It was one of London's cold, foggy nights, when the pleasant warmth of an early autumn day had slipped into to a chill that warned of cold months to come.
In the gloom that enveloped the square, a dark, slender figure hurried along, unnoticed by those more comfortable in their cozy houses and warm carriages.
Sara Crewe was tired, more tired than she had been in a long time. She was recovering from an attack of influenza, and though still not completely well, she had been rousted from her sickbed to return to her duties in the schoolroom and kitchen.
As she made her way through the darkness, hugging her thin shoulders against the cold, damp air, she glanced up at the golden, light-filled windows of the Large Family. She tried to smile, but her face hurt too much to muster more than a shadow of a tender look. She tried to focus on stepping around the piles of dirt in the street as she crossed the square, but her mind was feeling oddly light and dizzy. Waves of uncomfortable heat rolled through her body, making the they left behind even more pronounced.
Unable to decide if she felt too hot or too cold, Sara leaned for a moment against the gate of the house that had once belonged to the mysterious Indian Gentleman, the one who had passed away not long after coming to live in the square. For many years, it had stood empty, like a sad sentinel. Just a few months ago, though, a new man had taken up residence. But for all that he was seen or that any sign of life showed in the house, it might as well still be empty.
Sara fought back a wave of nausea, and in her moment of physical weakness, she found herself marveling that it was nearly ten years ago that her father had died on her eleventh birthday. She had not cried for him then, not when Miss Minchin had been waiting to pounce and scold her. She would not cry now, alone but in public.
"I am a princess," she thought to herself, her thin hands clutching at the black iron grille for support. "A princess does not show weakness to the world."
Her body protested that princesses would have doctors and nurses to help her back to health instead of being forced to run errands in the cold and dark while still sick.
Sara's eyes closed without her realizing it and slumped against the gate. She was so close to Miss Minchin's Seminary, really just a few steps more. But a violent wave of dizziness prevented her from moving.
"Are you ill?"
Sara's eyes flew open, and she gasped, struggling to stand straight to address the man who had spoken to her.
"N-no, sir," she replied. Then, in her quiet, quaint way, she dropped him a curtsey, keeping her eyes fixed respectfully on the ground.
"You are the servant from the Seminary?"
The man's voice was low and soft, though not warm or kind. There was a compelling ring to it that made Sara look up.
The man was very tall, and in the darkness, he seemed to loom over her, almost over-powering in his presence, with his broad shoulders and black clothes. Half his face was in shadows, but the half that showed was very handsome. He wore a hat pulled low over his face, as if to help the shadows along.
"I am, sir," Sara replied, studying him with her great grey-green eyes. Though the years of privation and hard living had left her far too thin, with a complexion that lacked the brilliance of those more well-nourished, there was still a clarity to her eyes, a spirit that shone out from them.
The man seemed to study her with an equal, though more guarded, interest.
"If you are not ill, then why do you linger at my gate?" he asked, and Sara noticed a hard, suspicious edge to his voice. Instead of feeling afraid or angry, Sara instantly pitied the man for whatever had happened to make him so terribly bitter and harsh.
"I beg your pardon, sir," she replied, feeling uncomfortable as another wave of feverish heat overtook her, producing a clammy sweat on her skin. "I grew dizzy for a moment and needed to rest. I…I am better now."
The man quirked an eyebrow, the expression on the visible half of his face plainly disbelieving.
Sara shivered involuntarily, though not from fear. Disapproval had been a constant companion for ten years now and held no terror for her now. Her knees threatened to buckle, and her stomach was roiling. But, she held the gaze of the man unwaveringly.
"I am a princess," she said to herself, trying to focus her fuzzy thoughts. "I should be concerned for others and not for myself."
"Please, sir," Sara said quietly. "It is a cold night, and you should go indoors where there is a great warm fire to welcome you, and perhaps a tea kettle that is singing merrily along. Perhaps there is buttered toast, too, and a large, soft chair by the fire."
As she spoke, she lost track of the fact that she was supposed to be giving kindly advice and spoke more as if she was dreaming of something she herself imagined and longed for.
The man's expression changed, ever so slightly.
Sara recollected herself with a slight start.
"I should go," she said softly. "Good evening, sir."
Despite all her years of hardship, she was still a friendly little soul, and still possessed of a magical smile that could warm and hearten even the most hardened of spirits.
