Remember how I said after "From the Ashes" that I was finally ready to move on from Erik and Vivienne? Yeah...I lied. As it turns out, there's still more to their story, and they won't let me rest until it's over!

Vivienne

"You're nearly there, Madame. Come on, now, one more push!"

It was every bit as terrible as the first two times when the twins were born, but I wasn't as scared now as I was then. I knew that after the pain and the agony, only joy and relief would follow. Erik's voice rang in my ears as before, offering what comfort and encouragement he could and holding my hand in his—or rather, allowing me to crush his fingers in a death grip all over again. "It's almost over, little phoenix," he assured me. "You can do it, come on!"

There was one last cry from me, then the wail of a newborn. It had been long enough since Ren and Annelise were babies that I had come to miss that sound, and I smiled faintly to know what it meant. "Is it a boy or a girl?" I asked Mme. Fontaine.

"It's a girl," she replied. "It's—it's a girl, Madame."

Erik and I both paused, not only at the midwife's hesitation but at the guarded, sober note in her voice. "What is it?" he asked, moving from my side to Mme. Fontaine. The baby still cried, but there was silence between the two of them, the first since I awoke that night and gone into labor, and my heart filled with dread. "Erik?"

He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again, blinking rapidly before turning away. And I knew.

There was a crushing weight on my chest, like a giant hand squeezing tighter and tighter. I couldn't look away from him, his back to me and his shoulders bowed. Why, God? I prayed silently. How could You do this to him, and to our child? A lump rose in my throat, making it hard to breathe, but I swallowed with tremendous effort and held out my arms. "Let me hold my daughter, Madame."

She wrapped the infant in a blanket and handed her to me. I blinked away my own tears as I gathered her to me and gathered my courage as well. With a heavy heart, I looked down at my baby girl.

Ren and Annelise both took after Erik in some ways, in looks and personality, but neither of them shared his deformity. The child I held wasn't so easily spared. She was a tiny, wrinkled little thing like most newborns, but her face…her innocent face…it wasn't fair that this brand new life should already look prepared for death! The extent of her disfigurement wasn't as bad as Erik's, but it was enough. Her nose was hardly there at all, what should have been twin plump cheeks was instead a mismatch of flesh on one side and skin-and-bone on the other. She didn't have a sunken eye, but her little lips were almost nonexistent, just a bit of withered skin.

But she's mine, I told myself, mine and Erik's, and she's whole and healthy and ours. I swallowed my tears. For Erik's sake and my daughter's, I would have to be strong. I might as well start now. "Hello, little one," I crooned down at her. "I'm so glad you're here! We've been wanting to meet you for so long!"

Mme. Fontaine set about cleaning things up, then said, "I'll leave you to get acquainted with each other." She offered no condolences or spouted superstitions. She had simply accepted what happened with a level head, and I was grateful to her for that. I nodded my thanks to her and she left the room.

Erik hadn't moved or even turned around, still standing with his back to me. I could only guess how he must feel and it hurt me so much to know how he had been hurt by this. "Erik," I said softly, "come say hello to our daughter. Come see her."

"I've already seen her, Vivienne," he said, his voice broken up with barely controlled emotion.

I held her even closer to me, hoping to shield her from the pain that filled the room. "Erik, please—"

"Vivienne," he interrupted. "Just—don't say anything right now. Please."

I closed my eyes wearily. He still had his back to me, shutting me out. It had been so long since he held me at a distance, and I hated to see him do it now after all this time. "Would you bring the twins in?" I asked. "They won't go back to bed until they meet their sister." It had been hard enough to keep them from the room during the birthing, and there was no way they would wait until morning to see the baby.

He left the room without a word and I opened my eyes and looked down at her again. The sight of those strange features didn't trouble me. They were only a softened version of Erik's, and there was no face on earth I loved the way I loved his. But when I thought of all the pain and misery it had brought him, misery I had no part of and could never fully understand, I couldn't help but share his fear and heartache. There was no question that I loved my little girl and would do anything for her, but the eyes of the world rarely looked with a mother's love.

