"Why do you suppose he wears a mask?"

Andre looked at me as I lay in bed ruminating on the day as I had been for an hour. "Well, I can think of a few reasons," he said finally, slipping into bed beside me and allowing me to curl into the crook of his arm where I so often slept.

"Well, he could just be an ornery little boy," he suggested.

"But did you see the way Madame Renard spoke to him? It was almost as though he were another pet, not a little boy."

"Honestly, Collette, if that boy is such a terror all of the time I'm surprised the woman hasn't left him at the abbey doorstep," Andre mused, and I stared at him astonished horror.

"Please tell me you're joking. He's only five years old and his only pet is sick! It's probably the first time he's ever dealt with something like this. And it's not as if he has a father to discipline him," or his mother, I thought, but I would never say such a thing aloud.

I had only been in the Renard household for a few minutes, but something did not sit right about that woman. The way she seemed like a withered statue, the wild, angry glint in her eyes… all over a child's fit! Not to mention the house shrouded in darkness, such pretty things inside while the outside made the house appear all but abandoned. No… something was not right with Madeleine Renard.

As the days wore on I busied myself with the seemingly never-ending duties of unpacking and decorating our new home, cleaning all the corners and crevasses that had not been touched since my uncle-in-law's passing three years prior. No matter how I tried to busy myself there were still days the burden of my loss was too heavy to rise from bed, but that was no longer the only thing plaguing my mind; not a day went by where I didn't catch myself wondering about that strange woman and her son, if only for a moment.

A week after our visit to the Renard home I found Andre in his study pouring over documents and decided to pique my curiosity once again. "Have you sent the bill for looking after Sasha to the Renard family yet?"

"Ah, no actually," he admitted, almost sounding embarrassed. "I suppose I should put it in the post today."

"Don't bother, I'll take it for you," I offered sweetly, hoping I wasn't being too obvious. "I want to go check on Sasha anyway, make sure she's doing all right."

"That's a very good idea. Send for me if she's still ill, won't you?" Andred asked as he rooted for the bill. When he handed it to me I kissed him pleasantly and bade him love before packing up one of the cakes I knew we would never be able to finish to take with me.

Today there were no shouts from inside the cottage, but none of the sounds I had expected from a home with a little boy either. There was no laughter, no song, none of the life that had filled the households of her friends in Paris with young children.

I knocked on the door and waited for an answer twice, hearing nothing. Well, that did explain a lot I mused. Of course the house was quiet; there was nobody home. I felt embarrassed for having been so terribly nosy, and admittedly more than a little ashamed for assuming the worst of a woman I hardly knew.

If I had turned the other direction, I would have left the Renard house that day and not have thought on that little boy again. I would have assumed no one was home and that I had imagined all of the ill-will raging between mother and son. As it was, when I turned I noticed a flash of movement from one of the curtains.

So someone was home. I moved back to the door and knocked again, calling into the house this time. "Hello, Madame Renard? My husband asked me to bring over the bill to look at Sasha and to check on her. I brought a cake; I thought we could have a piece."

There was no answer and no more movement from inside. I frowned and turned to leave, resigning to bring the bill and the cake at a later time when they were more willing to entertain when the front door cracked open slightly and a little masked face peered out.

"You're the veterinarian's wife," Erik stated, though his voice was curious.

I smiled and nodded. "Yes. How is Sasha doing?"

"She's much better, thank you for asking," the boy said, sounding stiff and rehearsed.

His voice was so dynamic. How was it possible for a child of five years old to have so much character in his voice, be so light and flexible one moment and stiff and uncomfortable the next? And it wasn't just his voice; Erik's annunciation was flawless. He completely lacked the clumsiness children so often express when they speak. Combined with his bell-like clarity of voice, it was like listening to an adult speak in a child's pitch.

"I'm glad to hear it. Is your mother at home?"

"No. I'm not supposed to open the door," he added as though he were confessing some great sin, tearing at my heart.

"Well, I certainly won't tell if you won't," I promised with a secretive smile, and the bit of Erik's face that I could see all but glowed as he nodded his agreement. "How long will your mother be out?"

"Probably until tomorrow. I think she went to Rouen on an errand."

I am sure my jaw dropped at that news; she hadn't told her son where she was going or even when she would be back? "Does she go to Rouen often?"

"Not very often. Once every few months," Erik said, far too casually. This was clearly nothing out of the ordinary for him, although it shocked me.

I recovered from my shock quickly. "Well, maybe you can help me then. I've been dying to try a piece of this cake. I was hoping your mother would share a piece with me, but maybe you would in her stead?"

The boy's eyes shined under the ugly black mask and he nodded eagerly, opening the door further to let me inside. The damage from a week before had been repaired, and the room was dark but immaculate. Vases of flowers filled the house with their fragrance, paintings of what must have been young Madeleine Renard and her dead husband hung on the walls along with several crucifixes which while beautiful only added to the cottages' mausoleum-like atmosphere. If Erik were not standing in the room with her, I never would have guessed a five year old boy resided in the house; not a single portrait of the boy hung on the walls, no toys were strewn about on the floor.