Sara smiled at the man before she turned and walked away.
Erik watched the young servant woman walk away, though walking was not exactly the mot juste. Staggering would be more like it, with one slim paw brushing along the wall for balance, until she reached the kitchen stairs of Miss Minchin's Seminary for Young Ladies.
She had smiled at him.
She was the one who was obviously ill and suffering, and yet she had smiled at him as if to offer him comfort.
He frowned deeply, then turned and hurried up the steps to his house.
Once inside, he flung aside his cloak and stalked into the sitting room where Ram Dass was waiting. Despite being insufferably cheerful, Carmichael – his solicitor – had been good to him, helping him secure this house and even procuring the mysterious, unquestioning but highly capable man servant, Ram Dass.
He stopped short for a moment at the sight of the fire. There was his great fire in the fireplace, his soft chair, and a steaming cup of tea ready for him. He thought of the servant girl and scowled.
Sitting down in the comfortable chair, Erik steepled his fingers and stared deeply into the fire.
"Ram Dass," he said quietly. "You used to live in this house before, did you not?"
"Yes, sahib, many years ago," the Lascar replied, bowing politely.
"What do you know of the school next door?"
The Lascar eyed him thoughtfully, then smiled, as if enjoying a private joke.
"I know that there was a young girl who lived in the attic, sahib," Ram Dass said, as if telling a story. "She was brave and good, no matter how the evil women of that school mistreated her. She had the spirit of royalty, even if she did not have the blood or fortune of royalty."
Erik watched the fire and studiously avoided Ram Dass' gaze.
"What did she look like?" he asked, trying to sound uncaring.
"Sahib, you know that for yourself, for it was the little one that you met at your gate tonight," Ram Dass replied smoothly.
"You may go now," Erik said irritably, suddenly wanting to be alone, quite alone.
Ram Dass bowed and left the room, and Erik continued to stare at the fire.
Speaking to that wretched little servant girl had done something to him. That damned smile had knocked the keystone out of the dam of his reserve of painful memories, memories he had spent two years fighting.
Two years ago, he had made a hearth fire out of the Opera de Paris. Two years ago, he had killed senselessly for a dream that would never come true. Two years ago, Christine had forgiven him, then left him. Two years ago, all that was the phantom had died, leaving only the Erik the miserable man to get on with a miserable life.
After the first flush of nobility at sacrificing his own hope and future for his beloved had passed, despair and depression had settled in. He had cursed his weakness at not being able to take his own unhappy life and end it all. He had not seen Christine or the boy since that night fateful night he had forced her hand, and then relinquished it.
He had fled, living in the shadows until there were no more shadows to hide in. In a haze of anger and pain, he had come to England to do something or nothing at all. With his talent for languages and mimicry, he was speaking like an Englishman within a few months.
Slowly but surely, the awful ordinariness of life reclaimed him from the shadows. He had engaged Carmichael as his solicitor, bought a house in the square and hired a man servant. He now took tea in the afternoons like every other civilized Englishman. He even worked occasionally, writing compositions for commission for various theaters. He was the unseen genius, though no longer anonymous as he signed his name Erik D'Arcy, the legal name that Carmichael had helped him procure.
For the past few months, he had been content to sink into the stupor of a kind of dark routine of daily life, speaking to no one except Carmichael and Ram Dass, and paying no heed to anything of the life of the square.
Now, this little servant girl had smiled at him. She had seen him…seen him and smiled.
Damn!
That night, on the other side of the wall, in the attic where no fire ever burned in the hearth, Sara sat huddled up on her thin bed, snuggling with Becky for warmth.
"Laws, miss!" Becky exclaimed. "Yeh sawer him!"
"I did, indeed," Sara replied with a dreamy smile. "He was quite handsome from what I could tell, and he had a beautiful voice."
Sara pulled the frayed coverlet more closely about her bony shoulders.
"He seemed sad, though," she added, her dark hair tumbling around her face like a Shetland pony. "Poor man! I shall smile up at his window and wish him well whenever I pass by."
"Some kind o' magic, miss, to make him feel better?" Becky asked, her round eyes wide.
"It might not make him feel better," Sara said with a little laugh. "But, it shall make me feel better, at least, and that is not magic."
High in the sky that night, a thoughtful, silvery moon stood watch over the stars, over the young woman who slept soundly in her attic, and over the haunted man who tossed and turned in his feather bed.