Seated in a lair that was still being furnished and perfected, still technically under construction while being livable, he remembered the sad, lonely notes from long ago, was playing them on his own violin, writing them down on his sheet music, wanting to perfect the tune, embellish it. To him, simple as it was, the violin's notes were perfect already, but it felt as though something were missing, like the melody was incomplete. Having taken down the notes, he glanced at his recently acquired grand piano that had been no picnic to transport to his underground lair, smirking as he recalled that it was the subterranean home within what he knew now to be the old catacombs of the Parisian Gypsies that had first planted the seed. He wondered... taking up the sheet music he'd just written and placing it at the piano, he lifted the cover from the ivory keys, the violin's notes clear in his mind as he began to play a tune on the piano that complimented the one he'd heard long ago on a violin's strings, a sad melody speaking of loneliness, perhaps longing. Absorbed in the music and letting it carry him away, he paused only to take out blank sheet music to jot down the notes to precede the violin's part before jotting down those that would compliment and be played with them. Longing to hear the complete piece, doubting he ever would given it consisted of two instruments complimenting each other and unable to play the entirety by himself, he titled the piece "Never Meant to Belong," for that is what to him the music expressed, it was why he loved the piece so much. Setting to work composing other pieces that would consist mostly of piano and violins, he lost track of the time, the music flowing from his hand speaking of sadness and loneliness to longing for home, a place to belong, tunes that were sad and ones that were bittersweet. He lost track of time and it was nearing dusk before he became cognizant of a gnawing hunger and the fact that he'd meant to venture out for food for his supplies were running low and though he did not eat much and rarely more than once a day, he still needed food. So, donning his fedora and long velvet cloak, he stepped out to complete his task before the shops closed for the night when crowds and curious gazes would be minimal and shopkeepers, eager for one more sale, would be tired after their long day and less likely to ask questions.

She stood in the streets, eying sweets in the window of a local shop wishing that she could spare the funds to indulge herself momentarily, a worn, beaten hat in her hands full of coins and even a bit of paper currency. Shaking her head, she folded the hat around the money and tucked it into a satchel hanging over her shoulder beneath the once-thick cloak she wore, knowing she couldn't spare a cent and lacking her uncle's slight of hand to get away with stealing a small piece. These cold months were always harsh when people didn't want to linger too long to watch her uncle perform or listen to her sing and as a result, there was nearly always less money made. The aftermath of the war compounded matters, the economy poor and people losing jobs and income with few being willing to part with even the smallest denomination of coin. She reluctantly continued on her way, humming a song softly to keep herself company in the growing quiet of the city under the fearful regime of the Third Republic, softly singing as she continued on towards Notre Dame. Not far from the sweet shop, a cloaked figure left a different shop, pausing as his sensitive ears picked up the strains of a female voice singing, the voice sweet albeit untrained.

"Dreams to dream
In the dark of the night
When the world goes wrong,
I can still make it right.
I can see so far in my dreams,
I will follow my dreams
Until they come true."

Compelled, he followed that voice through the darkening streets, feeling a burning need to know who this was with such a voice, to see the face that accompanied that voice, find this mystery singer.

"Come with me,
You will see what I mean.
There's a world inside
No one else ever sees.
You will go so far in my dreams!
Somewhere in my dreams
Your dreams will come true."

She kept singing as she walked across the nearly empty square in front of Notre Dame even as he kept following this voice he heard through the streets, hurrying after lest the voice get away before he could sate his curiosity.

"There is a star,
Waiting to guide us.
Shining inside us
When we close our eyes!"

Her voice rose in volume, passion and soul in the words, lost in the music she created, not caring who heard or who may be bothered, unaware of the figure following triumphantly as he spied the silhouette issuing that sound, spurred on by the passion in that voice. A sweet alto, yes, he could hear it clear enough now, one capable of some soprano notes, perhaps a mezzo-soprano even, overlapping both soprano and alto.

"Don't let go!
If you stay close to me,
In my dreams tonight
You will see what I see.
Dreams to dream
As near as can be,
Inside you and me,
They always come true."

She stopped, turning to gaze up at Notre Dame for a few moments before she continued her journey home, glad to see it had escaped destruction during the Franco-Prussian War, suddenly getting the feeling someone was watching. She turned quickly, a familiar cloaked figure standing not a few feet from her, keeping to the lengthening shadows of twilight, a growl of dismay escaping from him as he laid eyes on the owner of the voice he'd been following.

"You again," he growled.

"Oh, yes, because it's such a pleasure to run into you of all people," she retorted, "Not that I don't appreciate your help, but I had really hoped I wouldn't be running into you again."

"I warned you last time, mademoiselle," he replied, "You may not be so lucky this time. I've no patience to suffer fools."

