Author's Note: Two chapters in one day? Woohoo!


Besides the dramatic change in staffing, the only change the new owner of the estate made was the change of one of the many bedrooms into a music room. The day before Erik's arrival all the furniture was removed from the room and replaced with the most beautiful piano Cecile had ever seen, alone with a cello on a stand, a wood crafting bench the woman assumed was for repair and maintenance of the instruments, and a beautiful glass cabinet filled with pages upon pages of sheet music both filled and waiting for ink to grace their pages.

The exchange of furnishings too all day, but Cecile was determined to inspect the piano before her new master's arrival.

A more beautiful instrument could not have existed. The wood was dark and rich, lacquered to beautiful shine and carved tastefully at the feet and about the cover of the keys. The keys themselves were made of true ivory and ebony, not the oak-and-paint keys she had grown up playing on the small upright piano in her family home.

Sitting at the bench, Cecile could not help but smile at the sound that rang out when she struck middle C. Certain she was still alone in the house the woman began to play, clumsily at first due to the weight of the keys and decades of non-practice, but soon picking up the technique and sounding better than she was sure she ever sounded on the old upright she grew up playing.

"You have a decent ear."

The silky voice from behind her nearly caused Cecile to jump out of her skin. Quickly she stood from the bench and turned to face her new master with a curtsy. "Monsieur, I'm sorry, I didn't –"

The man waved her off. "It's quite all right. You didn't do any permanent damage," he remarked, sitting at the bench now that Cecile was up and away.

Uncomfortably, she wrung her hands. "Monsieur, about last week –"

There was no time to continue. Sound filled the room in an elegant wave, consuming every bit of air and filling Cecile with every breath as she stood. The lower register kept the pace while the upper register danced and floated, cascading from time to time in a waterfall of sound. Never in her life had she head music that made her want to smile and cry all in the same breath.

When the music stopped the feeling of it still hung in the air, and Cecile found herself wiping at her eyes with her fingertips. "Did you write that?"

"I was writing it as you were hearing it," the gentleman said. "Consider it inspiration never to touch my piano again. I will clean this room and the master suite. You aren't to enter either without my explicit permission. Am I clear?" He asked, and Cecile nodded her agreement.

Erik left the room and moved into the hall, with Cecile following behind. "Monsieur, last week… I apologize for my behavior. I misinterpreted what you wanted in exchange for the position and –"

"You misinterpreted nothing," Erik informed her without turning to meet her curious gaze. "I wanted to bring you to bed, and you were desperate enough to go. Count yourself lucky I came to my sense before matters went too far."

Cecile pursed her lips. Came to his senses? Was he a gentleman after all, or was she simply not pretty enough to be a sensible choice for bed?

Stranger still, why did she care?

"Would you like anything to eat? The kitchen is fully stocked, I can make whatever you like."

"I only eat once per day, in the evenings. The rest of the meals you have only to make for yourself."

"Only once a day? But Monsieur –"

"Once per day," Erik reiterated, making it clear he was not to be questioned. "Frankly, Madame Lallier, I am likely a better cook than you and do not need your services in the kitchen at all. Focus your attention on the house; I'm sure there will be plenty to do with only you to work it."

That claim stung. Her entire life Cecile had prided herself on her cooking, having learned from her mother who had learned from her superb chef and father. The man had only been in the house one day; cleaning could wait. There was a feast to prepare and a day's worth of baking to do.

Erik kept to himself for the better part of the day, giving Cecile ample time to prepare the dining room with the feast she had prepared single handedly. No expense had been spared – Onion soup baked with bread and gruyere cheese, a freshly baked baguette, six different cheeses, olives fresh from Greece, a brandied roast goose, roasted and sautéed vegetables. For dessert an almond tarte, hard candies flavored with orange and anise, and a chocolate soufflé which still rose diligently in the oven. Several bottles of wine were spread across the table, complimenting the display beautifully alongside a pot of coffee and one of tea.

Amusement was evident in the gentleman's face when he stumbled across the spread and Cecile dressed in one of her finest dressed prepared to serve him. "I think you misunderstood, Madame; I eat one meal per day, not one per month."

"You said you were likely a better cook than I am. I thought it an unfair assumption since you haven't had so much as a bite of my cooking before," she explained, gesturing for him to sit. "If you start with the cheese platter I recommend the Pinot Noir, but if you're going to go right for the duck I recommend the Chianti."

The man seemed pleased. "I can pair wine with my food, thank you," he dismissed, but more light heartedly than he had dismissed her cooking abilities earlier.

After serving a plate of food, including some of everything on the table on an oversized plater, Cecile curtsied to dismiss herself to the kitchen before Erik stopped her.

"Where are you going?"

"To the kitchen," she explained, confused by the question – the help was never allowed to eat in the dining room, even after the former mistress of the house had passed away.

"Sit, make yourself a plate. You've been working on this all day; you may as well enjoy the fruits of your labor."

After a moment of hesitation, the woman obeyed. She sat several seats down from the man, not daring to sit either too close nor at the other end of the table. The pair ate in silence for some time before Cecile decided to make what she thought was polite conversation. "Where did you live before this, Monsieur Renard?"

"I gave you permission to eat, not to talk," the man snapped, and immediately Cecile bit the inside of her cheeks and turned back to her plate. So much for polite conversation.

Several more moments of silence passed before Erik spoke again. "Paris. I lived in Paris."

Cecile smiled brightly. "Did you really? I always imagined what it would be like to live in Paris. Was it really as beautiful as it seems? I hear during the winter it's like magic… I'm sorry, I'm rambling," she apologized suddenly, color rising to her cheeks.

