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Chapter 10: Hostility

Erik finally gained consciousness with the help of a rat chewing viciously at his boot. He realized that Caressa would be off to practice already. He waited underground for the time when their singing lesson was to begin. She would not remember anything that happened before she returned from the powder room, if she remembered anything at all.

Any person would act like a common fool while under the influence of too much whisky. If she remembered what had happened, she would never have forgiven herself. For the things she had said, and the way she had behaved.

However Erik looked back on what had occurred, and a grin crossed his face at the girl's absurdity. Then an image of her head lolling back in pleasure flashed through his mind.

'You were the cause of that pleasure,' a voice in his head told him.

"No, I gave her an alcohol that enhanced some of her feelings," he reasoned aloud with the voice.

'Even so, she must have felt an inkling of pleasure so that it could as you said, "enhance."' The voice cackled after its triumph over Erik in that battle of words.

"If I had given her any pleasure, it shall never happen again. It was a terrible sin to commit against an influenced . . ." His speech stilled on the last word. " . . . Child." The thought of it disgusted him. But she is a young woman, no child.

'Why did you say "child," then? Recall what you said, you sounded like a perverted priest,' the voice mocked him while laughing.

"'A perverted priest?' Why do you burden me with such madness?" Anger was rising within him.

'For you are mad, but if you insist. I shall take my leave of you. Good-day, Perverted Priest.' And Erik heard no more of the voice.

After he noticed he was still lying on the floor, he got to his feet, and made his way to a mirror. The night had left him looking worse than usual. His face appeared more hideous, with the unafflicted side of his face nearly as sunken as the other, though it was sunken with weariness and not a grotesque distortion. He washed his face carefully; wet his unruly hair before retrieving his mask from next to the organ; and then expertly arranged his hairpiece on his head. The reflection he saw then was not as disappointing as he'd expected, however, he knew his mask would not conceal his exhaustion.

He grabbed his cloak off of an extinguished candelabrum, and climbed into the gondola. Once he'd reached the other side, he made the decision to oversee the ballet practices instead of waiting with only his disturbed mind for company.

Caressa's grace and elegance amazed him when he watched her dance; there was not a single clumsy movement from her. It was as if an angel controlled her, and a demon was trying to possess her all at once. The angel forced her to be modest with her movements, when he could see that a darker side of her would dance in a sensual frenzy if it were released. Neither of these options for entertainment was left to Erik, since Caressa was not in attendance. A wave of betrayal came over him; she was supposed to be there.

He stealthily took a passage that led behind her mirror—In the event that he should discover her with someone. If it is a boy, I will string him up, he thought ruefully.

When he arrived, she was still abed. All that he could see was her hair, and a raise in the blankets, but she was still in bed. He sighed in relief.

Then a rapping came on the door, followed by a wary voice, "Caressa! Caressa, Madame was worried, she sent me to fetch you! Are you sleeping!" It was the slight, blonde girl who had interrupted their first encounter. Even as the girl announced her presence, Caressa remained still. The door opened, and the girl inched her way toward the bed. When she sat down, Erik lost sight of Caressa.

"Damn, girl," he mumbled at the object in his field of vision.

"Caressa?" He saw the girl—Jacqueline, he recalled—He saw Jacqueline nudge her in the chest, but she remained still, just as before. "Caressa?" Jacqueline grabbed her shoulders and jerked her upward violently—Still, there was no movement. Jacqueline put her hand over Caressa's mouth, then sobbed and scampered from the room.

Erik all but broke through the glass to reach her. Her lips were pale, and her skin was cooler than ever before. He placed his head over the right side of her chest, but he heard no beat. She was dead. For a brief moment he held her limp, lifeless body to him—

"ERIK!" He dropped Caressa back to the bed at the sound of his name. "Step away from her this instant!" Madame Giry ordered in a tone not even he willed to disobey. Giry ran to the bed, and placed her head on the girl's chest. "It's faint," she spoke quietly.

"What are you going on about; she's dead. Her heart has stopped, she's gone." He was sitting in his chair by the door, watching the ballet mistress examine his dear, deceased Caressa. He pounded his fist against the wall.

"You have to know how to listen to a child," she explained cryptically as she pulled back the blankets. "Each one is unique." She raised an eyebrow when she saw the corset still on the girl's body. "Did she wear this all night?" She inquired while rolling the girl over, and quickly undoing the laces.

No answer came from Erik as he realized what had happened. Caressa did have moments where she needed to rest for a time, and collect air into her lungs. She had always assured him it wasn't any form of consumption.

"Of course." She pulled the contraption over Caressa's head, and turned her onto her back. The man in his red velvet armchair gave no aid to what he considered a useless endeavor. His stupidity had killed her and he felt himself sicken. He was almost shocked into action when Giry opened he girl's mouth, and inserted a finger deep enough to reach the back of her throat.

Caressa began gagging uncontrollably, and he was overcome with joy and disbelief. Giry pushed her into a sitting position, and the coughing ceased. Soon after, she fell back into a light slumber.

