Within the span of two weeks and two days, they had almost managed to finish the score. Only the final touches remained and would be completed in one additional day. The piece had been commissioned for the wife of a member of parliament. It was his birthday gift to her. A party at his home was planned in her honour and the work would be performed by a chamber orchestra comprised of her favourite instruments – harp, piano, violin, and cello.

Erik still found it amusing that Melodie had achieved the commission through the deception of being a man. She claimed that it didn't bother her, so long as her work was appreciated. Curious as to how it had all come about, she'd told him the tale. Colin Grayson had been invited to the Wentworth home for a luncheon and had mentioned to Albert that he wanted to plan a surprise for his wife's birthday. Henry had been helping to serve refreshments and overheard the remark. Though slightly nervous that he was stepping beyond his place, he'd nevertheless approached Colin as the gentleman was leaving. Along with the man's hat and cloak, Henry had discreetly passed some samples of Melodie's work. Though mildly surprised, Colin had accepted the samples and taken them with him. A few days later, he'd returned to seek Henry out. Not being able to read music, he'd asked someone to look over the pieces and the recommendation had been glowing. When Colin had pressed for details on the composer, Henry had looked to his imagination for guidance.

Apparently, Michael Blythe was a gifted composer but a total recluse. All dealings and communications were done strictly through Henry. The intriguing air of mystery might have even been a bonus. Colin had 'hired' Michael Blythe for a rather generous sum, considering he was yet an unknown name.

In order to account for her hours away from home, Melodie had told the Anniston's that she'd acquired a teaching position at a local music school. As long as it didn't detract from her lessons with Grace, Mr. and Mrs. Anniston did not seem to mind.

Today was to be their last day together. Erik waited for Melodie to arrive, softly tapping at the keys of the piano. They had worked surprisingly well together. Surprising, considering the process of working in tandem with another was utterly new to him. He supposed he'd had one other experience of sharing his talents with someone but that had been in the role of a teacher. The dynamics had been entirely different. He'd helped to shape and nurture Christine's voice, coaxing her vocal chords to reach soaring heights. She had called him 'Master' and indeed, he'd taken delight in pulling on her puppet strings. Manipulating her had been far too easy.

With Melodie, the situation was different. She was the master of her composing while he merely recorded the notes. Or at least, that was what he had expected. On several occasions she had asked for his suggestions on specific sections. Though flattered, he hadn't outwardly shown he was pleased. He'd offered his critique when asked but otherwise, retreated to his role as recorder and nothing more. He didn't want to repeat what had happened the first time they had sat down at the piano together.

He had wanted to hear her play and had practically demanded that she do so, physically guiding her to sit at the instrument. The music that had risen from her fingertips had touched him deeply. A locked chamber of his heart had slid open, just enough for a sliver of light to enter. He'd allowed the light to embrace him for a short while, sharing a passage of music that he'd written ages ago. His passion and loneliness had been wrapped in every note and when he'd finished, he'd been horrified by how much he'd revealed. Getting too close to her and her music was a dangerous path and one that he had no intention of taking. No matter how much an undeniable part of him longed to.

Absent-minded fingers stilled over the keys as he heard a sound approaching. His state of alertness relaxed as he recognized the light fall of footsteps and the unmistakeable sound of a cane scratching against the floor.

Melodie appeared from the right wing of the stage, her face glowing even in the dim light. With a sense of detachment, as if he was an unbiased observer, he noticed that her choice of a chocolate brown dress did nothing for her appearance. Blue would be much more flattering to her skin tone. Over the past two weeks, he'd learned that she indeed owned garments other than the standard issue white blouse and black skirt. But not many.

"Hello, Erik," she called out, smiling widely.

"Good day," he said, rising to allow her access to the piano bench.

After removing her cloak, she settled onto the seat, hefting her leather case with a little difficulty. The sheets of music were no longer stuffed into a basket. She'd indulged in the purchase of a proper casing so the papers did not have to be folded. It had grown quite thick now and obviously was her pride and joy.

