"Where are you going?" he demanded as she gathered up her coat and the car keys.

She glanced at him and said, "I've got to pick up Mia."

"Oh." He glanced at the clock. "I didn't realize it was so late."

"Perhaps if you spent five minutes outside of your study," she teased lightly. He walked over and helped her put on her coat.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. He stroked the back of her hand.

"Why?"

"I did not spend time with you today," he murmured.

"It's all right, Erik," she assured him, smiling and pressing a kiss to his mouth. "I'll be back later."

"I should come with you," he offered.

"No, it's fine. I have to talk with her teacher for a little."

"Why?" He followed her out to the car, and she laughed as she opened the door.

"Probably to tell me that she's too smart for her class and should be pushed up to college. She's too much like her father, you know." She slid in the car and turned the ignition. It hummed to life. Erik leaned down and watched her through the window.

"She's like her mother as well," he said. He brushed his long fingers against her cheek. "Be safe, my love."

The smile was still on her lips. "See you soon."

Erik had been almost aghast when Christine said it was time for Mia to go to school. When asked why, he merely said that she had only started walking a year or so ago. Christine laughed.

"Erik, she's four years old. She's been walking for years. It's time for preschool."

But the next morning, he put his foot down. He had, apparently, spent all night researching the available preschools in the area, and none of them fit his expectations. They were glorified expensive daycares, he said; messy, sticky, filthy places with idiot children and fat women who sat around and half-heartedly taught them the ABC's—which, he was good enough to remind her, Mia had known for over a year (she had learned so Erik could finally begin teaching her music). And so Mia wasn't allowed to go, as much as Christine pestered. It was sure to harm her later, she had said. Mia needed to make friends with children her own age and to begin learning basic social skills. But the more she pestered, the more upset Erik became, and so the argument had been left unfinished.

Christine soon suspected the real reason: he was most reluctant to let his daughter go and begin a new stage of life.

But no matter how reluctant he was, he could not keep her from attending kindergarten. He could, however, sulk and watch glumly as Mia packed her tiny backpack the night before, happily chattering to Christine about how excited she was to go to school (Tanie sat to the side after Mia sternly told her that school was no place for her). Erik also made sure that Mia had been enrolled in the top private elementary school he could find that was nearby.

Christine had raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She was sure there was an actual wait list to enroll in the school. It seemed Erik had "pulled some strings" to enroll his daughter.

Just as Erik and Christine had predicted, Mia thrived at school and absorbed all information like a sponge. She came home each day bursting with new things to share, crafts made out of Popsicle sticks and cotton balls, crayon-drawn pictures of farm animals, rhymes and limericks she had learned, and the names of new friends she had made. It all delighted Christine, who was happy to listen.

Erik liked to pretend he wasn't very interested, but he always made sure that her drawings and crafts were carefully tacked up in her bedroom. He had even repaired a Popsicle stick house with simple glue when it had broken.

All in all, Christine was overjoyed with both of her loves, and she smiled as she drove the short distance to the school.

It was a pristine two-story red brick building, with MOUNT VERNON PREPARATORY SCHOOL shining over the entrance. Christine smiled and rolled her eyes affectionately. Erik was certainly an endearing man, once she had gotten past the horror she had previously felt for him.

She hurried into the warm school. It was the day before the Christmas vacation started, and snow was falling steadily from the sky. Gratefully, she pulled open the front door and entered the building.

The hallways were long, and her short heels clicked and echoed as she made her way to Mia's classroom. As she approached, a bell rang, and at once the doors on either side of her exploded, children running about, shrieking, shouting, and shoving in their haste to leave the school. Christine fought her way through the masses of tiny children, all of them a flurry of navy and white, mixed with an occasional shock of red hair, the gleam of blonde locks, or the dark shimmer of brown tresses. Christine finally located the right classroom and stepped inside gratefully. The noise level dropped significantly.

"Mrs. Vautour!"

