A/N: Thank you to those who reviewed! You really made my day :) And thank you also for the grammar help!

Chapter Two- Good Night, Sir

I do not believe I knew what to do. I wanted to reply wittily, saying something like: "You are looking for my mistress, Monsieur? But I am my own mistress!" or angrily, saying something like: "You dare take me for a mere maid?!" or perhaps melodramatically, saying something like: "Is the mistress awake? She is very much awake, and very much in front of you!"

However, despite my creativity, all I was able to do back then with my brilliant speaking skills was— stare. I simply stared at him stupidly, and my mouth opened and closed obscenely, trying to voice the words that refused to come. Thankfully, this Monsieur Erik was quite the gentleman, as he did not laugh at me outright, though I was sure I saw his lip quiver in amusement. Instead of laughing at me, he tilted his head slightly forward, as one would when one is encouraging a child to speak— which embarrassed me all the more because I, an adult of five and twenty years, was being treated as a mere child! After a second or two of my excruciating embarrassment, he saved me by breaking the silence,

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. You are not the maid, are you?" he said in an apologetic tone.

"No, I am not," I finally managed to reply, "I am the landlady. Also, it is not 'Mademoiselle' but 'Madame'. Madame Eugenie Bardot, at your service," I said, giving a little curtsey.

"A pleasure to meet you, Madame Bardot," said Monsieur Erik, bowing politely. "Forgive me for my insensitive mistake."

"It's all right, really," I said, with a little laugh, "It's not an uncommon mistake."

Indeed, I have been mistaken for a maid for several times that I am sure my mother, who had aristocratic roots but had renounced them to marry my father, would have lashed out in righteous indignation had she been alive to do so. However, it was not a mistake that was hard to make, really. I was as plain as a dormouse, and about as striking as a broomstick. I had an unfashionable crop of unruly mouse-brown hair, a plain pair of dark brown eyes, and a most ordinary nose— altogether a plain, dependable and decidedly maid-like face. Also, I had just recently had trouble with money, thus forcing me to rent the rooms in my house and scrimp a little. If I had not done so, I would no doubt have had to become a true maid— a most shameful prospect.

"And you must be… Monsieur Erik?" I said, trying to smile.

"Indeed, I am."

"Erik—?" I said, knowing that he would not give his surname but trying my luck anyway.

"Erik," he repeated, with a tone of command and finality, obviously refusing to tell me what I wanted to know.

"Well then, Monsieur Erik," I said, nervousness creeping into my voice, "Shall I show you in?"

I opened the door fully and stepped back to let him in. He entered the room with more grace than I thought possible in a man. When he was inside my house, his figure was illuminated both by the fire crackling in the fireplace and the candle that I was holding in my hand. I tried to get a better look at him, to determine his age and such. I was very much surprised by what I saw. It was hard to place his age, seeing as he moved with the strength of a young man, and yet his body was, well, decidedly odd. In his dress clothes, he looked impossibly lean and thin, the skin on his hands was absolutely white and— almost skeleton-like, to tell the truth.

"I hope the place is acceptable, sir. I am sure you are used to richer surroundings…" I looked around the hall nervously.

"No, no. It is quite acceptable, you need not worry, Madame," he replied.

"That's very good, sir," I said, with genuine relief, "Shall I show you up to your room now?"

"Certainly," he said engagingly.

I led the way up the staircase, and Monsieur Erik followed ten paces behind. It struck me that it seemed as if he were making sure he was as far from me as possible. After climbing the last stair, I turned left and proceeded to the room at the very end of the corridor. It was very lucky that this room was vacant, and it was even luckier that it was rather far from the other two tenants in the house. I had not forgotten that Monsieur Erik was not a very social person. Monsieur Erik walked inside the room and turned his head slowly, surveying the surroundings.

"Please, make yourself at home," I said, nervously eyeing the simple furniture available, realizing how bare the room actually was.

He did not reply at once. Instead, he kept quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the floor.

"Is there a problem, sir?" I asked.

"It's strange…" he said, more to himself than to me.

"Strange?"

"Forgive me, I was thinking," he said, looking up at me, "Madame, you've told me that I was to address you as Madame and not Mademoiselle, and yet," he paused, before continuing to say carefully, "And yet, in any part of the house, I did not see any sign of your husband."

I sighed audibly. I knew from the start that he was going to ask this sooner or later as the other tenants had, but I had thought he would ask it later, like the others, and not so soon. He was, undoubtedly, a very observant man— more perceptive than most people.

I did not reply instantly. I looked down at my feet for a moment, and then looked up again to meet his piercing golden gaze.

"My husband is— well, he is gone," I said softly.

"I'm sorry, I did not know," he replied quickly, the golden gleam in his eyes softening.

"Oh, don't be." I said dismissively, a hint of irritation in my voice. I caught the look of surprise on his face, which prompted me to explain further, "When I said he was gone, I didn't mean that he was dead. I only meant that— I meant that he's not here," I finished, flushing slightly from the effort of controlling the tremor in my voice.

"I'm sorry…" he said quietly, and he seemed truly sorry.

"It's all right…" I replied, just as quietly.

I was grateful that he didn't press me for more details. I still wasn't prepared to discuss that part of my life with anyone, especially not with a stranger.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" I asked as I was about to leave.

"No, thank you, everything is perfect," he said, and the kindness in his eyes made my own eyes start to sting embarrassingly. God, was I turning into some kind of idiotic sympathy-starved character in a melodrama?

"Well then, good night, sir," I said brightly and closed the door.

As I turned to leave, I felt a strange friendly feeling for this man blossoming within me. Frightening and strange as his appearance was, I somehow knew that behind all that was something more. Perhaps, behind all those thorns was a beautiful rose.

Indeed, I am becoming terribly melodramatic.