"No one is meant to wear a corset overnight. You know this," Giry scolded him. "You must know she's asthmatic. This girl has trouble breathing without that torturous invention. She nearly d—"

"It would be best to hold your tongue woman!" He had nearly lost one of his main reasons for living, and she was scolding him! The woman adjusted the covers over Caressa, and there was a short silence.

"I have known you to be a great many things, but this has gone too far. Even for you," she told him, she had tears in her voice, and would not look at him.

"Madame, it was a foolish mistake. Did you witness me smothering her with a pillow? No, you did not." It was, in a way, morbidly funny, but not to the Madame.

"Perhaps you should have." There was no time for Erik to be appalled by her reply; his hand was already clenching her throat.

"Say that again?" He bared his teeth at the tiny woman.

"Perhaps if you had, she wouldn't have to live in shame. Did you honestly believe I wouldn't take notice?" She accused. Nothing she had been saying made any sense to him.

"What the Hell are you rambling about!" He shouted.

"The dried blood on the inside of her thighs, that's what! You loathsome bastard, she's only a child! You're disgusting, you horrible bastard! She's a child. A—an in—innocent ch—child!" Tears were soaking the woman's face, and Erik was beginning to feel pity for her so he allowed her to drop to the ground. What she had insinuated made him laugh insanely inside. The very idea was lunacy. Yet she believed it, perhaps she hadn't known him anymore. "You became a murderer the day I met you. I never wanted to believe you've become a rapist."

The moment she spoke that word he went silent. Suddenly, Giry feared what he may do as he walked towards the bed.

"My dear Antoinette—" He stripped back Caressa's blankets, and lifted her right leg, exposing the thigh to the Madame. "—Go ahead, and call for a physician to search for signs of penetration where I have stretched and violated, and gored her fragile little body. Simply know that shall shame her more than anything: you believing she and I have performed such an act." He started removing the bandage from her thigh. "All he'll find is this dreadful rope burn as the wound producing the blood."

Madame Giry was utterly speechless.

"I'd hoped you thought better of me," he spat, while lowering Caressa's leg. "You believe I would harm her in such a way?" His hand ran through her hair as he sat next to the sleeping girl.

"I apologize for my horrid accusation, but you must understand the position you have placed me in." Giry crawled into a chair near the headboard of the bed. "Though, I confess that I do believe you will harm her again." Erik glared at her, before continuing the stroking of Caressa's hair. "I saw the marks on the back of her neck a month ago. What did she do to deserve them?"

"It only happened once, never since. She had disobeyed me. But now she is—she feels safe with me . . ." He attempted to explain.

"It only needs to happen once, Erik. She'll always have that memory of you now. She may tell you she feels safe with you, but she will remember all of the pain you caused every time she looks in your eyes," the Madame warned him.

"Erik?" Caressa whimpered as her eyes cracked open.

"Yes, I'm here," he assured her. She sat up, and hooked her arms around his shoulders. While facing the Madame he flashed her his most demonic grin as he held the willing girl in his arms.

"I've got to go to ballet practice," she informed him in distress.

"You've overslept, practice is over." Erik stared at Giry as he spoke, warning her to tell the same story.

"I'm so horrible, sleeping in all the time. But our lesson is not cancelled?" She asked hopefully.

Erik mouthed the word 'our' before answering, "I will not tolerate your insolence as Madame Giry has. The lesson is on as scheduled." He allowed her laughter to pass. "And we shall begin the moment the Madame takes her leave."

Caressa pulled away, and scanned the room, finding Madame Giry not far behind her head. Her face tinted deep red at the notion that her teacher had seen her scantily clad, embracing a man devoid of relativity to her. It was against everything she'd been taught, and the blush on her cheeks meant she knew it.

At the sight of her rosy skin, Erik heard himself sigh.

"Try not to sleep in again, Mademoiselle Bucher. I'll leave you two to your . . . lesson." Giry stood in slight defeat, and left the room.

When the door closed Caressa's mouth shot open, "Did you hear that? How she said it? What must she think of that embrace? Have we given her a wrong impression? A terribly wro—"

Fingers on her lips impaired her ability to form words. "Shhh. Caressa, do you remember the bruises on your neck?" She nodded slowly, turning her eyes from him. "How you received them?" Again, she nodded, lowering her head. "Did anyone that wasn't a ballet mistress see them?" She remained silent, then nodded once more. "Whom did you show them to?"

"It was an accident. Jacqueline was trying to put my hair up and she saw. She promised not to tell anyone, and I didn't tell her how they got there." The outside of is hand gazed over her cheek. "But I remember a rumour. A younger ballet girl was lost, walked by the room, and thought she heard a man yell, 'I'll teach you not to disobey me! Go sit on the bed!' Then she heard me scream."

He understood what it must have sounded like, and cringed when he recalled her scream. "Rumours come and go as an hour does. It was foolish to uncover such a matter. Let us not speak of it again." For a second, he looked away towards the fireplace.