"Well, that's one thing we have in common," she snapped, arms crossing over her chest, "But I'm no fool."

"I would beg to differ, girl," he said, "For here you are wandering the streets alone nearing dark. It is improper for a young woman to be alone on the streets at this hour without an escort."

"Don't know if you've noticed, pal," she smirked, "But I'm hardly a proper lady. So you can drop the niceties."

If she'd had something to throw at him, or proper aim for that matter, she would have, but at least that heavenly voice wasn't twisted in hatred the way it had been a few nights ago.

"So because a woman isn't a proper lady, she should not be treated as such?" he asked, "I beg to differ for I was raised better than that. A woman should be treated as such no matter what her station in life."

Now that he could get a proper look at her, she wasn't bad to look at, she wasn't as thin as women of the day considered fashionable nor was she really fat, she possessed a full curving figure with an ideal hourglass shape.

"You're apparently eating well enough for one of the lowest caste," he remarked.

"What?" she asked before catching his meaning, "Oh, you mean this," she grabbed at her side, surprisingly unaffected by what others may have perceived as an insult, "Not really, my body just doesn't know how to let go of the fat."

"You are not insulted?" he quirked an eyebrow, inadvertently drawing closer to her.

"Should I be?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Not necessarily," he answered, "Other women might have been."

"Other women are vain and obsessed with being thin, I don't care enough to watch what I eat. I'd rather have a little more meat on me than a growling stomach," she paused, "Besides, doesn't seem to matter how much or how little I eat or move, my body stays the same shape and size. I'm not most women."

"This I've noticed. Why are you walking about at such an hour with no escort?"

"Heading home after performing on the streets for coins. Why? Are you offering?"

He gave a rather undignified snort, "Hardly."

She held back a giggle at the sound he'd emitted, it had seemed out of place from the air of grace, dignity, and propriety that seemed to surround him. He was an enigma with those yellowish eyes that seemed to glow in the darkness, the wide-brimmed hat he kept low over his face and tilted to the right, and the long cloak shrouding his tall, broad form. From what she could see of him (which was little given the way he stuck to the shadows like a security blanket), his face was pale, the right seeming paler than the left, like it was almost white.

"Would you?" she asked.

He stared at her, eyes widening, as he pondered over the request that seemed ludicrous at first, but less as he mulled it over, wondering if she was jesting or truly asking him to, for he would hardly be a gentleman if he refused given the hour and what had nearly happened the other night.

"Thought as much," she shrugged, "A man of your calibre can hardly be seen around a guttersnipe like me."

"A man of my... calibre?" he wondered, not realizing he'd said that aloud until she answered.

"Well, yes, you know a gentleman, a man of breeding and wealth which you clearly are with your manners and expensive clothing."

He looked at himself as she spoke as if realizing for the first the expertly tailored evening suit that fit his tall form perfectly, the patent leather boots and white gloves he'd opted to wear to better handle foods for the thin satin allowed a better sense of touch as he'd checked over fruit to check firmness while being thick enough to hide the unnatural cold of his flesh. It was strange to hear someone call him a man of any kind, never mind one of calibre.

More to himself than to her, he muttered in a self-deprecating tone, "I am hardly a man."

She in comparison was dressed in a cloak that may have once been thick and warm, but was now worn and threadbare, her taupe boots of worn and cracked suede, deep purplish skirt that had obviously seen better days. Her black hair seemed well-enough groomed, bangs framing a full face with a tightly waving tendril hanging in front of each ear, the rest in waves behind her shoulders. She was paler than most Gypsies tended to be, her large almond eyes a deep blue, her slender nose curving up a bit at the tip, not enough that it looked piggy just so as to be a cute, endearing feature, her lips full and sensual. Aside from her curves, he saw that everything about her was small from her head to her wrists and hands to her feet, why she couldn't even be five feet in height, just under if his measurements were accurate.

"Petite," he muttered with a smirk.

Oh, how she wished she had something to throw at him, "Pardonnez-moi?"

"My dear," he gave a slight chuckle as she glowered, "You're just so very small."

That's it, she settled for one of her boots that she managed to pull off without falling over and threw it at the man in black in front of her, hitting his chest when she had aimed for his face. Normally, that would have irked him and roused his notorious temper, but as she stood there glaring at him with her arms crossed over her full bosom like a petulant child in but one boot, he couldn't help but chuckle more. And he knew he was done, this little Gypsy had endeared herself to him, not through her defiance of him or her strength, though those were to be admired, but because she was sort of adorable. Picking up her boot, he came close enough to hold it out to her, a humored smile on his face, holding back a laugh as she snatched it from him.