Mia's teacher was a very tall, very lean, very flat woman named Ms. Woodlock, with a long nose and very short iron-gray hair. Her clothing was always crisp, conservative, and impeccable, and everything about her suggested sensibility and intelligence. Christine shook her hand, surprised momentarily at her very strong grip, and took the offered seat on the other side of the large oak desk.

"Maman!"

Christine turned immediately at the sound of her daughter's voice and opened her arms to embrace the little girl, who jumped delightedly.

"My darling!" Christine exclaimed, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "How was your day?"

"It was good!" Mia said, grinning at her toothily. "Can we go home now? Christmas!"

"Not yet, sweet," Christine said, smiling. "Let Maman talk to your teacher for a few minutes. Why don't you go play for a while?"

She nodded and scampered away to another corner of the room, where building blocks and other toys were located. Christine turned back and found that Ms. Woodlock was smiling at her, though it was tight and obviously forced. Feeling slightly nervous, like she was in trouble herself, Christine cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. Erik always said that posture spoke volumes.

Ms. Woodlock leaned forward slightly and finally began. "Mrs. Vautour, first let me say what an honor it has been teaching Damiana."

"Mia," Christine corrected automatically, unthinkingly.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh—I'm sorry," Christine said, blushing slightly and smiling. "She goes by Mia. I think she prefers it."

"I'm sure," Ms. Woodlock said. "However, we do not encourage nicknames here. The world and the workforce will not recognize her as 'Mia.' They will recognize her legally given name. We feel it is best that children understand this and dispense with the use of nicknames. They do nothing."

"Oh," Christine said.

Ms. Woodlock cleared her throat. "As I was saying, Mrs. Vautour. Damiana is a wonderful girl. She's exceptionally bright and very polite. She is an exemplary student at Mount Vernon."

"I'm glad to hear it," Christine said. She was feeling less inclined to like Ms. Woodlock the more the meeting went on.

"However."

Christine's attention snapped back into place. Something was wrong. There was the 'however.' This was not a meeting to talk about how wonderful Mia was.

"I called you in today, Mrs. Vautour, to discuss something that troubled me."

"Did she do something wrong?" Christine asked blankly.

"No."

"Is she all right? Is she behind on her lessons?"

"No, of course not, Mrs. Vautour, allow me to finish. As I was about to say, last week I asked the children to draw a picture of their families."

Christine's stomach flooded with ice. She already knew what was coming, and she could only stare with dumb horror as Ms. Woodlock went on.

"Usually this exercise does not cause much excitement. It's simply to teach the children that there are different types of families. Families with one child or four, families with a single parent, children being raised by relatives—you understand, I'm sure."

Christine nodded, feeling herself go pale.

"However, Damiana's drawing was quite…how should I say it? Quite unusual. I attempted to ask her about it, but she insisted that it was accurate. I haven't hung it on the wall or allowed her to take it home yet, because I wanted to talk to you about it."

She pulled open a drawer in her desk and extracted a sheet of paper before holding out to Christine. Christine took it, trying to stop her trembling fingers. She looked at it.

Yes, there it was, in crayon, right before her eyes. Mia's depiction of her family. Mia was between her parents, holding either hand, and she had drawn herself in her school uniform, looking rather plain compared to her parents. Christine was holding her left hand, drawn in an elaborate royal-blue gown, her chocolate hair curly and falling to her waist. There was even a crown on her head. And Christine dragged her eyes over to Erik…He was there, his clothing all colored black.

And he didn't have a mask on.

Christine stared. She didn't want to look at Ms. Woodlock anymore. She wanted to take the picture, rip it up, grab Mia and run home. She wanted to shut them all away and never emerge. She did notice, with some glimmer of dull amusement, that Mia had also drawn Ayesha sitting beside them, looking haughty and regal even in crayon.

"Well?"

She blinked and looked back at the stern teacher before her. And Christine chose the only path she could think of.

