"Where is it?"

I was only muttering to myself, but the sheer volume of silence in the house made even the softest word jarring. I felt too aware of my own body. My boots beat savagely against the floor as I plodded from one room to the next. For many months, I could not turn these corners without expecting to pass through the growing shadow of my missing child.

That was less often now. All those months had banded together to form a year, and, though I still hoped, my eyes scanned the drawing room only anticipating the sight of my cloak. I remembered hanging it in my bedroom closet a week before. So distinct was my memory that I had checked for it three times over before I was willing to broaden my search to other locations. The time was ticking away. Marie would arrive to accompany me to Mass within the hour.

I groaned, "Going to make us late." As if my entrance into the church did not attract enough negative attention as it was.

It wasn't until I turned my back on the room, about to search the kitchen, that the light from the window ricocheted off something on a table I had thought to be bare. It was like a blinding pinprick to the corner of my eye, small but with a sting which was very insistent. I threw a glance over my shoulder, paused, and then pivoted around completely.

A handgun rested on the open pages of a book on the table. It was set on the edge. The book's bottom corners jutted over the table on the sides, and the table's corner stuck out past the book in the center. The points made an upside down triangle.

The gun was pointed at me.

Someone is in the house. I looked around with new eyes, but nothing else seemed out of the ordinary. I moved slowly toward the weapon, taking each step with great care. My noisy bustle about the house before seemed foolish, dangerous. I found myself wishing – not that my son could be more like me, as I so often used to – that I could be more like my son. He could traverse the entire property without a sound.

Perhaps the intruder stole my cloak, I thought, a little wildly.

As soon as it was within reach, I lunged forward and snatched up the gun. The wooden grip was cool in my hand. It didn't feel like it had been held recently, which was a relief. Even still, the hairs on my arm stood on end when I touched it. I fingered the barrel with my other hand, turning the weapon in search of distinctive markings. I remembered Charles had a pistol similar to this with his surname engraved in the metal.

It was with no small amount of satisfaction that I found this one was claimed in just such a way. I ran my thumb over the indentations of the letters, tilting it toward the light and squinting to make them out. When the name became clear, I dropped the gun in shock.

It struck the book that had been holding it before me, leaving a round dent in the pages where the muzzle came down. It bounced to the side, clattered against the table, and then rocked a bit before the momentum exhausted itself. I stared as it went still, half expecting my late husband to come charging into the room. "Madeleine, you must be careful with the gun!"

I thought this because it was the gun. It was Charles's gun. I had not laid eyes on it since before his death, always keeping it locked in its box beneath my bed. I felt certain I had never taken it out, but surely I could not have imagined it was his name I saw?

I reached across the table, fingers trembling, and turned the top of the gun toward me to check again.

I had not imagined it.

Recoiling, I turned my attention hastily to the open book. My intent was to distract myself from the horrifying likelihood that someone had broken, not just into my home, but into my bedroom. Looking at the text on the pages, however, I soon realized that this was not a book I had or would ever read for entertainment. It was covered in complex diagrams and lengthy dissections of buildings, using terms I only vaguely recognized as architectural. I lifted one side of the cover to read the title on the front. It was as dizzying as the name on the gun.

I was looking at the last book Professor Guizot had ever sent to my home. He was my son's teacher. He sent the book for my son... There was a creak from somewhere above me. My eyes darted to the ceiling. It sounded like someone was walking around upstairs, and, all at once, a possibility blossomed before me.

"Erik?"

I whirled around and hurried toward the stairs. As I started to climb, the air around me suddenly felt heavy, like it was pressing down on my neck and shoulders, and a pang of dread made me go back for the gun. I slowed with the weapon in my hand, careful to keep the muzzle pointed downward. I had to remind myself that I could not be sure I was right, no matter how much I wanted him to come home, to have a chance at fixing things. It could be anyone.