To her surprise, the man chuckled. "It's quite all right. Yes, Paris is every bit as beautiful as it seems but its people are tenfold uglier. They are petty and cruel," he remarked, pouring a glass of Chianti and pushing it in front of his table guest.

The woman smiled. "Thank you. I feel like people are that way wherever you go. I grew up in a tiny little village and then moved to Amiens with my husband after we were married, and there were petty people in both places. I suppose there are simply more of them in Paris since there are more people."

"I suppose you're right," Erik conceded. "What did your husband do in Amiens?"

"He was an architect. A very good one at that. He used to sketch the most amazing buildings, and then in a matter of months they came to life right before my eyes," she explained, nostalgically.

"I wonder where it is he studied. If he was any good I might have met him at some point or another."

Cecile glanced over to the man curiously. "You're an architect, Monsieur Renard?"

"Please, if we are going to be sharing a home you might as well call me by my name. Erik will do."

The woman's smile met her eyes, and once again Erik was transfixed. "Well then, Erik, if so inclined you may call me Cecile."

"One of my favorite names," Erik remarked before answering her question. "Yes, I am an architect. And a musician, and a magician, and a physician, and far too many other occupations to name."

"A magician?" Cecile asked with a smile. "What sort of magic do you do?"

"All sorts, mon cher," said Erik's voice from just over Cecile's right shoulder, even though he was seated two seats to her left. The woman yelped in surprised, and Erik chuckled back in his own throat. "It's all trickery, no need to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid; that was wonderful!" Cecile exclaimed with delight. "It just surprised me is all."

"Your soufflé is going to burn," Erik suggested, and Cecile glanced at the clock in the corner of the room before shaking her head.

"It has three minutes left."

"Three minutes is going to make so much of a difference?" Erik asked.

Cecile nodded gravely. "If you open the oven even a moment too soon, you can ruin the whole thing. If you so much as breathe too loudly near the oven a soufflé can collapse. They're temperamental little beasts, but worth the fuss," she promised, and true to her word after three minutes she vanished into the kitchen and returned with a perfectly risen soufflé carefully balanced on a tray to keep from burning her hands.

"A thing of beauty," Erik remarked, though Cecile noticed his previously light mood was now gone. Had she said something wrong?

"Thank you. There's a sauce of oranges and chocolate to pour with it. Do I have your verdict over supper?"

Erik leaned back in his chair, inspecting the spread and whirling his glass of wine thoughtfully. "You may make supper, on two conditions. First is that you only cook what will be eaten, and second that you continue to join me at the table."

Proud of her accomplishment, Cecile nodded her consent and served a large slice of the dessert.


My dear old friend,

The Beaulieu estate is everything I had hoped it would be and more. The air is cleaner and crisper here in the countryside, the sounds more pleasant. Adjusting to the space has been difficult but achievable. Harder still is the natural light coming in through all the windows the damnable maid keeps spotless. The house is thrice the size of your flat at least, and the woman keeps it cleaner than Darius has ever managed; fire the man and hire a woman.

Speaking of the maid, I wonder if you might be able to do some digging for me. Her name is Cecile Lallier, and she once resided in Amiens with her husband, who was an architect. If you could discover her maiden name, I would be eternally obliged. The more I consider it, the more I wonder if she and I have a common acquaintance. What a small world it would be indeed if it were true.

You may stop your fretting – I haven't hurt the poor woman. She all but threw herself into my arms upon first meeting me, but I managed to fend her off – my heart belongs eternally to the Angel who tore it from my chest and drowned it in the lake.

She is lovely though, Daroga. Her eyes… her eyes are more captivating than any of the Shah's jewels, and when she smiles they shine just as brightly. I think you would enjoy her considerably; she seems to be almost as damnably curious as you are. When I arrived she was playing my piano! Can you imagine? I've killed men for lesser crimes.

How is my Angel? Has she married her prince yet? Although I let him live not a day goes by that I do not wish him death in his sleep. Perhaps fate will finally show me a kindness and his heart will explode in his chest the way mine feels it might every night without Her.

Yours,

O.G.

Erik looked down at his clumsy handwriting with disdain, damning his body for so preferring his left hand and his stubbornness for so preferring his right. Sealing the letter with wax, he set it aside to deliver to the post the following day.

The first night in this new house reminded Erik of his youth, of traveling constantly and spending nights in strange and interesting places. Barns, inns, abandoned homes, under the foundations of houses, even under the very foundations of Paris itself. It was a familiar, almost comforting feeling.

Maybe now, without the constant painful reminders of his loss the nightmares sleeping and waking would end.

Dinner had been remarkable, though he had resolved never to tell the woman such. As skilled at cooking as Erik had become living on his own, Cecile Lallier was far superior. Initially, he had been apprehensive about allowing her to remain in the house that was to become his home. He was not used to sharing his home with anyone but Christine, and he had intended her to be his wife. As private as he was, inviting in a complete stranger was nerve-wracking, even dangerous.

But Cecile had turned out to be rather pleasant company. She made an easy target for teasing to be sure, but she also was bright and charming in conversation.

And those eyes… those eyes, her name, the fact she grew up in a small village, the incredible likeness of her cooking to a woman he credited with saving his life so very long ago. The odds were astronomical, but there.

Erik had been just a boy when he had known a Cecile with such blue eyes in a small village, but she had been even younger. Had she survived into adulthood? If so, would she remember him? And why did it matter so much that she might still exist after so many years?