"Isn't this exciting?" She continued to hold her smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "We'll be finished today. Then I'll take it straightaway to Henry and they'll still have sufficient time to rehearse. I think Mrs. Grayson will be very pleased with her surprise."

"Let's get started, shall we?" Erik urged, wanting to dispense with conversational pleasantries and get on with the work. He was in a particularly foul mood today. And although he was self-aware enough to know the reason, stopping to think about it only worsened his ire.

She blinked at him, her head cocked as if puzzled by the gruffness of his tone. For a moment, he thought she would question his abrupt attitude but she seemed to think better of it. "Certainly," she said smoothly, turning her attention to the matter at hand. Peering closely at each sheet, she spread them out on the top cover of the piano. "We left off yesterday debating about the closing section. Forte or pianissimo. Have you rethought your position?" she asked.

His answer was blunt. "No."

They had opposite views on how the final bars were to be played out. He felt the piece should end dramatically, with a strength that would command attention. She thought it better to softly fade away, with a lone violin trailing into the distance.

She pursed her lips, forming a perfect bow. "Not even in the slightest?"

"No. Because I know I'm right. Of course, you are the composer, not me. My opinion ultimately doesn't matter."

"I wish you would stop saying that. It does matter." She paused, considering a little while longer. "But in this respect, I do believe you're wrong. A strong finish is always expected but what I've written for Mrs. Grayson calls for a more delicate hand. Pianissimo it shall be. I think I will even write it down myself."

As she turned her back to him, he snorted faintly with derision. "I heard that," she stated.

Despite his brooding, he had to bite his lip to keep from chuckling.

They spent the next few hours going over various details, finalizing all the loose ends. She sat and reworked certain phrases while he hunched over the scattered sheets, pen gripped in hand and flying to match her pace. He took no notice of the ink smearing across his fingers or the kink in his lower back. Whenever she stopped to mull something over, he found himself staring at her openly, as if memorizing her features. Her dark, wide set eyes were expressive pools that seemed unable to veil her emotions. Whether they flashed in annoyance or shined with happiness, they never failed to reveal her inner self. Though her skin was naturally fair, he'd never seen her with a parasol. Thus a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks marred her otherwise creamy skin. His gaze dropped unconsciously to her lips. They were slightly parted now in concentration. Full, sensuous lips that practically begged to be…

"Erik?"

He started, aware that her mouth had voiced his name. "Hmm?" he grunted, thoroughly irritated with himself for giving in to the distraction of her. This was precisely why he was thankful this particular partnership was coming to a close. Ironic, really, that he had been the one to pursue her so diligently. Now he couldn't wait to be free of her.

But that wasn't entirely true, his mind mocked. He was also loath to leave her. While he'd found pleasure in her music, as he had suspected he would, he'd also enjoyed her company – enjoyed it immensely. And therein lay the contradiction of his torn emotions. He didn't dare expose his heart again. No good could come of it.

"Is…something wrong?" she asked tentatively.

"No. Continue."

After another twenty minutes or so of minor adjustments, Melodie folded her hands in her lap, a look of satisfaction about her.

"I do believe we're done," she said. "Can you think of anything I've overlooked?"

"No." He set down the pen and rubbed at his fingers, only succeeding in transferring the black stains to his other hand.

"What is wrong with you?" she burst out, turning towards him with brows knit together. "Have I offended you somehow?"

"No."

"You've done nothing but give me grunts and one word answers. I've made it very clear that I value your views, yet I practically have to force them out of you. I don't understand your aloofness."

He closed his eyes briefly, shutting out the sight of her hurt and baffled face. "I'm not a man of warmth and manners, mademoiselle. I've done my duty and now, it appears our work is finished."

"Why do you not say my name?"

The question took him aback. "What?"

"My name. In all the hours and days we've spent together, it's never once crossed your lips. I just find it odd."

He said nothing, resorting to staring at her again. She remained oblivious, of course, looking at his general direction but seeming to gaze somewhere near his ribs. Right at where his heart should have been. At a loss for words, he continued to remain mute.

