Ok, I know I said that Chapter 7 would be the last chapter but this story has been going around in my head lately (and besides, Erik decided he had more to say...) so here is another chapter for you! I wasn't sure whether to add more to the story or not so hopefully it will work out. There are references to Chapters 13, 14 and 15 of The Past is Another Country here, but it should make sense on it's own too. Let me know what you think.

My son celebrated his thirteenth birthday today. It is late on Saturday night and he is fast asleep, his unruly hair looking like a mop on the pillow. I need to cut it again, or perhaps I will take him to the barbers, which he seems to enjoy.

My son is thirteen. That means it is two and a half years since he came to live with me and the time has just flown by, his childhood almost out of my grasp. How different my life is now.

He is happy, most of the time, although he still mentions his mother now and again of course. He is still writing to his little friend back in France, the gardeners boy, although like Gustave he's probably not that little any more. And I know that the vicomte has written to him on a couple of occasions, although I have made no comment when I hand him the envelope. I would never hide these letters from him but neither do I wish for him to read them aloud.

Sometimes I find myself thinking of my son's other father in pity, but I cannot forget what he put Christine through in those last few months of her life. Gustave has assured me that he has paid off his debts, which is something to be thankful for. I do wish him well but there was too much animosity between us, too many unpleasant memories for us ever to be friends.

My son has friends now and spends a lot of time with them, which pleases me and breaks my heart all at the same time. How I wish he would stay in more, but I would never dream of telling him that. He has one close friend, George, who remains the only friend to have visited this house; no doubt it was a slightly disconcerting experience to be in the home of a masked man known mainly through rumour and myth in this community. A pleasant young lad, no doubt of it and according to my manager he is from a nice family. Joe informs me that his father is a carpenter who is well known in the area for his fine craftsmanship. I believe he has carried out work in the Phantasma Hotel in the past, although the name is not familiar to me and his wife, George's stepmother, bakes cakes for church fundraising events. Gustave always enjoys visiting his friend and I am so thankful to the family for their hospitality towards my son.

Yes, I do like to keep a subtle eye on the people my son spends time with. He worries me. Not by his behaviour or anything like that but simply because there are so many dangers in this town and further afield. Haven't we already experienced that together, that night in Central Park?

He doesn't know this, but I follow him sometimes. Only for a little while, mind, and always from a distance, but just enough to ensure that he is safe. Usually I can just about make out the sound of his familiar voice and his American slang coated in a French accent, among the medley of voices just before the group disappears out of earshot.

More often though, I like to watch him from the window as he strolls off to the corner to meet his friends and play baseball or go fishing or whatever it is they are doing that day. I love to see that cheerful grin on his face as he sits down at the breakfast table on a Saturday morning, looking forward to the day ahead, to hear him talk about exploring Phantasma with George or going to the beach (not that part of the beach of course) and later on, listening to him describe his day sometimes breathless with excitement. All the things he can do that I could not…

I love watching him return from school, his brow furrowed in concentration as he ponders all he has learnt that day, knowing that I will question him about it and that he will have questions for me. Or the amusing stories he will tell me about something that a classmate said or did. Or that triumphant look when he has acquired a much coveted baseball card or mastered a new skill while working over in Phantasma. Or those wistful eyes when I just know there is music going around in his head and he is dying to write it down and perhaps to share it with me…

Oh, my child! He is all I have left in the world. Nothing must ever happen to him!

And now he is growing older. He has another year to go in his present school and then he begins the new adventure of high school. I want only the best for him and already I am writing to various schools in the borough, trying to find one that will challenge and encourage him. He cannot spend his life hanging around on street corners as so many other boys do around here. He is busy with school of course but I always try to keep him occupied at other times. Joe has been very kind in putting him to work every summer and during the preparation period, which has also kept him from moping too much.

He does not cry now, and the nightmares seem to have abated, thankfully. It is likely that he understands a little more about Meg and Madame Giry but he never asks me about them. Meg is safely locked away now, all pretence at sanity gone forever. Thankfully I was able to engage a good lawyer and a doctor who could recognise madness when he saw it. Madame Giry remains grateful to me for that but it was the very least I could do. She visits her daughter regularly and tells me that she seems to think the institution is the Opera House and is always telling the orderlies that she is late for her ballet class. I cannot understand any of it. Oh, there are books which would explain this condition to me in cold, clinical language but how can I understand what has happened to little Meg, the ballet dancer? What have I done to her?

No, it is best to think only of my son for the moment, lest I go insane myself…

He is talking about leaving the church choir which is a both disappointment and a relief. I do want him to enjoy singing but he is always asking me to come and hear him sing in the church which I always politely but firmly refuse to do. I am many things but I will not be a hypocrite. He does not know this but one day I walked him to the church as usual and waited outside, just to hear the choir sing. Later that day, he told me dejectedly that he wasn't chosen to sing that particular day so I wouldn't have heard him anyway, sadly.