Erik led Ren and Annelise into the room, his gravity sharply contrasted with their excitement. Both of them had awoken when I went into labor; I could never manage to keep quiet in that bedroom, no matter what the situation! The late hour seemed forgotten, if the light in their eyes was any indication. They rushed to the bedside and would have bounced upon it to join me had Erik not stilled them with a word.

"It's a girl?" Annelise asked. "It really is a girl?"

"Yes, she is," I told her, managing to smile.

"Can we see her?" Ren begged.

"If you promise to be quiet and careful, you can sit on either side of me for a bit," I told them. "You can look at her all you want then."

As seriously as if I had sent them on a mission from Napoleon himself, they cautiously climbed onto the bed and sat, leaning over to see their sister. I glanced surreptitiously at Erik; I wanted him to see his family gathered together before him. Maybe that would ease whatever was inside him.

"She's so small!" Ren said in hushed amazement. "Is she supposed to be that small?"

"Well, I'm certainly glad she wasn't any bigger," I replied archly.

"She looks like Papa!" Annelise crowed.

At the edge of my field of vision I saw Erik cringe, but the twins didn't share in his horror. On the contrary, they didn't mind at all. Their sister's face was simply a fact to them, like their father's, and nothing to be worried about.

If only humanity possessed the innocence of children!

"What's her name?"

I was called back from my musings to see them both looking at me expectantly. "She doesn't have one yet," I told them.

"Why not?" Annelise asked. "She needs one. We can't just call her 'baby' forever."

"It won't make any sense when she's not a baby anymore," Ren added as though stating the obvious.

"Can I pick one for her?" Annelise asked.

"Not fair!" Ren shot at her. "I want to pick!"

"Papa and I already have some names in mind," I cut in, halting the dispute before it began. "We'll tell them to you, and you can agree on which one is best. Does that sound fair enough for the both of you?"

I could tell just by looking at them that it didn't, but they knew better than to argue about it and nodded in resignation. "Can we do it right now?" Ren asked cautiously, already predicting the answer.

"In the morning," Erik said, speaking at last. "Your mother is very tired, and you both need to get back to bed."

"Can I give her a kiss goodnight?" Annelise asked.

The tears I thought I had swallowed sneaked back up on me and I nodded. "Be very gentle with her," I cautioned. One after another, they leaned over the baby in my arms and gave her the most delicate of kisses, but no less sincere for all that. I kissed each of them in turn, my best beloved chicks, and they left the room with a final goodnight.

I cleared my throat awkwardly and said, "She'll need a feeding before bed."

"Of course." There was no color, no emotion in his voice, and his tone was flat and detached. It didn't fool me. If anything, it revealed more than if he'd let everything he was keeping to himself out. He wouldn't let me share this burden with him, not this time.

"At least it wasn't another set this time," I said, trying to cheer him with a halfhearted joke.

"Oh yes," he agreed. "Imagine two innocent children with a blight like that."

"Erik, please—"

"I love her, Vivienne," he interrupted. "Don't ever doubt how much I love her. She's mine no matter what. Just look at her! I'll never be able to deny her."

"Ours, Erik," I reminded him. "She's ours, and I wouldn't dream of denying her."

"I never said you would. But—" his voice broke and he took a step away from us. "Vivienne, look at her! I did that to her! You can't imagine what she's going to endure, and I'll be the one to have put her through it! It's my fault!"

I was so weak and so exhausted, but somehow I found the willpower and the strength to keep fighting. "You can't imagine, either," I told him. "She won't have to suffer as you did because you and I won't let her. We'll love her and be there for her no matter what."

"But there's only so much we can do to protect her," he insisted. "We can't hold back the world, little phoenix. It was bad enough for me, but for a young woman? Oh God, Vivienne, when I think of what more hell she'll have to go through—"

For the first time in years, I remembered back to that night we met, when he found me in the Opera cellars after that stranger on the street raped me. I thought of the tears and the nightmares and looked down at the scars I still bore on my wrists from my failed suicide attempt, and I was sick with fear for my daughter. Terrible as it was, I would have borne it again a thousand times over with a smile on my face if it meant sparing her from it.

I didn't say it aloud, though. It wouldn't have done Erik any good to hear it, but I had no idea what would help. He blamed himself, and that's all that was clear to me. I extended my hand to him, and after awhile he took it and sat on the edge of the bed, though he still wouldn't look at the baby.

