The Frost of Springtime by Rachel L. Demeter

to be a whole other
world away. Gas lamps flickered, their lights strong and sure, bathing the
cobblestones with collective glows. More ladies and gentlemen were stationed
outside of Voisin’s doors than throughout the whole of Paris put together.
Within this corner of society, the starving children, grief-struck insurgents,
and shady rat sellers were nonexistent … nothing more than a distant nightmare.
    The coach rolled to a jarring halt. All at once, a hush descended as
the ladies and gentlemen turned their attention to the rich vehicle. Unused to
such excitement and crowds, the horses whinnied unhappily and pawed at the
cobblestones.
    “Ah, here we are. Monsieur, mademoiselle , ” the
driver announced. “Voisin of Rue Saint-Honoré.”
    Wary of his sweeping six-foot-two frame, Aleksender inclined his head
as he stepped from the coach. He fished a hand inside his coat and deposited a
healthy amount of francs into the driver’s palm. “I suspect we shall be an hour. Two at the most.”
    An indulgent grin formed on the man’s chaffed lips. He nodded and
pocketed the coins. “Yes. Of course, monsieur. Take
all the time you require.”
    Aleksender returned to the coach’s door, straightened the askew rim of
his top hat, then reached through the portal. Delicate
fingertips wound about his hand as he guided Sofia into the street.
    “Oh! I remember this place!”
    Aleksender chuckled, charmed by her enthusiasm. “Yes. I imagined that
you might. Come.”
    Together, they crossed the threshold and entered one of Paris’s finest
eateries. The lush surroundings were intoxicating. An exotic blend of rich
scents mingled in the air. Twin chandeliers glittered on either side of the
restaurant, romanticizing everything beneath the illuminations. From a far
corner, the faint hum of music swelled Voisin’s walls and breathed life into
the establishment. A moderately sized dance floor occupied the middle of the
room. Reflecting a swirl of colors, its floorboards were brilliantly polished
and alive with countless embracing couples.
    Bending into a slight bow, the meticulously attired maitre d’ stepped
forward to peel away Sofia and Aleksender’s garments. The man’s wig was
powdered a pristine white and slickly combed back without a strand out of
place. With a muttered pardon, he handed Aleksender’s hat and coat to the
nearby footman. Then gloved fingertips stripped away the material of Sofia’s
cloak, exposing two smooth slates of porcelain flesh—one and then the other.
    Aleksender instantly hardened at the vision.
    “Monsieur le Comte, Mademoiselle Rose,” the maitre d’ said through a
genuine smile, “how wonderful it is to see you again. Would you prefer a seat
by the window?”
    Aleksender cleared his throat, wrenching his eyes from Sofia’s bared
flesh. “That shall do just fine.”
    Sofia tensed as Aleksender rested a hand across her lower back. His fingers
spanned the entire length with ease. Aleksender increased the pressure of his
touch and guided her in his footsteps. Her entire body broke out into goose
flesh … every last hair stood attentively erect. His hands were large and
strong, roughened from his labor out-of-doors. She could feel the warmth of his
skin through the thin barrier of silks that separated them. Thumb and
forefinger curled against the small of her back and sent chains of awareness
surging through her veins. There was nothing inherently intimate about the
gesture. And Aleksender had certainly touched her in this way half a million
times, and yet something was different.
    Undeniably and frightfully different.
    “If you two would care to follow me.”
    Sofia was jolted back into the moment as Aleksender gently urged her
forward. They shadowed the footsteps of the maitre d’, bodies connected in a
transient, barely-there touch. Sofia’s heart fluttered as she basked in the
pleasure of his nearness. She felt remarkably safe, secure and complete.
    A wave of silence crashed down as they