Winter - 1864

Gustave was resting peacefully. His fever had broken hours ago and had not spiked again since. Christine was relieved... exhausted physically but too wound up to sleep, so she sat by his side and held his hand. For hours, she watched him, whispering prayers of thanksgiving to God for sparing his life. On occasion, he would grow restless and she would sing to him lullabies from their homeland.

So engrossed was she in watching and singing that she failed to notice the silent creature watching her.

Briefly she caught a flash of white in the corner of her vision. With a gasp, she turned around, only to find that the figure was gone. Had it vanished into one of the growing shadows... or had she imagined it?

"Is... is somebody here?" she asked, carefully. For a moment, there was nothing. Then she heard an audible breath and a man stepped from the darkness, bold and regal, as if he had not just been hiding in a corner seconds before. In fact, suddenly she was the one who felt abashed. As if she had somehow intruded upon him. She could find no adequate reason why that could be, yet the feeling was there just the same.

When she had gathered the boldness to look, the first thing that she noticed about the man was that he was impossibly tall—or perhaps that was mere perception, as she was currently feeling so very small—and skeletally thin. Her father was thin because his illness had so weakened him... but this man appeared in no way frail. It seemed to defy nature, she thought, but she had no doubt that he could snap her in two if he so desired.

However her assessment of his stature came to an abrupt halt the instant her gaze reached the man's face. Or... lack thereof. All she saw was a bone-white mask and, behind it, two glowing eyes. Golden, like a cat's. Or a demon, her mind supplied in a voice that sounded suspiciously like her father's.

How long had he been here? What did he want? Her brain spun all possible lines of questioning before settling on: "Pardon me... who are you?"

"You love this man," the man said with an odd inflection that made Christine wonder if he was making a statement or asking a question. She nodded in affirmation and he tilted his head quizzically.

"Why?" he asked... or, rather, demanded.

"He is my father," Christine answered.

Another jerky motion and his eyes narrowed slightly. His expressions puzzled Christine. She could not see his face and his tone of voice was proving difficult to read.

His fingers fidgeted slightly as he asked—or accused, "Is that relevant?"

Impossible to decipher. Was he angry? Inquisitive? It was unnerving and Christine was not entirely sure how to respond.

In the end, she chose simple honesty. "Of course it is. We are family... he is everything to me. My Papa is all I have."

"You love him because of... lack of alternative?"

Flustered, she attempted an answer. "No. No... nothing like that. That... makes no sense..."

"Then why?"

Not angry, she decided. He sounded sincere enough, which Christine found strange. It was as if he was trying to grasp a concept that truly baffled him. He's my father! How can my love for him be so obscure an idea?

"It is... it is..." she floundered for an explanation, but none came forth.

"Is that why you sing?" he asked. Then he elaborated, "Because you love him."

"Well... no... I mean... not exactly..." She couldn't answer why she sang, per se. Her father was asleep... if she was perfectly honest with herself, he probably wasn't hearing her at all. She sang because... it made her feel better, like she was somehow being more useful... and she liked to sing and, yes, because her father loved her voice and she loved him. And some other reason that she just couldn't manage to articulate.

She stumbled through her explanation, surprised that he seemed perfectly pleased with her answer. "Then you will sing for me," he said, as if the matter was settled, and strode out of the room. When he reached the door and realized that Christine had yet to stand up, he turned to her and clarified, "Now," and held open the door for her.

"Oh, sir... I... I couldn't. I would be too embarrassed. I have never sung for anyone else, before."

He blinked—once, twice—not having expected any sort of refusal. "You will do this," he stated. Not asking, not threatening, nor intimidating... nothing like that. He wasn't telling her to do anything... rather, just informing her that it would be done.

It was bizarre. It was unsettling... and, honestly, a little offensive. But it was intriguing. Christine found herself drawn to the strange man who carried himself like royalty but could not comprehend very basic human emotions. Curiosity overcame both pride and nerves, and she followed. And then she sang.

Just as he said she would.

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Erik led the timid girl out of the guest quarters and down several flights of stairs to his own rooms. She was a fascinating little thing and he wanted to take her to his workshop and examine her like all his other fascinating little things.

His, you see, because he had already come to think of her as such. Erik briefly pondered that thought-the reason behind such sudden possessiveness-and quickly cast it aside as irrelevant. If he wanted her, that was his own prerogative; his motives were his own, even if these ones were impulsive and abstract. She was here now, and he was eager to study her—like a rock or a butterfly.