"It's not your fault," I told him gently. "You can't help the way you were born, and you can't help it if our little girl takes after you."

"How selfish must I be to bring a child into this world looking like that?" he asked. "I knew what she could look like, just like I knew what the twins could look like. I just thought if Ren and Annelise looked—normal, that must mean it was all right, that I was just a fluke and I wouldn't pass it on to any of my children. What's wrong with me, Vivienne? It wasn't enough that I'm diseased, I had to make sure it spread."

"Erik, that's enough. Look at me." He turned to me and I leaned forward and gave him the fiercest, most passionate kiss I could manage under the circumstances. He moved closer and put his arm around me to steady me, then gently drew away and rested his head on my shoulder. "You are not diseased," I went on, "and neither is our daughter. I have no more inkling of what the future holds than you do, but we'll have to just face it as it comes."

He sighed. "You're right, as always," he said heavily. "And you think I should know that at my age."

"You're too old to know everything," I teased.

He smiled wearily as he straightened up and kissed me on the cheek. "Now, what's wrong with this picture?" he asked. "You just gave birth! I should be the one comforting you! You need to rest, little phoenix."

"It can wait a few more minutes," I replied. I loosened my night gown enough to bare my breast and began to nurse the infant I held. "This really was the last one," I said. "I mean it this time. I'm not doing anything like that again."

"Well, pregnancy comes with a caveat, Vivienne," he said. "Especially when I have a hand in conception."

"Yes," I agreed. "As if the world needs one more moody, surly, sarcastic genius."

"Or one more sideshow freak to send them running away in horror."

"Erik, I just gave birth," I reminded him, "but if you can't keep that cynicism in check, I will get out of this bed and give you the thrashing of a lifetime."

He chuckled softly. "That might be a feat to witness. You're only encouraging my cynicism with a threat like that when you can barely stand as it is."

"Well, if I can't actually get out of bed, I'll just settle for a powerful tongue lashing."

"You promise?"

I gave him a shove and turned my eyes back to the baby. I was falling asleep sitting up, but I could stay awake a little longer just to hold her close to me. She was ours, and I was already hopelessly in love with her to the point of insanity. "What names did we like the best, so the twins can choose?" I asked.

"We'll worry about that in the morning," he replied. "Right now, you need your sleep."

I nodded and finished nursing, and after a moment's hesitation, he held out his hands. "I'll take her, little phoenix. I'll watch over her."

I nodded again and gave her over to him. He stayed beside me on the bed, cradling her against his chest, and I could see the conflict going on. He still felt responsible for what happened to her, and held himself at a greater distance than he had when Ren and Annelise were born, but he still loved her and wanted to protect her. I knew he would die for any of his children, and she was no exception. He wouldn't come to terms with how she was born right away, but he would in time.

I was nearly asleep when he spoke. "Celine," he said. "Her name should be Celine."

Perfect…I knew in that instant that no matter how rough the road ahead became, he would walk it for her sake. I gave him a smile. "The twins will be so disappointed," I informed him, then I gave in to my weariness.

Erik

I was furious with God and disgusted with myself. Was He tired of letting the gargoyle he created be happy and desperate for another laugh at his expense? And what about my daughter? Why did she have to bear the distortions of her father, as if in punishment for his earlier sins? Is that what it was? Retribution for my crimes?

I sat next to Vivienne as she slept and held little Celine in my arms, guarding them both. I looked down at my little phoenix, her face still pale with flushed patches from labor. Her heart was in the right place—indeed, it belonged to our children, as mine did—but she just couldn't understand…I could never make her know what I had lived through because of my face, or how much I blamed myself for our daughter's. Common sense told me it was just a case of genetics, a matter of chance, really, but that would mean it was all an accident. I could live with that in my case, but I refused to term my daughter as such. But then, if she wasn't an accident, then why? Why had she inherited my curse?

My thoughts were running around in circles and it took a force of will to shake their spiral. I told myself to lay it aside for now and just remember that I had been blessed with a child, my third! Even in my wildest dreams in the darkest hours of isolation and torment, I had never envisioned something like that! It was a wonder!