My heart was pounding so hard that every beat sounded in my ears. When I reached my bedroom door, I paused to look up the second flight of stairs leading to the attic. Even though it was a bright, early morning, the shadows seemed to have something to hide.

"Erik?" I whispered.

I strained my ears.

There was nothing.

I opened my door without having to rummage through my pocket for the key. With Erik gone, I had grown lax in locking it. I wondered how costly a mistake that could be.

The first thing I noticed was my cloak. All morning, I had been searching for it, only to find it spread out in plain sight across my bed. My hand rose automatically to my chest. I must have set it out after I straightened the sheets, I found myself thinking. I tried to force the explanation to align with my memories, but there were no images in my mind to support it. I had scoured over every inch of this room. There was no scenario I could imagine where I would overlook something so obvious. It was difficult to take comfort in logic I did not believe.

Gripping the gun more tightly, I inched closer to the bed. I was looking straight ahead, watching for the slightest sign of movement, when my boot struck something in the middle of the floor. I stumbled and jerked my leg back, but whatever it was was unyielding and surrounded my foot on all sides. My heel collided with what felt like a short but solid wall, robbing me of any chance to regain my balance. The floorboards rattled my bones and stung my backside. I was convinced I had stepped into a trap. All of the tension that was piling itself upon my body became too much for me and collapsed.

I screamed.

It shattered the silence of the house into so many fragments, I was sure it would have alerted neighbors three homes over of my distress, if they had existed to hear it. For the first time, I was not grateful to live alone on the outskirts of the village. My mind changed quickly when I realized I had only stepped into the lock box, the one which should have been housing the gun, and easily pulled my foot free. Someone had slid it out from under the bed and left it lying open on the floor.

That person must have been me, and yet -

An agitated knocking sounded from downstairs. "Are you alright, Madeleine?" Marie's normally quiet voice called. It was loud enough to be heard from my current location on the second floor, though I knew she had to have been outside. "I heard yelling!"

I rushed to the nearest window, huffing with irritation when it refused to open. It took every bit of strength I could muster to lift it. It gave way with a squeal so high and grating, my teeth clenched together. I hollered down to her, trying to relax my face. "Never mind what you heard! I'll be down in a moment. I merely stubbed my toe."

I came away from the window and put the gun firmly into its box. I made sure to shut it tightly and seal the lock. I pushed it back beneath my bed, sparing a few extra seconds to stare at it in its rightful place. Reality had been challenging my memory at every turn, and so I paid close attention to each action I took, ensuring I did nothing without being conscious of it.

Finally, I stood, swept up my cloak, and fastened it around my neck. I surveyed the room once more before I left, my eyes lingering on one last, disorienting detail. The possibility of my son's return glistened enticingly.

"If you are here, if you need more time, Erik... I shall go and be back soon."

After rummaging through the closet so many times, I was sure I left it gaping open in my haste to continue searching for my cloak. Now, however, I found it to be completely and securely shut.

"I haven't heard it –not once- since she started attending again."

"It seems she's finally gotten that monster under control and properly contained. About time, too."

I resisted the urge to locate the gossipers, fixating on the graying head of hair in front of me. Marie and I were seated at our customary spot in the last pew, where most whispers went unheard, but some disapproving hiss always managed to slither its way to my ears. And I was glad for it. It had given me the ample time and opportunities I needed to thicken my skin.

Where once I came to Mass to take a stand for my son and I, for our right to live in the village, now I was standing by myself. It sapped my determination at first. I would have become a total recluse, but Marie refused to run the essential errands she took up for me when Erik first disappeared indefinitely, forcing me out in public. With relief, I discovered that what was painful once would not hurt quite so much the second time, and their judgments only wielded as much power as I cared to give them. My mind and body no longer bowed to the sharp lashings of their tongues. When I entered St.-Georges de Boscherville Abbey, I kneeled for God alone.

Father Mansart concluded the service, beseeching us all to spread the Catholic teachings to others and apply them forever in our own lives. His voice, however, seemed to undermine the message. It was dry and uninspired.

