Chevalier.

V. There Is Nowhere To Go

Chapter Five.     There Is Nowhere To Go

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            The waves always greeted Cassidy like an unconfined braille of divinity, a code only he could discern. A language blessedly spoken to him, a mere mortal. An understanding between tide and man. Gratitude radiated from his sparkling skin.

Waves arrive as he adjusts the rudder; they are fleeting but constant, rising and falling. They disperse the light and the water's ever-changing, yet recognizable, blue hue. As they dance within and crash onto the rocks encasing his family's estate, Cassidy ponders: How could you not fall in love with them? How could you not liken the crisp caress of the breeze to the salty air? They are the cornerstones of our seaside existence, everlasting and fleeting, constant and unchanging.

Cassidy's only guarantee, besides death.

Josette sits perched, as she so often does, against her balcony's banister. Her blue eyes flit about the sea, specifically to her brother's most treasured companion. (Besides herself, she hoped.)

He'd named her Philomena, his water craft. Josette had always meant to ask him why he chose that name out of the so very many options.

Now, even at such a distance, she observed her brother's smooth motions and the way the sails moved in response to his commands. It was as if they spoke a secret language that only he and the boat understood. On the sea, he was always in sync. It felt more like he was supposed to be within rather than outside of it. It was the only place he seemed completely at ease. It was beautiful. There was no other way to express it.

She pressed her knuckles against her skin, her sunshades providing a shield against the glaring sun. And she stayed there awhile and watched.

Meanwhile, the Chevalier chateaux was soundless. Killian remains in his quarters, sitting in an armchair near the most sunny window. A song surrounds him, a humming tune by reason of the air conditioning unit and the tick of the grandfather clock adjacent to his bedstead.

His journal is tucked beneath his pillows. A glass of gin over ice is confined within his grasp. It's a bitter choice, one that burns his throat, but he welcomes the discomfort.

He clenches his free fist and finds his footing, deciding that the sun would refresh him if he was actually able to stand beneath it. He wanted to relish it. To relish something.

By the time he is sat against a double-seated swing along the fence line of the property, quite close in distance to the docks, Cassidy is aiming his boat southward, toward the family home.