I turned my eyes to her, Celine, my little girl…I had no idea what life held in store for her, but still…she was mine. I kissed her gently on the forehead and slowly drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the sound of her crying several hours later, seeing the sun had long since risen. I got my first proper look at her face then; it wasn't so distorted in the daylight with no shadows to cast an unnatural gloom over it, but she looked enough…like me, that I had no doubt in my mind as to what her future would hold—prejudice, hatred, and persecution.

I forced myself to put it out of my head and focus on calming her. She was probably hungry, and she needed her mother in that case. I reached out with the arm that wasn't holding Celine and shook Vivienne's shoulder. "Vivienne," I said, "wake up, mon amour."

She stirred with a groan and refused to open her eyes.

"Wake up, mother hen," I told her. "One of your chicks needs you."

She heaved a weak sigh and opened her eyes. They were still bleary with sleep and seemed overbright, leaping out of her pale face. I gave Celine over to her and studied her more closely. She looked even paler than usual except for her flushed cheeks, and her eyes were glassy with more than just tiredness.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

She nodded, but I didn't believe her. I placed my hands to her cheek and forehead and found them blazing with fever. "No, you're not," I told her. "You're burning up. Mme. Fontaine should still be here; I'll go get her."

I rose from the bed and hurried downstairs. The midwife still hadn't left yet, and I found her in the kitchen with the twins cooking breakfast. "Good morning, monsieur," she greeted. "I trust you're well?"

"That remains to be seen," I replied shortly. "You're needed upstairs."

She asked no more questions, following me from the room until we were out of earshot of the children. "What's the matter?" she inquired as we mounted the stairs.

"Vivienne," I told her. "She has a fever."

Mme. Fontaine nodded and went immediately to her side where she still sat nursing our daughter. "How are you this morning, Madame?" she asked. "I hear you're not feeling your best."

"I'm fine," Vivienne told her even as she swayed where she sat.

"You're a terrible liar when you're half delirious," I informed her.

"I'm sure it's not that serious," Mme. Fontaine assured me, pressing her palms to Vivienne's face to gauge her fever and peering into her eyes. "This happens sometimes, that's all."

"It didn't happen when the twins were born," I argued.

"Every birth is different," she told me levelly.

I shot an involuntary glance at Celine and felt my stomach twist. Yes, every birth was different, indeed…

Mme. Fontaine waited until the baby had fallen asleep again to see to my wife, examining her carefully and calmly while I looked on, lost in anxiety. "It's not serious, is it?" I asked.

"Of course not," she replied. "All she needs is to rest and let it burn itself out."

"I'm not sure I like the idea of anything about my wife burning itself out," I shot back.

"Erik, I'll be fine," Vivienne told me. "You heard Mme. Fontaine, I just need to rest. Keep an eye on the twins and try not to worry, and I'll be up again in no time."

"Well then," the midwife said, "you just get some sleep, Madame, and we'll leave you in peace." She beckoned to me and I reluctantly followed her from the bedroom. She closed the door softly and said, "I'll stay out here in case she needs anything. In the meantime, go on and look after your other children, monsieur."

I nodded, but I couldn't hold off my fears. I couldn't stop comparing the twins' birth with Celine's and against my will the words crept from me. "It…it couldn't have anything to do with—with my daughter, could it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Because the way she is," I said, hating myself for even thinking it, "the way she looks…"

"Don't be a fool," she told me. "Did your mother take fever when you were born?"

In another time I would have cut the tongue from her mouth for that, but the thought of Vivienne and Celine in the next room and Ren and Annelise downstairs kept my temper in check. "I wouldn't know," I replied scathingly. "I prefer not to even think of my mother, heartless gorgon that she was."

She seemed to sense my fragile grasp on restraint, but it didn't trouble her. "It has nothing to do with how your daughter looks, monsieur," she said. "As I said, it happens sometimes. I see it most often after the mother has been in confinement for several weeks."

"But Vivienne didn't go into confinement," I pressed. "She was up and about, looking after the house and twins like she always does. Could that have weakened her? She didn't exert herself half so much when she was carrying Rene and Annelise."

"I won't deny it is an additional burden to care for children when expecting children," she answered, "but I assure you, it's no cause for worry. She'll be fine soon."