"Marie," I said softly, rising to leave, "has Father Mansart been ill?"

"I haven't heard anything. You would know better than I do, I'm sure, as often as he comes by."

"He doesn't come by so often anymore. There's hardly a reason for it, what with Erik being...as he is."

"More than likely he's just tired."

I made my way into the nave, slowed by thoughts of the morning I'd had. I looked back at Marie, trying to think of how to put what occurred into words, and walked directly into someone's side. "Oh," I gasped, startled. "Excuse me. I didn't realize there was anyone behind us."

The middle aged gentleman who jerked apart from me whipped around as if I'd stabbed him. While his hair was light, his face was a deep, sweltering red, and his eyes were livid. "Excuse you? You, madame, don't deserve to be excused."

My chin lifted. I scrunched my prayer book in my hands. "I beg your pardon, monsieur!"

He leaned in so close, so fast, that I shut my eyes in preparation for a blow. Although he didn't strike me, nothing could have prepared me for what he said:

"Your son is dead, and you murdered him."

He pivoted around and stalked out of the church. He was gone before I was even able to breathe.

"What was he so angry about? I've never seen him before." Marie gripped my shoulder. "Did he harm you?"

I shook my head, though a shock of pain was turning my innards to jelly. I pulled free of her hold, hurrying to the door. The stone steps seemed treacherous beneath my unsteady feet. The day was still beautiful outside, dressed warmly in sunshine, but the wind messing my hair was cold. I needed answers. I had to find that man and demand he explain. Except there was no one in sight who could even plausibly be him from a distance.

I spun like a drunken dancer, completing a woozy half-circle and raising my eyes to the sky. The magnificent church towered over me. The sight of it was as white and stabilizing as a skeleton of bones. It made me feel so small, so powerless, but it also reminded me that I was not alone here. There was someone else, very near, whose knowledge of the members of this congregation was far superior to mine.

"Father Mansart!" I found him easily. There was a young couple speaking to him who looked quite disturbed by my interruption. "I apologize. This is very important."

They looked to the priest, leaving it to him to decide how much credence should be given to my urgency.

The silence which followed was maddening. Father Mansart's leathery face was immobile. There was not the slightest ripple beneath his skin, not even the beginnings of an expression to guess his response from. It was like carrying on a conversation with a man in a mask.

I cringed at that thought and breathed deeply. It took effort to bully my nerves into submission. I waited until I was certain I was as composed as possible before I spoke again. "Father, please."

His lip twitched downward, and his eyebrows knitted together. "Of course, my child." He nodded at the couple, who excused themselves, casting a few lingering glances toward me.

"Did you see a man, a man standing behind the back pew during Mass? Behind Mademoiselle Perrault and me?"

"I'm afraid not." Father Mansart's gaze dropped to my hands, which were still clutching the crumpled prayer book. "Perhaps we ought to go inside."

I allowed him to guide me into the church, though I could not believe what he told me. "But you must have seen him. Everyone else was seated, and there would have been nowhere for him to sit."

The door closed after us. He brought me to a corner just inside the entrance, tucking us beneath shadows cast by the archways, hidden away. The daylight from the tall windows was muted. The distant lighting turned his complexion bluish gray.

"Madeleine, the Mass is a time for reverence, a time to put aside all worldly concerns and turn our thoughts to God. I should not need to remind you of that."

"No, you should not -"

"During that time, I look to the altar and the cross, and I suggest you do the same, however much you may miss Doctor Barye."

I took a step backward. "This has nothing whatsoever to do with Doctor Barye. I think of him at times, but I do not mourn his absence."

"Very well, then." He sounded unconvinced. "What is it about this man that has so concerned you?"

"He has accused me of...an unspeakable thing..."

"Yes? Go on."