"Well what?"

One gray eyebrow rose as Ms. Woodlock observed her. "Is it a true likeness?"

Christine put the paper back down on the desk, unsure if she could look at it anymore.

"I suppose I could say yes."

"You mean to tell me that you usually wear ball gowns and crowns and that your husband has four black holes instead of regular facial features?"

"No," Christine said, feeling her temper shoot up.

"Then why did she draw her family this way?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Christine said hotly.

"Well, I suppose I could ask her," Ms. Woodlock said softly. It seemed like she was enjoying Christine's temper, which stoked it even further. "Damiana! Come here, please."

Mia ran over and climbed into Christine's lap, smiling at her teacher.

"Your mother and I were just talking about your wonderful drawing you did last week," Ms. Woodlock said, smiling at the little girl. "Do you remember it? It's right here."

Mia picked up her drawing and nodded, still smiling. "It's my Maman and Papa and me." She bounced in Christine's lap and turned to grin at her as well. Christine forced a smile in return.

"It's a lovely drawing," Ms. Woodlock continued. "However, Damiana, I was just wondering…Do your mother and father really look like that?"

"Yes," Mia said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Does your mother wear big, pretty dresses and crowns often?" Ms. Woodlock said, motioning to the picture.

"No," Mia said. "Only sometimes when she goes to the opera with Papa."

"Then why did you draw her in a dress and crown?"

Mia squirmed uncomfortably in Christine's lap. "Because Papa always calls her his queen…And she looks like a princess to me."

It would have normally warmed Christine's heart, but she knew that the worst was only coming: Erik had not yet been discussed.

Ms. Woodlock smiled at Mia's explanation of Christine, and her attention turned to the other side of the drawing. "And your father, Damiana?"

"What?"

"Your father—this man right here. Where are his eyes, nose, and mouth?"

"They're right there," Mia said, pointing to the black crayon marks.

"Those are not facial features," Ms. Woodlock said.

"Yes they are," Mia insisted. "That is what my papa looks like."

"He has four black holes in his face instead of eyes, a nose, and a mouth?"

Mia nodded. Ms. Woodlock looked at Christine with a raised eyebrow. Christine flushed dully and held Mia a little tighter. The urge to flee was overpowering. Erik was always the one protecting her, but he was miles away, probably absorbed in some project, unaware that she was being pinned and trapped.

"Thank you, Damiana. We will only be a few more minutes."

Mia wriggled out of her mother's grasp and ran back to the play corner.

"Now that I think on it, I have never met Damiana's father. He was not here for the orientation night, nor has he ever been here to pick her up as far as I'm aware. Damiana always speaks most highly of him. She says he is the best piano player and singer in the world. She also says he can draw beautiful pictures. I've assumed they're silly ramblings of a father's little princess." There was a short silence. "I'd like to politely request to meet with Mr. Vautour as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid it's not possible," Christine replied at once.

Ms. Woodlock's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"It's not possible," Christine repeated, trying to keep a waver out of her voice.

"Why is that?"

"Work," Christine invented wildly. "He works long hours to provide for us. As you know, this school isn't exactly free education."

Ms. Woodlock's mouth thinned. "I'm sure I can make arrangements. Mornings, evenings, weekends—anything at all."

"He would not like to give up his leisure time," Christine said stubbornly. "He likes to spend as much time as he can with Mia."

"Then he should meet with me," she insisted. "We can discuss her in a very enlightening setting. I'm sure he has fascinating insights to her character and—"

Christine's cell phone began ringing wildly, and she made no excuses as she rummaged in her bag for it, glad for the opportunity to stop talking to the woman sitting across from her. She flipped it open.

"Hello?" she said breathlessly.

"Christine?" It was Erik. "Where are you? You've been gone a very long time, you know… Are you all right?"

"Of course I am," Christine said, glancing at Ms. Woodlock, who was obviously listening closely. "I'm almost finished."