"How soon is 'soon,' exactly?"

"If I knew, monsieur, I would gladly tell you…"

I sighed heavily. "Of course, Madame. Thank you for your assistance."

Every instinct pushed me to run back to Vivienne's side and never leave until she was well again, but I forced myself to leave her in Mme. Fontaine's care and returned to Ren and Annelise where they were still eating their breakfast. They looked up as I approached and struck me with a barrage of questions. "Where is Maman?" "Can we see the baby?" "Can we name her now?"

"We've been thinking," Annelise told me solemnly, "and since you call Maman 'phoenix,' the baby should be named for a bird as well."

"Oh?" I asked. "What bird is that?"

"La cygne!" Ren burst out.

I felt something catch in my chest. They were so ready to accept her, just as they had always accepted me…the swan…Celine the swan…I knew a taste of bittersweet melancholy that what was so easy for the twins would be difficult for anyone else and had proved nearly impossible once before. I was at once grateful and remorseful that Vivienne and I had preserved their innocence that way. They hadn't been exposed to the truth of the life I had led before them and they didn't know that their beloved father was viewed as a monster by the rest of mankind. They wouldn't understand how hard it would be for the sister they already adored, and I wasn't sure I wanted them to. I wanted to protect them as much as Celine.

With an effort, I managed to smile at them both and said, "That's a wonderful name, but what do you think of the name Celine?"

Their faces fell a little. "That means you and Maman already decided what to call her, doesn't it?" Ren asked.

"I'm afraid so," I told them, "but we still need a name to call her among us, a name we don't have to share. It would be our name for her, and no one else's. What do you think of that?"

"So our name for her would be more important?" Annelise queried.

"You could say that."

"All right," she replied, and if I had any doubts as to who suggested the name "la cygne" then her quick compliance dispelled them at once. "Can we go see her and Maman now?"

"Not right now, sweetheart," I told her. "Maman isn't feeling too well at the moment."

"What's wrong with her?" Ren asked.

I swallowed hard. Whatever Mme. Fontaine said to reassure me, I still couldn't banish the fear for my little phoenix. "She's still very tired, and she has a fever. You remember what that is, don't you?"

They both nodded. "That's what Annelise got last winter when she stayed out too long in the snow," Ren said.

"That's right. So Maman needs to rest now, and then you can go see her."

"Can we go out and play, then?"

I nodded and they dashed away from the table and raced towards the garden. I couldn't blame them; it was a beautiful summer day, and if I hadn't been so worried about Vivienne I would have been glad of it. As it was, I was in no mood to appreciate the beauties of nature when I had firsthand knowledge of its…irregularities.

I wandered into the music room and sat down at the piano. I felt cheated. I should have been rejoicing the birth of my daughter, not heartsore and afraid. I couldn't share my fears with anyone, not even Vivienne. All of her empathy and compassion couldn't give her a full understanding, and I just couldn't have her faith that everything would be all right. I had believed that once before, and this was my reward, my punishment. I should have known better than to think I could ever have something like a normal life, like anyone else. I was abnormal, as unlike anyone else as a nettle is unlike a rose. I had forgotten for seven blissful years, and now God was reminding me.

I laid my hands to the keyboard and began to play a slow, plaintive, repetitive melody laden with sadness and little by little embellishing it to give greater range to my feelings. As always, I would find the greatest relief in my music. It never demanded anything of me, it just was. I could wallow in my misery until I had expelled it completely, then return once again when it was too much to take. For the sake of my family, I would try to keep my head up, but I could foresee a need for this release often in the years to come.

Long after I had stopped playing, the echoes still rang in my ears and I sat staring at the black and white keys in silence before getting to my feet and going upstairs. Mme. Fontaine still guarded the bedroom door, but I ignored her and went inside, seating myself beside Vivienne. She was asleep, but restless, looking as she did so long ago when she still had nightmares…

I gently took hold of her hand and kissed it, then turned my eyes to the cradle beside the bed where Celine lay. I settled in for a long vigil to watch over them both. I told myself over and over that I may be a freak of nature, but I was loved; while my daughter may have inherited my curse, she would always be loved. Whatever came next couldn't take that away, and that's all that truly mattered.