Each time I attempted to continue, my throat constricted too tightly for my voice to escape. I blinked furiously to stop my eyes from stinging. My vision only grew wetter and more blurred. "He –he said Erik is dead. That I – that it was me who killed him."

Through my tears, I thought I saw the priest sneer. I reached for my handkerchief in my dress pocket, drying my eyes to clear them.

"There, now. What's done is done. We must leave the past in the past." The words were consoling, but they were spoken in a flat monotone.

"He called me a murderer."

"Well..." Father Mansart stared at me with unveiled contempt. "That is between you and God. If you'll excuse me."

He left me standing there, my body going numb piece by agonizing piece, as the revelation he just dealt me sank in.

Over the past year, I had spent many hours alone with my thoughts. There was little else to do but pore over my mistakes and regrets. I thought I had come to terms with all I had done wrong by my son. I felt sure I fully comprehended what a wretched excuse for a mother I had been. If Father Mansart, a man who once visited my son and I multiple nights a week, a man of God, believed I was capable of such wickedness, then my opinion of myself as a mother had a very long way still to fall.

"Madeleine?"

I looked to find Marie, watching me warily.

"Are you ready to leave? I'll walk you home."

Home. I thought of the noises I'd heard coming from upstairs. In light of that burning, furious face, all of the signs I believed pointed to Erik's return seemed more sinister. How could that man have known Erik was dead... unless he was the one responsible? I couldn't imagine Erik having any difficulty making enemies. Perhaps he accused me of murder for setting such a child loose on the world.

It wasn't all fitting together quite right, but there was a terrible ring of truth muddled somewhere inside my fears. Someone had been inside my house. And if I returned there, it might be to find my child's body.

My stomach gave a sickening lurch.

"I don't want to go home."

The sun was setting when Marie and I journeyed up the path to my house.

I had told her everything, and we spent the whole of the afternoon at her family's cottage. Her parents were polite, if not exactly welcoming. Ever since Erik was born, their attitude toward me cooled to near-frigid winter. I had little doubt they now thought me totally mad in addition to all of my other unbecoming qualities. Marie, kind and clumsy as ever, had volunteered her father to accompany us back to my home. He, however, was particularly busy, and dodged the obligation with his certainty that we would be quite safe.

Arriving at our destination did not grant me any of his confidence. The house was cast in harsh light on one side, the sun lent the ivy twisting up the stone walls a poisonous glow, and left in black shade from the trees on the other. The windows were all mirrors of the world outside. They reflected the blue-orange sky and gave away no hint as to what could be lurking within them.

It didn't look as though anyone tampered with the front door. I pulled at the handle, and it was still locked. I was overly conscious of my key, how dense it was, when I slid it into the keyhole. It felt weighty, chilling my fingers.

My hand froze. I peered over my shoulder at Marie.

"Don't be such a goose!" She giggled high and fast, smiling. That was something I typically said to her. "This is silly. Here, let me." She came around me and turned the key. For all her laughter, the tiny clink that meant the locking mechanism had given way made her flinch.

The door swung wide, gliding silently on its hinges. I stepped ahead of her and paused in the entryway. The evening sun dowsed everything in golden light, allowing me to take quick stock of all of my possessions. They were each in their proper place as far as I could tell. Marie followed after me as I moved through the first floor, my pace increasing with every room I found to be untouched. Only the architectural text, still open on the table, halted my progress.

I approached it with caution. If any weapon rested on its pages, I should have been able to see it straightaway. Even so, every time I so much as batted an eye, I expected the image in front of me to alter. I came to stand beside the table, staring down at the illustrations in the book. It was open to the first page in a chapter entitled "Facades."

I frowned. I did not remember seeing this section before, but then I couldn't recall much of what I skimmed to begin with.

"What is it?" Marie asked, trying to see around my arm.

"Nothing to be concerned about. A book Erik's teacher sent for him."

For a moment, it was so quiet that I could hear the clock above the fireplace ticking.

In the next moment, a terrific crash drowned everything out.

