventions she would make, just to be sure he knew exactly how completely deranged she was. She pictured him being roasted over a spit like a pig, dunked repeatedly into icy rivers, forced to juggle flaming torches while walking on hot coals, all while she offered commentary like a mad auctioneer. "Oh, and then," she thought gleefully, "we tie your ankles to the horses and have them run in opposite directions, quartering you slowly, and then, because why not, cover you in honey and release the wasps. Yes, yes! That’s perfect! You deserve a very slow death. You annoying son of a bitch. "
André leaned back against the bedframe, eyes half-lidded, smirking. "Your voice... it is beautiful, even when you are reading," he said softly. Inside, he was laughing like a lunatic. She’s probably thinking about stabbing me right now. Too bad, little thief. The only stabbing you can do is with those dagger eyes, and oh, she is stabbing me with every flick of her gaze. He watched her, fascinated, amused, and entirely aware that she was plotting to murder him in her thoughts, yet outwardly perfect, calm, and soft as silk. He could almost hear her cursing him in every language ever spoken and some that were made up.
The reading went on. And on. And on. Time blurred in the room, the ticking of some imaginary clock drowned out by the faint rustle of pages, the soft cadence of her voice, and the occasional muttered curse she didn’t intend for him to hear but somehow did anyway. Vivienne’s eyelids grew heavy, her voice losing strength, slowing down, each word drifting lazily out of her mouth. Her posture slackened. Her hands were still holding the book, trembling slightly. Finally, mid-sentence, she fell asleep, chin dipping toward her chest. The book remained in her hands, clutched like a shield, as if even in slumber she was ready to hit him with it.
André watched her carefully, barely breathing, leaning slightly forward. "She looks ferocious when awake," he murmured to himself, "but now... she looks peaceful. Soft. Fragile." He could not stop himself from smiling, though it was small, cautious, and not at all smug.
He reached slowly toward the book, intending to take it from her hands so she could rest fully. As his fingers brushed the leather cover, she murmured softly in her sleep: "Mother... don’t leave me. Please. I’m scared. Please come back. Don’t go. I’m all alone."
The words froze him. They were almost childlike, quiet, trembling with genuine fear. Tears slipped from her closed eyes, tiny, glistening streaks that caught the candlelight and reflected it like glass. André’s chest tightened. He wasn’t prepared for this. Not for her to appear so vulnerable, so fragile. Everything she had been—foul-mouthed, cunning, arrogant, proud, overconfident, chaotic, deranged—seemed to vanish in that instant. All that remained was a little girl, scared and lost, clutching a book as if it were her only lifeline.
He blinked, unsure, confused, even a little shaken. This was not the Vivienne he knew. She was wild, unhinged, terrifying in her cunning, and yet here she was, fragile and open in a way he had never seen. His instincts wanted to step back, to give her space, but something in him refused. Without thinking, he wiped the tears from her cheeks, one by one, gentle and careful, almost reverent. He patted her shoulder softly, murmuring words he didn’t quite know he meant. "It’s okay, Vivienne. It’s okay. You are safe."
He sat quietly beside her, hands resting lightly on her arms, unsure whether to move or speak. Her chest rose and fell in sleepy rhythm. Her face was still soft, peaceful, but he could sense a storm under the surface, some shadow he did not yet understand. He watched her quietly, studying every line of her face, wondering what in the world had brought such fear, such raw emotion, into this chaotic, foul-mouthed thief’s heart. For the first time, he felt a genuine confusion about her, a hesitation, a pause in his usual dominance. Something was different. Something was there he could not read. And he could not look away.