And that brings me to another matter, which makes me a bit irritable as I prepare for bed. That wretched priest came to visit me a few days ago while Gustave was at school. Father Somebody. Father Donovan, that's it. From Ireland, like so many other immigrants. He has called here before but the only time I allowed him into the house was after the incident with my Christine automaton which I would prefer not to think about. He was "just making sure everything was all right." Well it was until he turned up and annoyed me, smiling benignly and telling me about various church events that were coming up "which you might enjoy".

For the life of me I cannot understand Catholic priests. Imagine choosing a job where you are forbidden to marry, when I would happily give my left arm to be married to Christine right now. And it would take me all night to list all my objections to religion itself. So when he turned up at the door a few days ago, I had to put on a vaguely polite facade and allow him into the sitting room again. Turning him away would be rude and might prove to be awkward for Gustave when they meet again at church tomorrow.

If I'd known he was coming I would have answered the door without my mask. That would have been rather amusing…

He is probably concerned for my mortal soul or some such nonsense. Not that he tells me that directly; no, he talks around his pet subject as he drinks his tea, commenting on the weather (why are Irish people obsessed with talking about the weather?) local news (which I hardly care about, unless it's affecting the school or something related to Gustave's life) and some concert they're planning over in St Michael's. Well that topic interests me but I know what he's trying to do. Why can he not just leave me alone?

Granted, he is hardly a regular visitor but still… He is kind to Gustave and I am indeed grateful to him for that, in fact I thanked him for it before he left. But he still probably went away thinking his efforts were in vain and I was doomed for all eternity or something. If the roof needs repairing I'll gladly write out a cheque but he's not getting me through that doorway to pray to a God who gave me the face of a gargoyle and took away the only woman I will ever love. Or… Oh, I can't be bothered listing all the reasons. He'll only get me through the church door in a wooden box and if I had my way he wouldn't even get me then either.

You see, long ago there was a priest I trusted. A kindly priest who visited me when I was a boy in my mother's house, one of the few people I thought of as an ally, perhaps even a friend. And one day he performed an exorcism, with my mother's permission, trying to drive the demons out, apparently. He may have driven something in instead, but that's another story. That was the end of my respect for him. It was the most frightening experience of my life, one I have never been able to describe in words. But this priest, he too believed that I was the enemy despite his apparent kindness to me. He believed I was the enemy of all things holy and good, that I housed something that must be defeated and thrown out. Just like my mother did; the mother who hated and feared me. So forgive me if I am a little harsh towards the clergy.

Best to think of happier occasions instead. Today we went to Mario's for a celebratory ice cream, which seems to have become a custom of ours, much against my better judgement. True, it is only an occasional treat but I have a feeling he is spending at least some of his allowance on ice cream at other times. Not to mention all the summertime temptations…

How long before he does not want to go there with me anymore? Already he is awkward when we are out together in public. He no longer wants to hold my hand, which is understandable but recently when I go and sit with him at bedtime I feel he is merely humouring me, unwilling to send me away for fear of hurting my feelings. But those times together are so special to me and always have been, right from his first proper night under my roof. My heart aches even as I think of this; the end of our story time, of my lullabies and soothing words, of watching him close his eyes and nuzzle against the pillow.

Is it the same for other parents?

Sometimes I think about asking Joe all the questions I have about being a parent but how would I find the words? He has raised three fine boys, one of whom befriended my son in his early days here, but I cannot break that barrier between employee and employer, not now. Perhaps I will find a way to do it some day.

And there lies the greatest challenge since all those terrible events of that night on the beach; not the discovery that I am a father but that I am a human being. Not a cold, indifferent monarch or a detached observer of the human race but someone who is part of that race and subject to the same laws as everyone else. One who has known crushing sadness and great happiness, along with all the other emotions known to mankind.

One day Gustave will be a man, but surely there are still a few shared years ahead of us? There are still so many things for us to do together.

I find that there are too many thoughts in my head for me to sleep so I leave my bed and creep quietly into my son's room. I smile at the sight of his toy bear sitting on top of the chest of drawers; a dear friend from his old life given pride of place in this one. Carefully, so as not to waken him, I take the chair from his desk, place it by his bed and sit down. Now I can sit beside him and watch him sleep peacefully without any awkwardness. Gently, I lean down and kiss the crown of his head.

My son, my wonderful son… What will the years ahead bring us? No matter how much you change as you grow older, no matter where you live or what you do, one thing will stay the same: your father will always love you.