The Cogwheels of Fate

Dolores met his warmthless gaze for a long moment, then twisted the corner of her mouth into something like a sneer.

Of course it doesn't matter to you, with your family standing solidly behind you. Even after making a ruinous mess of things, all you have to do is decide, one fine day, to step onto the stage of the art theater your family owns.

The world is unfair. I can't get in even when I ache to, and yet with one careless gesture you've turned me into a nobody clawing after something that no longer exists.

"If you passed, then enroll. You're the one who won't."

"Shall we wail together, then, playing the pipes of misfortune?"

Xavier blinked as if mildly surprised, then let out a low laugh. "……So you have it in you to say things like that. The girl I remember was a little more innocent."

"And you're not the splendid boy I remember, either."

"Well, I'd say I've only improved."

Dolores laughed, half in disbelief. "You've certainly grown shameless."

"Nothing's changed. I thought Le Havre was tedious back then, and I think so now."

Could there be a disappointment greater than this? Hearing a small tower collapse somewhere inside her, Dolores turned away.

"Right. Seeing you, I suppose the place really is tedious."

Dolores came down to the first floor.

Anger and sorrow and disgust burned in her chest until she ached; she wanted nothing more than to take her mother's arm and walk straight out. But her mother was utterly absorbed, admiring the beauty of a performance robbed of its leading performer.

So Dolores decided to bear it a little longer. For a woman who made her grueling living mending textiles, an evening like this came perhaps once in years. She couldn't bring herself to steal it from her. Fortunately, Dolores had always possessed a rather decent store of patience.

But before long, a master of ceremonies leapt up onto the stage and announced in a bright, ringing voice that a violin recital by Xavier Bransen was about to begin.

What could have changed his mind?

Thunderous applause shook the hall. In the roar of it, his heart pounding until his ears rang, Xavier stepped onto the stage.

The light pouring down on him was blinding. A double-breasted black jacket, pressed without a single crease and falling to mid-thigh, laid his long, lean frame sharply into view. The clean line dropping from his broad shoulders carried an air of restrained refinement.

A forehead holding the light, his crisp features, the long line of his eyes — they drew the gaze in spite of herself. He seemed an entirely different creature from the one she had faced across the dark second floor of the theater.

"……What a striking young man."

Her mother sighed in pure, unguarded admiration. Violin in hand, he lifted his head without a single unnecessary gesture and met the audience's eyes, and the hall fell into a silence that was itself a kind of surrender.

The tip of the bow rose. And the music began. What one violin and one man could make together was, as ever, magnificent — and immense.

Her mother wept at last. Dolores was gladdened and furious all at once — because he had grown up so willful and so broken, and he was a genius still.

Hadn't it been said that the world turns and meshes like cogwheels? Or was it fate?

It was fifteen days after her visit to Le Havre. Dolores had abandoned, wholly and completely, any thought of entering the conservatory of music and dance, and had ended her ballet lessons with Madame Marguerite for good.

All that remained before her now was reality — the need to find some place where she could earn her keep.

Unable to settle her restless heart, she drifted through the town all day and only returned home in the deepening dusk. But the air that greeted her there was nothing like the day before.

Her father was elated beyond all reason, and her mother was smiling brightly with Pablo's hand clasped tight in both of hers.

When Dolores could make nothing of it, Anaïs explained with studied indifference. "Pablo's getting into Sophino. His spot on the waiting list came through, or something. Apparently a place opened up."

Pablo gave an ahem and made a show of stroking a beard he didn't have. Dolores's face brightened in spite of itself.

Sophino Academy was a place where even submitting an application was no small feat — and yet his turn on the waiting list had come at last.

Should one call it her father's triumph, won through ceaseless lobbying and an expert hand at flattering the right people? Whatever the reason, it was cause for celebration. Sophino was as good as Beloff's foremost royal academy.

"Congratulations. That's wonderful."

"You've heard the princes themselves attend there, haven't you?"

"Don't even joke. Paupers like us couldn't so much as slide a calling card through their door. Go make something of yourself."

To the boy swelling with pride, Anaïs offered her congratulations in Anaïs's own fashion. Their father composed his expression and spoke.

"Anaïs, none of that. Pablo — from now on, your task is to go and make good friends. Many of them. That is what you must do. Build your connections, so that one day you may rise high. You can change the world, my boy — you are the proud son of Artois!"