They both flinched at the muffled thud of a door from within the back corridors of the theatre. Someone was inside.

He heard her inhale sharply, her eyes widening. Snapping into action, he started gathering up the papers, cramming them into the case. When she stood up to reach for their cloaks, her hip knocked against the cane. It had been propped against the piano and started to fall. Only his lightening reflexes enabled him to snatch it before it clattered to the floor.

"The lights," she whispered, clutching the cloth bundle to her chest.

Cursing under his breath, he lunged for the long handled snuffer and successively eliminated each flame, wisps of smoke making his eyes sting. Thrown into darkness, he gave himself a few precious seconds to allow his vision to adjust. He could barely make out the shadow of Melodie's still form. Grabbing her arm, he led her across the stage and through the opposite wing. He felt her stumble once and raised her arm higher to keep her upright, but didn't slow the pace. The first door he found was locked. Moving quickly to the next, he fumbled with the handle and exhaled with relief when it turned beneath his hand. Pushing open the door, he stepped in first and pulled her in after him. When the door was closed, they were dropped into utter blackness. Although there were weak shafts of light visible at the bottom and one side of the doorway, it didn't permeate through the inky darkness.

Without even thinking about it, he'd adjusted his breathing to shallow, indiscernible depths. However, while his breaths seemed to diminish, hers were growing harsher with each passing second. Frowning, he knelt down to lay the cane and leather bound music at his feet. Then, with both hands free, he grasped each of her arms and nudged her a little closer to the door. The vertical slat of light was so faint; he doubted that her poor eyesight could even perceive it. No doubt, her world had been plunged into a nightmare of complete blindness.

Her head was down and he could only see the crown of her hair. Placing two fingers under her chin, he tilted her face up. Though it was difficult to judge her exact expression, she appeared to be struggling to breathe.

"Calm yourself," he hissed.

Jerking her head away, she dropped her face from view again. This time, she was practically doubled over.

She shook her head back and forth. "I can't do this." It was a whisper, but high pitched and sharply laced with panic. She strained backwards, as if ready to leap at the door.

Voices were approaching. Words weren't distinguishable but the source seemed to be two men.

Though she resisted, Erik brought her up against him, a little more roughly than he had intended. "You're fine," he breathed in her ear. "Just hold onto me."

Taking his advice literally, small hands clutched at his shirtfront, as if holding on for dear life. And though she had finally stilled in his arms, he felt her heart fluttering madly, like a bird trying to escape its cage. Her face pressed tightly against his chest. Closing his eyes, he allowed his head to lower, drawn by the citrus scent of her silky hair. She always smelled fresh and intoxicating – one of the reasons why he avoided sitting too close to her.

The voices and footsteps floated past their hiding place. He heard one of them mention retrieving something that had been forgotten. The sounds from the corridor faded into the distance but that didn't mean all was clear. After letting more time pass, he finally crept to the door and opened it less than an inch. Pausing, he strained his ears but was only met by silence.

He kept his voice low, barely more than a mutter. "Wait here. I'll make sure they've gone."

"You're leaving me alone?"

Panic had edged back into her voice again. He pulled the door open a little wider, allowing more light to filter through. Glancing down at her, he could now discern the haunted look in her rounded eyes. It was a look he was more than familiar with, and yet it troubled him to see it reflecting from her.

"Stand by the door. Keep it open a few inches, but no more than that. I'll return shortly." He took one step and halted. "I'll have to ask that you release me, my dear."

Twin spots of rosy colour suffused each of her smooth cheeks. She said nothing, but immediately let go of his shirt. Slipping into the hallway, he traversed silently, stopping every so often to listen for any sign of the visitors. But it appeared they were alone in the theatre once more. Just to be sure, he ended up circling the ground floor of the entire building. The Empire was a relatively small theatre so it didn't take overly long. Although it was possible the men had retreated to a room or some other corner of the establishment, it didn't seem likely. It would be best, however, not to overstay their welcome.