"You're still talking to Mia's teacher? What does she want?"

"Nothing important," Christine said hurriedly.

"You sound rather flustered," he said suspiciously. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" she insisted.

"If you are lying—"

Mia had rushed over. "Are you talking to Papa?" she asked eagerly, staring up at Christine. "I want to talk to him!"

"We're going home soon, you can talk to him then," Christine said quietly. Erik's voice rang out forcefully from the phone.

"Is that Mia? Let me speak with her."

"No—no!" Christine stood up and collected her purse. Ms. Woodlock observed it all with suspicious, cool eyes and a frowning mouth. "I'll be home in a minute, love." And she snapped the phone shut, knowing very well that she would have to pay for her rudeness to him. Mia pouted and tugged on her sleeve, whining, "I wanted to talk to him! Call him back!"

Christine's head was pounding. "Hush!" she snapped at Mia. "We're going home right now." She turned back to Ms. Woodlock, resisting the urge to glare. "It was lovely to speak with you," she lied coldly. "But I really have to go home now."

So saying, she took Mia's hand. "Get your drawing now, Mia, dear," she said softly. Mia grabbed it, and before Ms. Woodlock could demand it back, Christine dragged her daughter from the classroom. Not until they were in the car did Christine breathe with relief. Her phone rang again, and she sighed.

"It's Papa. Go ahead and answer it."

Mia dived for the phone and opened it, eagerly saying, "Papa?"

Christine started the car and quickly drove out of the lot, almost afraid that Ms. Woodlock would come hurtling out and demand more answers. As she drove, she listened to Mia's side of the conversation.

"No. We're going home…She's okay…Yes…Yeah…Okay…Papa, I—oh…Okay. Bye." And she hung up the phone and put it back in Christine's purse. After rummaging around in it a minute more, Mia pulled out some chewing gum and promptly stuck three sticks of it into her mouth. She chewed ferociously and then said,

"Maman, when will I get a phone?"

Despite the situation, Christine laughed. "Not for a very long time, I'm afraid."

"But Sarah in my class has one."

"That's too bad," Christine said. They were silent for a moment, and Christine turned into the driveway. "It's no use asking Papa. He won't let you have one either." Judging by the glance at Mia's sour face, Christine guessed that that was exactly what she had been planning to do.

Mia shot out of the car as soon as it was off, and Christine looked at the drawing resting on the passenger seat. With a heavy heart, she picked it up and ripped it into small pieces, knowing nothing good would ever come from anyone seeing it again.

When she entered the house, she found Mia at the piano, waiting impatiently for a lesson. Erik, however, was waiting for her.

"What happened?" he asked quickly. "You sounded upset on the phone."

"Papa!" Mia called, tapping out a note.

"It was nothing," Christine said, going to take her coat off. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. I was in a meeting, and Mia was trying to talk to me, and her teacher was trying to as well. I can't handle three people in my ear at the same time."

He examined her suspiciously. "It's more than that," he declared. "You sounded upset, not frustrated."

"Really, it was noth—"

With speed that was known only to him, he took her arm and looked straight into her eyes. "Please, tell me," he said. "You know how much I loathe secrets."

"Papa!" Mia hollered. "My music!"

"Hush yourself!" Erik snapped quickly. Mia was obviously taken aback. Her father didn't snap at her.

"I—I didn't know what to do," Christine finally confessed, whispering so her voice would not carry to Mia. Erik looked supremely concerned and moved closer. "Mia's teacher asked them all to draw pictures of their families, and…"

Erik closed his eyes and said quietly, "Am I correct in assuming she drew me—and she drew me like this?"

Feeling close to tears, she nodded. "Yeah," she whispered. "She asked Mia about it, and Mia—you know her, she said it was how you looked. Her teacher then asked to meet you. She insisted on it. I told her no, of course. And then you called, and I practically ran out. I didn't know what to do, Erik, I didn't!"

