“I did not finish telling you the truth about Kessler,” Victor interrupts. “You need to know the truth.”
I suck in sharply, unable to speak, terrified about what he’s going to admit to. I hadn’t forgotten any of this: about Italy, or Nora, or whatever else Victor had wanted to say—I just wanted to forget. Already I feel sick to my stomach, and my heart is withering like a dying flower.
Anything but that, Victor…tell me anything but what I think you’re going to.
Victor
“I knew you would want Kessler alive,” I say. “I wanted her alive even more than you did, but I could not let you know that.”
Izabel’s chin rears back; a look of confusion crawls over her features—perhaps she thought I was going to say something else; I cannot tell if she is relieved by my confession, or not. But then another look begins to take over, and this one I am quite familiar with: the sting of realization.
Her eyes narrow; she glares at me in a sidelong manner.
“You manipulated me,” she accuses.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t give a shit about what Nora did: kidnapping Dina; turning Niklas against you; making me relive the nightmare of my confession when I was alone—or so I thought—in that room with her. You didn’t care about any of that!”
“That is not true,” I speak out. “At first I wanted her dead as much as everyone else—I was going to kill her myself. And later, I did care about what she did to you.”
“But not enough to kill her for it!” She struggles with her hands behind her, her shoulders end up making awkward motions for her as her voice blazes at me from just a foot away. “You knew I’d want her to stay so she could train me! But you wanted me to be the one to make the decision because if you did it, after everything she’d done, then I’d know the truth—I’d know you wanted her!”
“No, Izabel!” I shout back. I move toward her, and she stands her ground. “It is not what you think,” I continue, lowering my tone. “There is not, and has never been, any kind of sexual attraction to that woman. I simply wanted to study her, to know her ways, to learn how she…”
“How she what, Victor?” She grits her teeth. “How she what?”
I start to speak, to answer her question, but she stops me, and surprises me with the answer all on her own.
“You wanted to know how she does it,” she says with accusation and ire. “How she can do what she does without batting an eye, how she can be so heartless and emotionless, how she can be so immune to love—you wanted to be just like her! You wanted me to go off with some kid I never knew and play fucking house, so you could be just like Nora!” She stops long enough to take a breath. “You let me think I was making an important decision in your Order; you let me believe that you believed in me enough to trust my judgment”—she clamps her jaw shut, presumably to stifle an indignant scream—“but the truth was you had already made the decision for me; you had no intention of killing her, whether I wanted her dead or not!” She turns her back to me; her shoulders rise and fall heavily with heavy, deep breaths. “You manipulated me,” she repeats, at last.
“I am sorry,” I speak softly from behind.
Silence fills the room again.
“So am I,” she finally responds, and it catches me off-guard.
Izabel turns around to face me, and while I am wondering what she could possibly be sorry for, she begins to tell me.
“In my heart,” she says, “I sided with Niklas when you confessed to Nora what you did to Claire.”
“But—”
She shakes her head sharply, in substitution of putting up her hand. “I’m not done,” she says, and goes on. “And while we were in Italy, I was given the opportunity to know the real Niklas, to understand him, and to see through the rough exterior. And do you want to know what I saw?”
I nod subtly, and with reluctance.
She swallows, and glances briefly at the floor; when she raises her eyes again she is not looking at me anymore.
“I saw someone who, although he has done so much harm, still deserved forgiveness; someone who, in a way, is still innocent in all of this; someone who has so much love and compassion in his heart.” Her eyes find mine again and then she says, “I saw a man who…can still be saved.”
“And you are sorry for this?” I ask, confused.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel guilty,” she answers. “I feel guilty because…when I look at you…I don’t see the same.”
I turn my back to her so she does not see the pain in my face.
Victor
I step up to the bars, peer out at nothing, and I think about my brother, about Izabel’s compassion for him. And it does not take me long to think about Italy and why I sent Izabel there.