"What is your name, mignonne?" he asked, reaching a hand to brush his own black waves off his broad shoulder.

"Ravyn Trouillefou," she replied, struggling to put on her boot without falling over.

"Trouillefou?" he paused, the name striking a familiar chord, "I know that name."

"Well, if you've been around Paris, then maybe because of my uncle," she replied, sitting herself on the ground and relinquishing her hold on her hat of coins, "That or Hugo's stupid book."

"You uncle?" his visible black brow shot up.

"He's pretty well known around Paris," she explained, "Either as a performer or a thief, depends on if you're civilian or gendarmes. Name's Clopin."

An image flashed to his mind of a lanky Gypsy playing a sorrowful tune on a violin, the closest thing he'd had to father before his trip to Rome where he met Giovanni, the one who protected him during those winter months in this city. And there it was, the reason he knew the name: Clopin Trouillefou. So this girl was his niece, so perhaps he could make an exception for her, as if he needed a reason beyond the warmth to her and the something about her that made her approachable, made him wish he could trust her, that he could be her friend. She glanced up at him, curious about his sudden silence, wondering why he hadn't noticed that she'd held a hand out to him for some help getting to her feet, seeing him staring off into the distance. The light from the rising moon shone on the unnatural pallor of the right side of his face and she realized the texture wasn't right and the color was far too pale, half of his mouth disappearing on that side. She gave his leg a whack, all she could reach from her level, his gaze turning back to her casting his face in shadow.

"Mind giving me a hand?" she asked, "Bad knee."

He started, staring at her briefly in wonder, hesitating before bending slightly to offer his hand which she gladly took and helped her to her feet.

"You've a bad knee?" he asked; she seemed much too young to have joint troubles.

"Well, not really bad," she explained, "Just hurts when I bend it and it can be really hard to get up sometimes. Always been like that."

"I see," he muttered.

"So," she said, looking up at him; lord, this man was tall! "Is that...?"

She lifted a hand to his right cheek, her fingers brushing it briefly before he hissed as though he'd been struck, his own hand coming to swat hers away as he retreated a few steps, that menacing glare from the other night on his face. It was brief, but it had been enough of a touch to know that what she felt wasn't skin.

"Don't!" he growled.

"It is, isn't it?" she asked, "Huh," she bent down to scoop up her hat, "So what's with the mask then?"

"It is none of your concern!" he snapped, that threatening glint in his eyes.

'Like a cornered animal trying to protect himself,' she thought, no longer feeling any fear of the man before her now that she understood that for some reason he had perceived a threat and his reaction was instinctive, 'But why?'

"Fine," she shrugged, turning away with the intention of heading for home.

And with that, his anger had fled as quickly as it had come, leaving confusion in its wake at her apparent nonchalance, like the mask's presence mattered not a whit to her, like she was just dropping it. So rare was it for him to encounter such a reaction, or lack thereof, he wasn't quite sure what to do, people either became more curious and determined to solve the mystery or fled in fear for their lives in the face of his anger.

"Wait!" he called as she walked away, walking toward her when she stopped and turned.

"What?" she asked, a thin black brow quirked as she regarded him.

His eyes darted from one side to another; why had he stopped her? Then it hit him as he cleared his throat in search of an answer.

"At this hour, I cannot allow a young lady to walk home unescorted," he replied as she eyed him dubiously.

With moonlight overhead, she could see the ghostly pale color of his eyes, not yellow as they'd appeared, rather that had been an effect of the dim light reflecting from his eyes, they were in reality an icy blue color and what she'd assumed were the shadows was now clearly black waving tresses over his shoulder shimmering in the faint light. She wondered what he hid beneath his white mask, the left side being well chiseled and proportioned as to be strikingly handsome, his lips thick and sensual but decidedly masculine. Even cloaked in black, he was clearly broad, but now with the cloak somewhat open and the moonlight shining on his crisp white dress shirt she could see his shoulders were broad but he was long and thin, torso tapering to a narrow waist and immaculate black trousers. She'd scrutinized him, letting her eyes wash over an otherwise flawless form, wondering if she dared take him up on his offer, she certainly didn't want a repeat of what had happened the other night.

"I wouldn't be much of gentleman if I allowed you to walk home alone," he pressed, wondering why he was adamant on the matter when he usually preferred being left alone, "Or perhaps you think me a scoundrel. Petite, if I had some intention of forcing myself on you I would have done it the other night after dispatching those ruffians or much earlier when you took no notice of my presence."

"Nothing like that," she smiled, "You'd never do that, you're too gentle."

'My dear, if you only knew', he thought, "You should be fleeing from me. A naïve child like you should not be in the presence of a monster like me. You know not the danger you put yourself in by trusting me."