"Let me see the picture," he said.

She shook her head, sniffing slightly. "I ripped it up and threw it away. I'm sorry."

There was silence, and she could tell he was thinking. He absentmindedly rubbed her arm that he was holding, staring at a spot on the wall, a hard look in his eyes. Although he was being gentle with her, she knew that rage was close to the surface.

"What time is it?" he suddenly demanded.

"What?"

"Time—the time." He looked around and spotted a clock. "3:30," he muttered. "So she would still…Yes. Yes, I'm going." He went to the closet, collected his coat, and walked to the garage.

"Erik, where are you—are you going there? To the school? No, please, don't go! Please, don't do this!" She grabbed his hand, and he whirled on her.

"Do you think it will stop?" he demanded roughly. Mia had climbed down from her bench and was watching the scene with wide eyes, clutching Christine's leg. Even Ayesha came in to listen. Sensing his distress, she wound around his ankles, meowing. Erik ignored her. "Do you? Do you think it ever stops? You might have bought me three weeks at the most, my love, but when Mia returns, it will be questions, and words in her mouth, and then it will escalate. Soon it will be a social worker at my doorstep to take my daughter away from me! No! I will not have it! You've lived with this for six years, and you think you know, but you don't! When you've lived with it for forty, come to me and tell me how it is. You learn, you see…You learn that it will never stop. People never change. Times change, yes, but people, no. So I am going to give her what she wants!" So saying, he grabbed his mask from the table, tied it on, tugged his coat on, slipped on a pair of gloves, and went to the door.

Christine stared for a moment. Then, blinking as if coming out of a sleep, she scooped up Mia in her arms and hurried after him. She slid into the passenger seat of the car, clutching Mia, who was still silent and wide-eyed. Erik sighed and looked at her.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't threatening; he sounded tired.

"No," she said. She was shaking, but she was firm in her decision. She knew what she had to do.

"I will not tell you again."

"Good, because I'm not going anywhere," she said. "You don't have to do this alone anymore, Erik. I'm your wife—I'm here for you. I want to support you."

"You will support me enough by staying here and watching Mia."

"Then you support me," Christine said. With some difficulty, she turned and buckled Mia into her little booster seat. "Show me how to handle it. Show me what to do." She reached over and placed her small hand over his. "But whatever we do, I do not want us to be alone in it."

There was some silence, broken only when Erik turned the ignition. "You know it will be…uncomfortable," he said. "I am not going to be…nice. It may make you cry."

"I won't cry over something I'm proud of," she said. She put a reassuring hand on his thigh, and it remained there for the short drive to Mia's school. It seemed looming and intimidating as they pulled up, and Christine held back a shiver. After she unbuckled Mia and pulled her out of the seat, she did shiver, though it was from the chilly wind; she hadn't brought her coat with her. Immediately, Erik shrugged off his own and draped it over her. She thanked him and held Mia a little tighter. It felt necessary to hold her daughter in her arms through the encounter.

It was quiet in the school, though she saw teachers in their classrooms, tidying up, filing papers, erasing boards. It was the day before the holidays, and they were finishing up business, meaning most were staying a bit later than usual. Erik knew Mia's classroom number and purposefully strode to it, Christine hurrying along behind him. She couldn't help but admire him, even now, as he held his head erect and proud. Mia's little arms were around her neck. She was silent.

They approached the door. Christine swallowed and wildly wished that Ms. Woodlock had left. But the door was unlocked and Erik pushed it open. She followed in behind him.

"Jean Woodlock?" he said.

Ms. Woodlock had been straightening some desks in the back of the room and turned sharply at the sound of Erik's beautiful voice. However, her face drained of color as she saw him.

"Yes?" she said in a voice unlike her own. "Yes, what do you want? Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"I believe you wanted to speak with me," Erik said.