It was as if thunder was clapping directly over our heads. There was a great booming sound, followed just after with two smaller, but still striking, collisions. The chandelier mounted above the table trembled, and dust showered down on our heads.

"Holy Virgin!" Marie bent over, putting more distance between herself and the ceiling.

My hands flew up into my hair in a useless attempt to protect my skull –but the booming ceased.

There was an odd series of creaks and squeaks, similar to what I heard before, but more rapid and in much greater quantity. Someone was not walking but running around upstairs. The footsteps started out loud and grew softer, as though they were traveling toward the opposite end of the house. I looked up, following the retreating thumps across the ceiling. They seemed to go as far as the kitchen, and then, abruptly, they stopped.

"I think we should leave, go back to my parents. I—I'm sure they would be... That is—are you coming? Where are you going? Madeleine?"

I heard Marie bolting for the door, but I walked determinedly in the opposite direction. There was something about those footsteps that seemed familiar, and it renewed my hope. I stood at the foot of the stairs, contemplating them. Beneath my skirts, my knees were shaking. "Do you think I should bring a lamp with me? It can't be long before dark."

"You can't mean to go up there!"

"Of course I have to go!"

Marie came to stand beside me. She grabbed my wrist, her hold on me jittery and painfully tight. "We have to leave, dear. Quickly. Before whoever is up there comes down to stop us."

"It might be him. I think it's Erik, Marie, and what if he needs me?"

"It won't matter if you get yourself killed. You won't be any use to him, or anyone, ever again. Don't you understand? Are you really willing to take that chance?"

"I've wasted too many chances with him. I'm not leaving."

Marie gave a cry of exasperation. "Come on!" She tugged at my wrist, but it felt more like resistance against what was happening than any real effort to make me move.

I shook my head. "You know there's no use arguing once I've made up my mind."

"Alright, alright." She let go of me. "I'm going to get help. Just stay here until I get back. Don't go upstairs alone. Please."

"I won't."

She hurried off at a full run.

I waited to hear the door shut, ensuring she was gone, before I started to climb the steps. The palm of my hand left a trail of cold sweat along the handrail. I knew it was in my own best interest to listen to her, that I lied to her, but it didn't seem dishonest when I had such a strong sense that someone was with me.

I looked around. While most of the staircase was in shadow, it wasn't dark enough to prevent me from seeing what was in front of me, beside me, or behind me. I could not see anyone, anywhere. Yet the sense that there was someone intensified. The hair rose on the back of my neck, but that was because it was so strange. I was not afraid of it. It was comforting not to feel alone.

"Are you here, Erik?" I murmured. "I wish you would answer me. I only want to talk to you."

I stepped onto the landing, noticing my bedroom door was cracked open. I could recall so much about how I left that room, putting things away so carefully, but I couldn't say for certain if I pulled the door shut behind me. I unfastened my cloak and glanced up the second flight of stairs, debating. The attic bedroom was quiet. I folded my cloak over my arm and continued into my room, exactly as I would on a typical Sunday evening. I thought, At least I won't lose it again.

A light breeze brushed my cheek. I was in front of the closet, and I glanced over to see where it came from.

Another pair of eyes met mine.

It was like falling against a hot stove. There was no thinking. I couldn't form a thought beyond the realization that there was a stranger in my bedroom, and he had a knife, and he was much bigger than I was. There was only instinctual, panicked reaction.

I bolted.

He was too close. He grabbed my arm and yanked me back, stopping me before I could even make it out of the room.

"Let go, let go of me! Get away!" I was flailing my arm and legs, doing everything in my power to break free or at least prevent myself from being further restrained. I searched frantically for something to grab. I saw the window was open and yelled louder. "Help! Marie!"

"She can't hear you, lady. I watched her run away. No one is going to spare you from this."

