Mathieu (White Flame Trilogy) - By Paula Flumerfelt Page 0,2

paneled walls, the beamed ceilings. It had ornate designs engraved into the baseboards that wound along the bottom of each room and along the banisters that flanked the staircases. The dark wood always seemed warm to the touch, filling every space with a soft fragrance unique to old wood, and it made the place feel like a home. It had a huge library, eight bedrooms with equal number baths, two kitchens, multiple sitting rooms like the one he’d just inhabited--filled with overstuffed chairs and loveseats--a music room, his favorite place to be, and a terrace looking onto the sweeping back lawn. It was a little piece of paradise. There was even a river not far from the orphanage.

But for Mathieu, the fifteen years he’d spent there had been a tedious hell. He couldn’t help that he was androgynous, had been abandoned on the side of the road by his parents at two-years-old, and had a strange strength that didn’t fit his narrow frame. It wasn’t uncommon for him to accidently break things when his temper got out of control. He was a freak and it made him the outcast of the orphanage.

It shamed him, however, to think about what he’d done to Darrel just a few minutes ago. At seventeen, he didn’t have any more self control than he’d had at six. His feet followed a familiar path and stopped just outside the music room, looking at the portrait on the wall. It was of an older couple: a man with salt-and-pepper hair, a lined face, and a calm smile sitting in a wing-backed chair, arms around his elegant looking wife. She was rather striking with a cascade of blonde pin curls, and a loving smile on her face.

The portrait always struck Mathieu as odd. In an age where all memories were captured with hologram crystals, to see a genuine, oil portrait was a rare thing. It made him smile to see something so special tucked away in such an innocuous place.

He went into the music room to find it empty, as expected. It was long and wide with high ceilings, stands for instruments, and a full wall of windows that looked over the pond and wild flowers. He went to the bank of windows and looked out at the overcast sky, then the faint reflection of himself in the window. He knew he’d messed up this time, and it seemed that the world agreed with him. Mathieu frowned. It wouldn’t do him well to dwell on it now.

Biting his bottom lip, Mathieu looked around before sneaking to the hidden compartment in the wall, retrieving his cello. He sat in one of the chair littered around the room and set the cello in front of him, cradling it between his knees. Taking a deep breath, he slid the bow along the strings, his heart soaring as a note sang through the still air. Slowly, he began to play, the song he wove mirroring his shame and concern, filling the space with a sadness that couldn’t be put into words. His bow slowly coaxed a string of harmonious notes from his beloved cello, letting his feelings flow from himself and into every corner of the room. It saddened him that no one got to hear the sweet melodies his instrument could produce, but he was someone happy that no one got to see the vulnerable side of him that arose when he was playing.

He continued to quietly entice gentle songs from his cello until both of the suns fell below the horizon and the dual moons rose high in the air. The room was aglow with moonlight when he finally realized that he was hungry. Stowing his instrument in its case and hiding it away again, he snuck out of the music room and down the hallway. The small kitchen was closer to this end of the house, so he headed for it. The floor barely creaked as he ghosted his way down the stairs.

The moon light provided enough light that he was able to navigate to the fridge and pull out a container of leftovers. It was only rice and beef stir fry, but it was better than nothing. He ate it cold, the meat was a bit chewy, and washed the dish once he was done. Mathieu was somewhat ready for sleep; it’d been a long day.

Mathieu’s room was the most barren of all that were inhabited in the orphanage. The changes that he had made through the years