Spotting Christine and Mia next to him, some relief flooded Ms. Woodlock's face, though she still did look apprehensive as she said,

"Oh, Mr.—Mr. Vautour. Of course. Thank you for—for meeting with me on such short notice." She stumbled a little as she made her way back to her huge desk.

"It was no trouble," Erik said. Christine heard his carefully-hidden scathing tone.

There being only one chair on either side of the desk, Erik offered it to Christine, who took it gratefully. Mia had actually fallen asleep, comfortably clutching Christine as she settled into the chair. Ms. Woodlock looked rather uneasy as she carefully lowered herself into her own chair. It was apparent that she did not like the idea of him standing and bearing down on her. Quickly, she attempted to gain some control by straightening a pile of papers on her desk.

"Yes, Mrs. Vautour—your wife—told me it was impossible to meet with you, as you work long hours."

"It appears some free time opened up," Erik said. "My afternoon is yours. What is it you wished to discuss with me?"

"I…" She looked momentarily lost for words.

"Surely you didn't call me all the way from my home for an introduction?" Erik said. "I have precious little time, as I'm sure you know."

All in the room (those three awake and conscious) knew that that was exactly why Ms. Woodlock had so adamantly insisted upon a meeting with Erik. It was never about Mia. It was to satisfy her own curiosity. Erik was obviously going to make her squirm. Christine suddenly felt an upswing of pity for the woman, though it instantly died when she remembered who she was holding in her arms—and who she would be holding that evening.

"No, of course not," Ms. Woodlock said quickly, once again straightening her papers. "I wanted to discuss…" She looked around for some obvious inspiration. "I wanted to discuss Damiana, of course."

"Mia," Erik corrected. Christine smiled a little. It had been automatic, just as hers had been.

"Mia—yes, like I said, to discuss her. She's quite a talented little girl, I'm sure you know. She's already progressing rapidly, absorbing information surprisingly quickly. She's reading far beyond her grade level and has shown a certain aptitude for music."

"I know all of this," Erik said, with just the right touch of impatience in his voice. "I have known it before she came to this…school." He said the last word with a degrading lilt.

"I'm not surprised," Ms. Woodlock said quickly, fumbling with the awkward things Erik had thrown at her. "You being her father, it's natural that you know…That you should understand…"

"My wife," Erik interrupted coldly, "knows this as well. Surely this could have been discussed with her while she was here earlier. I'm sure she did not envision spending this afternoon coming back and forth from this place. Likewise, I did not imagine that a heavily-requested meeting would consist entirely of inane blabber about my daughter's genius, of which I am fully aware. This all suggests only one thing: that you are an incompetent fool."

Ms. Woodlock sat, open-mouthed and staring. Christine's heart was pounding wildly as she looked back and forth from the teacher to Erik.

He wasn't finished. He leaned forward and rested his large hands on the desk. Ms. Woodlock recoiled, most likely out of instinct.

"I know the real reason you requested to meet me," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. Christine knew it was more terrifying than hearing him shout. Although his anger wasn't directed at her, she still shivered and clutched her sleeping daughter a little closer.

Erik raised a threatening finger. "You will leave my family alone," he hissed quietly. "You will not talk to my daughter about anything pertaining to her family life. You will keep your conversations with her related solely to what you are teaching. If I find out—and I will—that any of my requests have not been kept, I will crush you. I will destroy your career. I will discredit you and have you thrown from this building. I will then tear down this school, and it will not be brick-by-brick. I will make you weep over the day that you poked your abnormally-long nose into my family's business. Am I understood?"

Ms. Woodlock nodded immediately, her face ghostly white. She was silent as Erik gently took Mia from Christine's arms and helped his wife out of the chair.

"Good evening, Madame," he said poisonously. He walked over and opened the door for Christine.

"After you, my darling," he said, his voice warm and courteous. Glancing one more time at the petrified Ms. Woodlock, Christine walked out of the room, and Erik followed, snapping the door shut behind them.