"The kitchen is this way," Erik urged, darting off into the next room in the most childish behavior I had seen out of the boy yet. I followed him into the room and watched as he climbed easily up onto the counter to fetch a pair of plates from one of the taller cabinets, marveling at his self-sufficiency. "Why did you bring Mama a cake?"

"Well, to be honest the whole village has been bringing us food since we moved here. There's another whole cake on the counter in my kitchen," I admitted with a smile. "I thought you and your mother might enjoy this one."

"Why did people bring you food?" Erik asked, eyes glued on the knife as I sliced two portions of cake before giving him the larger of the pieces. He began to eat with such voracity I couldn't help but wonder how long he'd been left alone without a proper meal and began to wish I had brought one of the hunks of salted beef from the pantry.

"Well, it's custom. Women bring food to new neighbors to welcome them. It's supposed to build community and start friendships, but I think it's mostly because women are nosy," I said with a grin, and Erik beamed in return.

"You're not nosy," he said.

If only you knew, I mused. Something warm and solid brushed against my leg and I looked down into the large brown eyes of the spaniel my husband had come to treat a week before. "Why hello, Sasha. You're looking much better than the last time I saw you."

What happened next nearly made me jump out of my skin. "Thanks to your husband, Madame," the dog answered in a delicate, feminine voice that nearly put my jaw on the floor.

My reaction caused Erik to giggle boyishly and my stare moved from the dog to his masked little face. "I think she fancies your husband," was all he said, though his eyes glowed knowingly.

"…You did that, didn't you? Erik how did you do that?" I demanded, and the boy seemed disappointed that I had discovered him so quickly.

"I have a book on ventriloquism. I'm getting very good," he bragged.

The more I learned about the boy, the more he confused me; not only could he read at five years old, he was able to understand and implement what surely was a difficult art. How was that even possible? "Do you read books like that often?"

"Whenever Mama isn't home. She doesn't like me to read anything but the Bible," Erik explained with a bit of a sneer. "She doesn't think it's natural that I can read so well."

"I'm sure Mozart's father didn't think it was natural that he was composing by your age either. Imagine how different music would be today if all he were allowed to play were hymns," I remarked, not quite realizing I had spoken aloud until I noticed Erik watching me with his head tilted curiously.

Then Erik stared into nothingness, clearly conflicted about what he was about to do. After a moment he pushed his chair away from the table and stood, taking my hand boldly and pulling me to my feet. I followed him obediently as he led me to the study, where stood a modest sized wall piano. He sat on the bench, feet not quite able to reach the ground in spite of his impressive height for his age. With long, skilled fingers he lifted the cover off the keys and without any introduction began to play.

To this day I can still remember every note of that melody. It plays in my head, fills my dreams and soothes my nightmares with its sweet, sweet sound. It filled me with more emotions than I knew existed, leaving me both exhausted and fulfilled. Never before have I been touched in such a way by music, brought nearly to tears in awe by something so simple as sound. If I had any doubts before, they vanished as those genius little hands danced over the keys – Erik was a special child, strange and different but so very, very remarkable.

I could say nothing after the music stopped, even when Erik looked up at me expectantly. His odd yellow eyes gleamed in the dark room like an animal's might, imploring me to give judgment over his performance. How could I have possibly denied him?

"Erik… Erik that was the most remarkable piece of music I've ever heard."

The boy grinned broadly, his chest puffing in boyish arrogance. "I know. Music is my favorite thing in the entire world. It flows through me like air and tastes even sweeter than chocolate cake," he smiled up to me before pouting some and glancing back to the keys, stroking them longingly. "Mama doesn't like my music. She likes it even less when I sing, but when I go too long without music it feels like drowning."

"Well, I adore your music. Should you ever wish to play and your mother won't let you, you are welcome to use my piano whenever you please so long as I may sit and listen," I promised, wondering even as I said it if it was a promise if it was a promise Madame Renard would ever let me keep.

Erik was both stunned and thrilled by my offer. "Really? May I?"

"Yes, of course you may. It would be an honor and a pleasure."

I spent the remainder of the day listening to Erik play at the piano, indulging him when he asked if I would play a duet with him even though I am woefully inadequate in comparison to his genius. He humored me though, politely correcting my gaffs in a way I suspected was uncharacteristic for him; in the short time I'd known him he tended toward arrogance over patience, but I suppose since I was indulging him he knew better than to flaunt his superiority. Before I knew it the sun was set and the already dark house was quickly growing darker.

I frowned gently ask Erik moved to light several of the glass lanterns about the house. "I should be on my way. My husband is likely wondering where I am."

Erik's shoulders slumped and the disappointment in his voice was almost too much to bear. "Of course. Thank you for the cake."

I wrung my hands for a moment, glancing at the door and then back to the boy – Andre wouldn't mind, not when I explained. "Why don't I make us supper first, and maybe we could have another slice of cake."


Author's Note: gravity01 - Thanks so much for your review! I labeled it a tragedy mostly for the sad themes in the story, but also because the end will not be happily ever after for anyone involved. That being said, just because I'm not planning on a happy ending doesn't mean I'm planning on a hopeless one.