Coming full circle to the very spot he'd started from, he was mildly surprised to find the door firmly shut. She must have heard his approach. He mused that perhaps he wasn't as stealthy as he imagined himself to be. Easing open the door, he said quietly, "All is clear. You can come out now."

Expecting her to meekly peek her head around the door, he wasn't prepared for the flash of brown that hurtled towards him. As the small whirlwind slammed into him, he rocked backwards but managed to remain on his feet. Before he could reach out to her, she spun around and hit the wall with her back. Sucking in air with huge, gulping breaths, she sank down to the floor, drawing up her knees and hiding her face in the folds of her dress.

Watching her tremble and shudder, he felt a stab of pity. It was an emotion he usually reserved for wounded animals. She, however, was a fully capable woman. "You're behaving like a child," he said, his tone cold.

Her head lifted slightly, just enough for her to speak clearly. "I'm well aware of that. Thank you very much," she snapped. "Just give me a minute." And down went her head again, her forehead resting on her knees.

Leaving her to calm her own demons, he walked into the room to gather up their belongings. It was a small enclosure, bare of any furnishings. Aside from a lone bucket and mop propped against a corner, it was empty. Unused and filthy as well, judging by the coating of dust and grime that now covered a good portion of his cloak. Retrieving it from the floor with a grimace, he swiped at it ineffectually. He completed the task slowly, giving Melodie some time to collect herself. By the time he stepped out once more, she was standing and waiting for him. Her face appeared rather drawn and pinched, but he detected no traces of the frightened child that had clung to him in the dark.

Wordlessly, he draped her cloak about her shoulders and pressed the cane and leather case into her hands. Turning on her heel, she quickly strode down the hall towards the back exit. Throwing his own cloak about him, he lifted the hood and trailed after her. Once outside, he used his version of a key to carefully lock the door. It was a handy stick of metal, about four inches long with a curved tip. He'd used it countless times to manipulate the inner workings of locks and bolts. Yet another skill that didn't necessarily endear him to respectable London society.

With eyes closed, her face turned up towards the sky, like a flower seeking the sun's rays. The afternoon was overcast and they stood in a narrow, gloomy alleyway. Yet, she seemed grateful for the freedom, breathing in deeply. Dreary though their surroundings were, he imagined she was comforted by the daylight.

"I'm sorry for what happened back there," she said at last. "You must think me a silly goose."

"Considering your…situation, I suppose it's understandable," he said generously.

"My situation?"

He thought it obvious. "Your blindness."

"Oh. Yes. I suppose there's that too." She sounded thoughtful, then blinked and spoke briskly. "Well, it appears our work is complete. I'm not sure if I'll receive payment upon submission or after the performance. How shall I contact you?"

He took a moment to consider the question. "There's a young lad that I sometimes hire to run errands for me. I'll have him go to you the morning after the performance."

"All right. And his name? You do know his name, I hope."

He couldn't believe she was deliberately baiting him. "It's Peter," he spoke through gritted teeth.

One corner of her lip curled upwards – the only sign of her faint amusement. "Henry has been invited to the Grayson's for the party and I'll be accompanying him. I don't suppose you would consider joining us?"

"I think not."

"Yes, well, I wanted to extend the invitation." She cleared her throat. "It's been good working with you. It truly has. You've done more than simply write down the notes. Your advice has been invaluable. I hope that someday you'll be able to share your gift with others. Good luck to you, Erik."

He drank in her features for the final time. "And to you," he said softly. Deciding he did not wish to watch her walk away, he spun around and departed from her first. Each step that increased the distance between them firmed his resolve. He'd been complacent for far too long. It was time for a change.

When he thought about what he would miss the most about her, the first thing that sprang to mind was so ridiculous, he grunted with self-derision.

Her freckles.

A/N: I acknowledge your requests for fluff and drama. I hope this story will deliver on the drama. As for fluff, I promise there will be some later but not for a while. Hang in there.

Special thanks to Rancid Melody for exceeding my review expectations. The comments have been helpful.