It was a good thing, and yet tears rose in her, strangely. Don't cry. Congratulate him. Pablo was bound to carry heavy burdens regardless; he deserved an education in a better place. That much was only right.

……But what about the tuition? And his living expenses? Her thoughts tangled themselves into knots.

Her mother was to cut back on work for the sake of her health, which meant Dolores would have to take up the role of filling whatever the household income lacked.

What sort of work could she find that would leave nothing wanting in caring for Pablo and Anaïs?

Her mother, noticing how Dolores's expression had dimmed, came to her side. "Don't be disappointed."

"No, Mom, it isn't that. That's not what I was thinking at all."

Dolores denied it quickly. But in the next breath, her mother added something she could scarcely believe.

"Dolores. The plan has changed a little. We're moving to Lange. Pablo will be entering Sophino's dormitory anyway."

Dolores could not immediately grasp what the words meant.

"……What do you mean?"

"We're relocating to Lange. It means that before Pablo has even begun at Sophino Academy, you'll be entering Le Havre yourself. Madame Anne Roux thought very highly of you, it turns out."

Before Dolores knew it, a tear dropped from her eye.

"I'm sorry — what?"

Her mother and father had learned that Pablo's turn had come, and they could not let the chance slip away. So they had gone to Lord Roux, one of the town's leading men, laid out their circumstances, and tried to borrow the money.

And then Madame Anne Roux, who had been listening at his side, had made them an offer no one expected.

Their mother's skill in the textile mending trade had been acknowledged for years, and she had a gift for handling people besides — so she was introduced to a managerial post at a textile mill, one urgently in need of filling. The position paid at least double her current wages, and it was located in Lange, no more than two hours' journey from Le Havre.

"Tell Lord Boullain that I sent you, and he'll advance you enough to cover Sophino's tuition. As for Le Havre — it has a scholarship foundation, and I will write you a letter of recommendation. Why on earth would you let that child's talent rot?"

Her father had not so much as considered sending Dolores to Le Havre, but Madame Anne Roux wrote out Dolores's recommendation with such effortless ease that it would have been churlish to refuse outright with a flat "We won't send her."

Settling in another city was a great gamble for a family like theirs — but as it happened, her father's income had fallen off badly of late, and so her mother revised her plan of cutting back on work altogether. Her father was not at all keen, yet when his wife insisted, firmly, on starting over in Lange, he found he had no say in it.

"……Well — shouldn't we think this over a little longer? It will be too much for you."

"The work is gentler than what I do now. And is that really the problem at hand? Everything our children need is solved. We wouldn't be going for Pablo's sake alone. We're sending Dolores too. That school is extraordinary, I tell you — I saw one of their student graduation recitals, and if the students perform like that, imagine what the professors must be like."

"While you rest, Dolores can work and bring in the money, and then—"

"What's gotten into you, so obsessed with marrying the children off? If her hands turn rough from hard labor, who will ever want our Dolores for the mistress of a fine house? Ballet is a fine prospect in Beloff. And how long do you intend to go on as you are? Besides — it's Lange, of all places. Lange. Finding a governess for Anaïs won't be difficult either, and if it comes to it……"

Their mother knew, stroke by stroke, exactly where her husband weakened.

In the end, her father had no choice but to accept, however little it pleased him.

Lange was, after all, a city of education far more renowned than Aquigne. He must have done some small arithmetic of his own as well: if their eldest daughter could call herself a Le Havre graduate, surely the standing of the house of Artois would rise with her.

Dolores could not believe it, and asked again and again.

"Truly?"

"Yes. It can happen."

"Truly, you say?"

The tears would not stop coming.

"Really — really and truly?"

"When have you ever known your mother to lie? Thank goodness the registration period hasn't closed. Tomorrow we go straight away to file your application. Dolores, you'll enter the dormitory as well. From now on, I'll see to the housework and to Anaïs myself."

Dolores threw her arms around her mother and father and wept aloud. Her father, visibly awkward at his daughter's embrace, raised his arms half in protest — then, slowly, patted her back.

"Congratulations, Sis!"

"Nobody ever asks my opinion."

Pablo offered his congratulations without a shred of guile, while Anaïs sulked and grumbled. And so it was that Dolores entered Le Havre, and Pablo entered Sophino Academy — and thus the house of Artois greeted its great turning.