His workshop was an eccentric space, something of an all-purpose room that housed his many interests. Along the edge ran a long table littered with pens, tools, and a multitude of interesting gadgets in various stages of completion.

The left corner, which was darker than the others, contained the simple coffin that Erik liked to sleep in. Morbid, by the world's standards, but it was comfortable enough and the privacy was nice… and, really, his sleeping arrangements were hardly anyone else's business. Christine gasped, horrified, and Erik had to suppress an eye-roll as he pointedly guided her around to the opposite space where he kept his collection of musical instruments.

He brought Christine to stand beside an impeccably polished concert piano and began by playing some simple scales, urging her to sing along. When he was satisfied that they were both sufficiently warmed-up, he said, "Now, sing something."

"I… I…" the young woman stuttered, "What shall I sing?"

Erik closed his eyes briefly, blissfully remembering the simple Swedish melody he'd heard upstairs. His hands wandered over the keyboard, inventing a suitable introduction. He waited to see a spark of recognition in her eyes and then nodded for her to begin.

And she sang. And it was awful. The pitch was fine, the notes exact, her pronunciation led Erik to believe she was native to the area… but the tone was… dead. Emotionless. The life that he had savored when he first heard her was somehow snuffed out. It startled Erik and left him feeling unsettled for reasons he could not explain. Something that should be alive but sounds dead when voiced by a living woman. The disparity offends the senses.

"No. This is… wrong. All wrong. Sing differently… sing better." The girl blinked at him owlishly. He tilted his head… was she broken? Had something happened in the last hour to destroy her voice? Or perhaps the sounds he had heard above were concocted by his own imagination. He made an impatient gesture with his hands. "I wish for you to sing… as you did before. Sing to me as you sang to the old man."

Again the girl began to sing, and again Erik shuddered at the sound. "NO!" he exclaimed, louder than strictly necessary.

"Forgive me! I did what you said. I told you! I told you I had never performed before. I… I do not know what you want!"

He noticed her shaking. "Why do you tremble?" he asked. She merely shook her head in response, but a change in her breathing did not escape his notice. "I have… frightened you, no?" She shook her head again, but the response was too quick to be convincing. Erik let out an exasperated sigh. "I have not harmed you, nor have I spoken cruelly. I have healed your father, given you respite from the storm. Why do you tremble before me when I have shown you nothing but kindness?"

Christine refused to look up at him. She was blinking rapidly and swallowing. Trying not to cry, his mind supplied. He could respect that, he supposed. Erik knew enough about hiding weakness—about the shame of crying in front of another—and decided to take pity on the girl. He stepped back, allowing her at least an illusion of privacy as she composed herself. Concealed in shadow, he observed her.

For the first time, it occurred to him what a lovely young woman she was. Bashful, but not in the mousy, groveling way that he had come to associate with the girls under his employ or the subservient beauties he'd run across in the East. She was plainly dressed and slightly disheveled, but there was a tenderness that she wore about her like a cloak which appealed to him more than any physical perfection.

It was when he began to note how prettily she blushed that he slammed down on this line of thinking. He was human, despite arguments to the contrary, and was not immune to the type of thoughts that plagued young men.

Clearly his instincts had overwhelmed his clarity of hearing; some level of his consciousness wanted to imagine an angel's voice to pair with that angel's features.

The horror at that stray thought hit him suddenly and violently. He'd heard this attitude before and nothing good ever came from it.

Disgusted, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "You may go now. You are of no use to me."

The girl frowned, but said nothing as he led her up through his laboratories and back to the room where her father resided. Confused as she seemed, though, her relief was palpable. By the time they'd returned, much of her nervousness had visibly abated. Satisfied she was no worse for wear, he nodded curtly and excused himself.

He was about to take his leave… but something inarticulate came over him when he saw the way her eyes softened as she saw the old man again. Something that made his fists clench, a feeling he almost attributed to envy or possessiveness… yet… somehow… different.

It disturbed him greatly, as did the incomprehensible rage that threatened at the idea that she would sing so sweetly again once he departed. What is happening to me?

Erik ground his teeth and forced himself from the room. The girl would not be leaving soon; her father would likely convalesce for several more days. He had time to look in on her, time to consider.

Perhaps he was not ready to abandon her… just yet.