I twisted against his grip, shifting all of my weight to one side. The skin of my arm burned beneath his hand, his fingers digging into the flesh and pulling it in ways it wasn't meant to go. I scarcely felt the sting because it meant he was losing his hold.

In spite of my struggle, he managed to catch my free hand by the wrist. He took it behind my back, the handle of the knife squeezed too tightly between his palm and the prominent bones leading to my fingers. He resituated his faltering grip on my arm to capture my other wrist and brought it behind my back as well. He banded both wrists together in one of his large hands.

The blade of the knife came gleaming into view. I saw it coming at my face from the side, the point inching forward, cutting in out of the corner of my eye as sharply as if it had already stabbed me. Realizing what he intended to do, I threw myself as far apart from him as my immobile arms would allow, creating as much space between us as possible. I dropped my chin and angled my head far to the left to protect my throat. I let my legs give out beneath me.

Faster than I would have believed, and with the knife still in his fist, he ensnared my waist in his arm and hefted me up into a standing position. He grunted, an irate, guttural sound, like an animal, snapping my upper body back against him with a single tug.

The force was too much. My back knocked into his front. I felt his feet under mine and stomped down on them.

"Argh!" His limbs ripped from me.

I dove onto my hands and knees, crawling to the bed and dragging myself beneath it. Thoughts of the gun consumed me. Reaching it was all that mattered. I could see no other way I would have even a hope of survival.

The floor was cold and unforgiving. I felt I was moving on thin-skinned points rather than elbows, for all the pain they caused me. Strands of my hair caught on the underside of the mattress. I ducked down farther and immediately regretted it, ashamed of how much dust I'd allowed to accumulate beneath where I slept. It seemed the space was too tight to contain enough air. I panted, terrified and suffocating.

And all for nothing. The lock box was no longer under the bed. I could see it, shoved out in the open, all the way on the opposite side. I pulled myself faster.

The stranger was on the move. At first, I could see only his feet, but then he knelt down and peered at me. A lock of hair the color of straw swung beside his eyes. His face had started to redden, and that was what made me recognize him. It was the man who accused me at church.

I made it out from under the bed, stumbling on my dress when I tried to stand too quickly. I grappled for the lock box and snatched it. My stomach felt as though I just dropped three stories. For a moment, I thought I might heave the contents of it up.

The box was open, and it was empty. The gun was gone.

He has it.

The man was coming around the bed. He looked at the box in my hands, and then at my face, and he laughed at my torment. "He was right about you. You don't respond well to pressure. Do you feel helpless, lady? Do you feel like-"

I charged forward, darting under his arm. "Let me alone!" I reached the landing, but he blew past me and blocked off the staircase that led downstairs. I whirled around. There was my bedroom, or the stairs to the attic. Erik's room it was.

It sounded like a horse's gallop. My boots beat against the stairs, each step echoed closely by the pounding, heavier tread of my pursuer. He was faster, but I had a head start. The stairs were also narrow and steep, and only I was aware of precisely how narrow and how steep.

I reached the attic without being caught. I shut the door, though I knew it would not prevent him from entering. It locked from the outside. Yet the second it would take him to open it suddenly seemed precious. Time was always at its most valuable just before it ran out.

Something touched my shoulder.

I gasped and jolted, practically tearing apart from my skin. Even as I listened to the man climbing the steps, I expected to find his red face behind me. There was no one. I felt my shoulder, but there was nothing caught on it, nothing that could explain the sensation of a hand resting upon it. I looked down. The head of the shepherd boy statue stared up at me.

It wasn't where it should have been. I took a few more steps in and nearly tripped over the chest that held Erik's tools of illusion, toppled over and splayed open against the floor as it was. The objects it had contained were scattered everywhere from the foot of his bed to just beside me, as though it had been thrown across the room. Erik's mirrors, placed with such precision to capture the light and convey his last message to me, were either wildly askew or hopelessly broken. Although there was something winking in the last remnants of daylight.

