The Third Uncle

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three Uncles

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three Uncles

   The inside of a leviathan, that is what it looked like. Everything had been broken and bent. The stern of the craft was missing. The great window that looked out over the bay was just gone. The brightness of the blue sky reached in, illuminating the cabin. The heavy, wood floor boards, already whitened by Clotilde's touch had curled up and around like the ribcage of the great sea monster. The walls were blackened with gunpowder, and blood.

   Rudolpho, was the first to push through the mirror. He burst through the liquid glass, slipping and skidding to a stop, his sword clutched in his big hand. He stared in silent disbelief as the others bundled in behind him. 'Mon Dieu,' whispered Condé at his shoulder. Antonio stepped between Marie Antoinette and Soleil, inhaling sharply. 'She, she ...' He opened and closed his mouth, unsure what more to say.

   'She is still here,' came a soft voice opposite him.

   'Well, finally.' Clotilde gathered her skirts and gave them a swish. 'A reunion.' She carefully stepped over the broken body of a sailor. 'Hello uncles,' she smiled, waving her fingers at Antonio and Rudolpho. 'Ah, and your Majesty, quelle belle de vous voir ici, Napoléon sera si heureux de le savoir.' She grabbed at her skirts once more, and curtsied toward the royal, her knee touching the floor. 'Get up you creature,' growled Marie Antoinette, rolling the dagger between her fingers. 'I don't know,' said Soleil in her exaggerated English accent. 'She quite looks at home so close to the dirt.'

  Clotilde quickly stood back up, her blue eyes flashing angrily. She opened her mouth, but was interrupted by a cannonade that shook the air between them. Her face brightened then, and she smiled at their startled looks. 'But this is a Man O'war,' she cooed. 'Surely the cannon is not an unusual sound on a craft like this?' She flicked her eyes over the group, suddenly noticing Sergent Condé among them. 'Sergent? Bon après-midi.' She grinned. 'I see your comrades have joined you too!' She inspected a fingernail, and then looked up. 'What is left of them, is what I meant, of course.'

   The Sergent's brow darkened at her taunting, but a cautious look from Soleil held him fast. The craft resonated again with the deep rumble of cannon fire, but there was something more this time. Beneath the echoing boom was heard a sudden, shrill scream that drifted away with the cannons. BOOM! And there it was again, a terrified howl that chased after the explosion, shaking the chandeliers, rattling their spines, and then abruptly fading away again. Antonio, being the sensitive soul he was, couldn't help but look startled, and Clotilde noticing this, laughed again, her tiny shoulders shaking, tiny hands clasped together over her head in glee.

   'Mesdames,' Clotilde chuckled, flicking her gaze over the group. 'Et messieurs.' Her eyes settled upon Antonio. 'Why not come meet the rest ...' She looked down and nudged a dead sailor with the toe of her boot, ' ... of your cabal?' She turned, walking back to the door, pulling it open. 'They are all waiting for you! Ah yes,' she added, her expression hardening. 'Would one of you be so kind as to collect Francesca? I see she is missing.' With that, she strode out onto the deck as a sudden breeze chased a dark cloud of cannon smoke in after her.

   Rudolpho stared. His face one of sheer bewilderment. He looked at his brother, at Marie Antoinette, and Soleil, and finally at Condé and his men. Behind all that hair, his face went from visibly pale, to a bright pink, to a very deep red that blossomed beneath his moustaches. His nose shining a shade that even the most exquisite Cabernet sauvignon would have been jealous of.

   'But what?!' He spluttered. 'Why?!' He stammered. 'Antonio?' He looked at his brother, and grabbed both of his sibling's hands in his own. 'The battle? You said there would be a battle!' He looked around him, around them, at the bodies on the floor, and at the cabin that had been turned into disarray. 'This is a defeat!' He grabbed Condé by the arm and shook him. 'A defeat! You unnerstand?' Sergent Condé pulled his arm away, and turned toward Soleil. 'The Italian is correct, Madame, this ...' He too gestured at the murder round them, 'this was a defeat.' 'But,' Marie Antoinette spoke up, the dagger still clutched in her hand. 'Why has she taken the bateau at all, is she not in league with Napoleon?' Antonio snorted, and then quickly apologised when he saw the disapproving look from Soleil. 'She may have been summoned by the Corsican, but she has no allegiances to this world, she is loyal to no one but herself, and has only had her own interest in mind.'