"A monster, huh?" she asked, "A monster would have left those ruffians to have their way with me or would have killed me as well. I saw enough that night to know you're dangerous and that you've probably killed before. But you haven't hurt me yet and I'm trusting you not to, so don't betray that and don't make me regret it. Now, I'd be flattered to have such a handsome gentleman as yourself escort me home since you seem so insistent."

"Handsome?" he gave a humorless laugh, "I? This wretch before you is anything but!"

"Fine, if that's what you want to tell yourself," she shrugged, growing irritated with him, "But from what I can see, you are a handsome devil."

She could understand not being able to perceive yourself as being attractive, she certainly didn't find herself to be any kind of looker, so she was just as guilty but she was getting fed up with his self-deprecation, couldn't he just take a compliment?

"Now, me on the other hand," she started.

"You?" he questioned, "What, you think you are ugly? Nonsense! You're... cute."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "You know, it sucks-"

"Such language from a young woman!"

"-being called 'cute' when I'm going for sexy."

He sighed, seeing her growing annoyance, though if it was at his poor attempt at a compliment or his insistence and following hesitance to escort her he wasn't sure, and understanding it, whatever the reason (he wasn't an easy person to deal with).

"Come," he said, moving a hand as though to put it on her back though it hovered scant inches away, "Let us get you home, it's growing quite cold."

She still wasn't sure it was a good idea given the fact that their hideaway was a secret, but the man beside her, enigma that he was, was a stunning specimen and difficult as he'd been she kind of liked his company. Surely there was some place in the area where she could safely part from him before continuing her trek home without revealing the entrance to the Gypsies' hideaway. They walked in silence, crossing a bridge over the Seine on the other side of Ile de la Cite from where they'd started, he keeping a slower pace than he would've preferred so she could lead the way and so she didn't have to jog to keep up with his longer stride. She was quite small with shorter legs so surely it must be trying for her to keep up with those taller than her, especially those as tall as Erik was and he usually towered over most of the male population, a fact which served all too well an already imposing figure. She stopped after a ways, deciding this was a good enough area to part as home wasn't much farther but far enough from the hidden entrance, and he stopped beside her.

"Home isn't far from here," she said, "I can make it the rest of the way myself. Thanks."

"I do not mind walking you to your door," he replied.

"Oh no, that's all right," she insisted, "Judging by the way you keep to the shadows and the hat you keep tilted to hide the mask, and the mask for that matter, you don't like to be seen."

"Or perhaps," he pressed, "you do not wish to be seen with me. Speaking in the streets to a masked figure with relatively few around to notice is one thing, being seen by friends or family with him on your doorstep is quite another."

"It's nothing like that at all," she answered, hands on her hips, "I'm safe enough from here, so good night, monsieur."

"You've no need to fear," he called as she turned and began walking away, "I already know where the entrance to your Court is," she stopped, her form rigid, "You are a Gypsy, I am well aware of where they hide in this city as well as the location of the main entrance to it."

She turned to look at him, "You know?"

"I've been there a few times," he nodded, drawing closer, "When I was a child the tribe that kept me as a freak came here during the winter, seeking shelter within the notorious Court of Miracles. I also know we are being watched as we speak, this close to the cemetery the crypt lies in, of course there is a guard or two keeping watch. It is curious that Hugo was familiar with the concept of this Court of yours, but it was apparent he knew nothing about it from the descriptions in his book. I offer you a choice, mademoiselle: permit me to escort the rest of the way or we may part since I doubt those watching would allow anyone to accost you."

"You might as well escort me the rest of the way," she shrugged, "You've come this far and depending on who was posted tonight, they might not be any better than those scoundrels the other night."

"There are those among your own kind that would do such harm to you? Don't you people have certain rules and customs in place to prevent such things?"

"Not everyone in the Court is of Romani blood, Hugo got that much right."

So the pair continued on, coming to the rusting gates of the old cemetery that housed the crypt where the entrance to the Gypsies' home lay, her escort assisting here in pushing the slab aside enough for her to slip in.

"Thanks..." she stopped, staring at him as she realized something, "What's your name anyway?"

"My name?"

"You have one don't you? I gave you mine, it's usually polite to offer yours in turn. I believe it's called an introduction."

He hesitated a few moments, "Erik," he bowed with a sweep of his cloak, "My name is Erik."

"Just Erik?"

"Just Erik."

"Is that with a 'k' or a 'c'?"

He smirked, "Erik with a 'k'."

"Good, just the way I like it. Bon nuit then, Erik with a 'k'."

"A bientot, mignonne," he replied and there it was, the endearment he would always call her, for from then on, nothing else would do, and it stuck.

With a nod, he was gone, swallowed by the shadows, silently as though he was never there.