I blinked a few times, trying to clear my eyes. There, on the nightstand beside the bed, was-

The man burst into the attic, flinging the door open with such force that it slammed into the wall. He looked much the same as he did when I first encountered him. Fury seemed to be emanating from him, like scorching heat a hair's breadth from the fire.

I ran. My heels crushed shards of glass to splinters.

I halted next to the bed, turning to face him. The backs of my legs were flush to the nightstand. I reached behind me, fingers inching along the marble top, feeling for the cool, wooden grip.

He stalked toward me, blind to the chaos around him. His foot caught on the rounded lid of the chest, and he fell forward, cursing.

The gun was too large for my hands. I pleaded, "For God's sake..."

"I am doing this for God's sake." He righted himself and kicked the lid that tripped him to the point of destruction. He never lost his grip on the knife. "My... employer knew you wouldn't have to answer to man's law, not for killing a child no one ever saw! He sent for me, so I could send you to Him."

I fumbled for the hammer. My thumb slipped over it twice before finally catching and pulling it back.

He was getting too close. Pale whiskers darkened his jaw. He raised the knife so the blade was poised above me. "Time to answer to God, lady."

I whipped the gun out in front of me, wrapping it in both hands. I planted my feet, straightened my arms, and stared resolutely at the man's chest.

I squeezed the trigger.

In the split second afterwards, I panicked. I recalled watching Charles clean the weapon, showing me how to pop percussion caps to clear it of oil before use. I loaded it, at his insistence, pouring in the measured amounts of gun powder and ammunition like ingredients in a baking recipe. I only did it that once, and, with the exception of that morning, the weapon had sat untouched for a decade. I realized I just bet my life on a gun I did not even know would fire.

But there was an incredible bang, and the force of it knocked my arms high into the air, and smoke spewed from the muzzle to make a gray cloud in the attic.

When it cleared, I could breathe again. The shot found its mark. The man stood staring at me, his face wiped clean with shock. I heard the knife clatter from his hand to the floor. His feet gave way. He fell to his knees, and then he fell back, the entire room shaking from the sudden drop of so much dead weight.

I approached him, every nerve in my legs squirming like feathers in a storm. The gun was still clutched in my hand, my grip painfully tense. I swooped down and seized the knife with the other. A red stain soaked through his shirt, appearing just above his stomach and blooming as I watched. His face was, at last, draining of color. However, it wasn't until I saw his eyes, empty and affixed to the ceiling with a total lack of comprehension, that I knew for certain I killed him.

He was dead –dead!- and I couldn't feel anything but giddy with relief.

A high little laugh burst from my lips. I could see the warm air transform into a white puff before me. I shivered and walked away from the window, setting the weapons on Erik's bed. It was very cold. The change in temperature seemed abrupt, but, of course, I would have been too distracted to take notice any sooner.

And then I heard the footsteps. Not distant, like before, but right behind me and drawing nearer. So near that I could hear the creak of leather accompanying the bending of their shoes. I didn't turn. I lowered my eyes to the mirror propped up against the bedpost, one of the few fortunate enough to survive the wreckage unscathed, and looked through the glass that could make magic.

I saw him. He appeared exactly as he was that last morning, leaving for the building site in a fine, dark coat. His hair was black with only the most dignified hints of gray around the edges. His mouth was set in a thin line, inspiring me to imagine his grin. I was startled by how much time had made me forget of his features. He was perfectly handsome in the face, and his eyes were watching me with an intensity I knew too well, still protecting me, even in death.

"Charles." I could not resist turning around anymore.

When I did, he had vanished.

I sat on the bed, afraid I would collapse if I stood a moment longer. Erik's things lay abandoned around me. It was clear to me then that my son had never returned, but, as I lifted a bobbin of silk thread from his pillow, his voice came back to me. What once had sounded like an eerie threat was transformed in my mind's ear to an enlightened promise.

"There is a ghost. There is a ghost here, Mother. And it's going to stay with you forever and ever!"