Page 81 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
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The sharp and well-tended blade of Léon’s axe was not made for chopping wood, but it snapped through the driest patch of floorboards Léon could find as well as it would have snapped through any neck. Henry pulled vines and ancient ash from the tumble-down hearth, what was left of it. He gathered the shards of wood into a pile and clicked to life the fire striker Léon had packed. It took them several tries, but they soon had a warm place in the cold house.
Léon found the socks he’d packed for Henry, and regretted both that he hadn’t offered them earlier, and that he had no spare boots. He suggested they look to buy some in the next town, but Henry insisted Léon keep his money.
He asked Léon if he was hungry, and it was with an embarrassed shade of pink that Léon admitted food hadn’t figured greatly in his many-faceted plan of escape. He’d assumed they could buy something along the way.
In response, Henry whistled.
A partridge landed on the floorboards, in between them.
Léon took his meaning, accompanying a wary glance with, “I thought you said it trusted us.”
“That was the yellowhammer,” Henry replied. Then on the next breath, he said simply, “Die.”
The bird fell in a heap, still warm, utterly, brutally lifeless.
Henry studied Léon coolly.
A great and sweet magic, it had seemed to Léon moments earlier. But he realised at once, the truth of it was more complicated. The responsibility of it. The ease of it. Having been born with such a terrifying power over life and death. But all he asked was, “How did you discover you could do that?”
Henry picked the bird up and began plucking feathers. “I just said it one day. I was very young, and I don’t think I ever thought it would actually work. After the fact, I realised I hadn’t wanted it to. It was just a stupid thing a young boy said, and it was done.” Concentrating hard on his work, “It was a deer. Can you imagine my heartbreak?”
Léon shook his head. Not that Henry saw it.
“It was very confronting. Animals don’t listen especially well when they’re dead, and try as I might, I couldn’t bring it back. I began to think there was something very wrong with me after that. Which I suppose there is.”
“I wish I could do that,” Léon said gently. “With people.” He worried briefly over whether Henry might take the comment the wrong way, but after one stark second of silence, Henry leaned forward and kissed him. He moved back, but Léon grabbed him and kissed him again.
The burning fire brought out golden flecks in Henry’s eyes. “You always understand. You should never have forgiven me for the awful things I did. But you saw what I was. Why do you always understand?”
With a blush, Léon dropped his head to work at the feathers. “We get along okay, don’t we?”
“I’ve never been in love,” Henry said. “But I’ve read a lot about it. And I think it must feel like…” He stopped short, Léon’s eyes averted, sadness rearing up again. “Will you come to Paris?”
“Henri…” he sighed, with a soft shake of his head. He reached into his saddle bag for his knife, so Henry continued plucking the bird, telling his story.
“My sister was born after that. After I’d stopped going near animals. And she was different. When she was a baby, and she was a very angry baby,” Léon punctuated his speech with a chuckle, which brought a smile to Henry’s lips, “things would shake. Things would occasionally break. Fall off shelves. I knew what it was. I sensed it. My father didn’t believe me, but my mother…” His hands slowed over the work. “It comes from her. But she keeps it secret. She suppresses it. She told us to never, never tell anyone. That it was a curse. I think she tried with my sister, to teach her to control it, but she’s a wayward girl. At best. And a wonderful girl. I love her dearly, and she’s not in any way a burden. But this one thing…” He glanced up at Léon. “It is a curse. It follows us. When she was in prison, I was awaiting news every second of the calamity. You couldn’t have known, but Émile,” Léon’s eyes sharpened at his name, “he was safer out there with me. It was the one comfort I took from having done it.”
The wretched feeling of loss came over Léon again, sickening. The thought of Henry having been the one to make him feel that way. “I still don’t understand why you chose me.”
Cheeks reddening, “If I tell you the truth, I think you might think I’m an idiot.”
Léon looked him dead in the eye. “I already think you’re an idiot, Henri.” Henry's smile was too beautiful to resist, so Léon kissed him again. “Tell me.”
“Well, it’s…” He continued a distracted plucking. “The afternoon they brought Catherine to Reims… I was wanderingthe town, discovering where the prison was, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do. And I came across your…” Léon nodded. What to call it? “I saw you up on the scaffold, and I won’t lie, I’d never seen a more beautiful man in all my life. You were like an angel.”
“L’Ange de la Mort,” Léon reflected sadly.
“No. You were more than that. I saw your show, and I saw your axe, and I heard all the things people said about you, about how good looking you were and how dangerous you were. But that last death…” Léon paused, and Henry brought a hand to his own chest, as though reliving the memory. “You unlaced your cloak, and you put it on the floor to catch her head. And I thought… I can’t imagine another executioner in all the world doing something like that. Something so kindhearted and thoughtful in those last moments.”
Léon swallowed hard against the memory, but Henry talked on. “I saw a kindness in you that day. Or I thought I did. I pinned all of it, the lot, on that one act. And when you left the bar that night, it was cold out there in the alley. And you had no cloak. And since then, I’ve never seen you wear it. And I know you probably can’t afford to just go and buy a new one. You buried her with it, didn’t you?”
Léon gave a slow tilt of his head, which brought the tips of Henry’s fingers to brush against his knee. “There’s a nobility in you. Right in your heart. That was the first moment I realised. And since then… I’ve discovered I was right. Everything you’ve done. You’re like a soft place in a barrel full of nails.”
Léon half smiled, too sad at the memory to give more. “She was my Godmother.” He laughed. It came out with a touch of hysteria about it. His eyes misted, and he smiled lopsided.
Henry could see how close to the surface that madness was. Léon hadn’t said a word about it. Not one. Tight-lipped from thestart, pushing it down. But Henry had raked it up, turned it over, and exposed it.