'What warmth could a fire give her, when you could set her senses ablaze with primal abandon?' The voice had returned.

"Not now!" He spoke the words forcefully.

"Pardon?" Caressa was startled by his sharply spoken reply.

"We cannot have our lesson. It is Friday. You must meet with the seamstress." He tried to rush her out before the voice or his own body betrayed him. He pushed her behind a screen to change into her leotard. Erik couldn't force himself away from her silhouette, as he knew she stood just beyond the screen—Naked as the day she was born, on the day she nearly died.

"I swear to you: One day, we shall have a lesson uninterrupted. It vexes you to have to postpone after I've been gone so long; I have seen it," Caressa promised Erik as she pulled the straps over her shoulders. "How do I look?"

The straps on the leotard dug into her skin, and the neck rose high on her chest.

"It would seem that you in fact are in need of a larger garment." He didn't quite understand why the seamstress had required her to wear the old outfit, but he wasn't about to wonder too deeply. "I will be in my chambers. If you are in need of my aid . . . You only must whisper my name. I shall always hear you."

She smiled in appreciation as they went their separate ways.

Caressa headed toward her errand with the seamstress. The head seamstress was a wonderful woman: she was kind, but blunt, and she took care to make friends with everyone she possibly could. It was even true that she was on quite good terms with la Carlotta. Since she was the only costume designer who knew Carlotta's every curve, her favourite fabrics, and how to keep her temper at bay. Though the seamstress only toyed with the "friendship" to keep her head. When Caressa was appointed with the role of Carmen, the seamstress was thrilled.

After Caressa had arrived in one of the fitting rooms, the seamstress was immediately chatty. "Oh, Caressa, have I told you how much I enjoyed working with your costumes? You are much more shapely than Carlotta. I adore a new body!"

"Thank you, Anna. Who else could I entrust but you?"

Erik walked the rafters as a shadow above them, and intended to avert his gaze if the girl were to disrobe.

"I understand how uncomfortable it is for you to have me gathering measurements. Madame Giry told me about . . . Your condition. So I shall attempt to get this done quickly and accurately," Anna told her.

Caressa was relieved that Anna understood her nervousness, but was mortified by the way she had referred to . . . "Her condition."

Anna unwrapped her tape measure from about her neck. "Let's begin." As she started taking measurements, the matter was becoming uncomfortably silent. "I'm sorry to hear about your father, dear. How is that brother of yours? Holding up well?" Anna inquired.

"He's surprisingly well, seeing as he was quite close with my father. Even though they weren't father and son," she said this as if she were stating a fact.

"Fine example of a man if you ask me: Tall, dark, handsome, and free as a bird. Shame he's not started a family." Talk of her brother in this manner irked her.

"Oh, I'm sure he will, he's just searching for the right woman. You know, a good one." She had heard Heinrich repeat this hundreds of times to his mother, 'The right woman.'

"You, girl. When will you be off looking for the right someone? I know from experience you should start looking while you're still young and . . . Energetic about love."

Caressa understood that she should be securing escorts and men's cards, and handing out gloves. But the caring seamstress knew nothing of her master. "You are not so much older than me, Anna, and you yourself are unwed. However, yes, I am young, and I still have some time. Besides, perhaps I should cease growing before I secure a suitor. At least that way he may be taller than I am. Soon I'll be quite taller than any man; then who should want me; who should want a gangly horse as their wife. No one—that's who."

"There, all finished. Oh, Caressa, you've most likely reached your full height. Who should want you? —Anyone with a pair of eyes. You are so comely. A girl with your figure ought naught worry about your height . . . you've got other concerns," Anna coughed and sat down on a stool she had brought.

"What? What do you mean by that?" Caressa demanded.

"I shouldn't have said anything." Anna looked into the younger girl's eyes, and realized she wasn't offended . . . Just clueless. "You've no idea what I mean? Madame Giry explained your body's changes to you, didn't she?"

"Of course! I know about them so why should I worry, I'm fine. I'm just 'growing up'." She was taken aback by the forwardness of her friend.

"Well, I can assure you you're not any taller. Your bust line has increased considerably, though. It very well may be your diet, but it's normal for girls your age to develop larger breasts," The older woman said in quite a laughing manner.

"ANNA!" She shrieked, appalled by the indecency.

"Calm yourself, child. But I'm going to give you the same warning I give all of the other girls: Keep close to the other ballet rats. Most stage hands are hired off the street; grabby hands. And not just stage hands, all men can be set off by budding, young girls. They'll assume you're easy because you're an actress. Try to be careful. I'm telling you, all men."

"'All men'?" Caressa repeated.

They were both silent for a moment. "I must be off to start your new outfit. Don't fret; I'll remember to raise the neckline, dear. Good-day," Anna assured as she gathered her things.

"Good-day, Anna. Thank you." Then the seamstress left her alone.

"Caressa . . ." She twirled at the haunting whisper of her name. Erik turned as well, it came from a rack of costumes.

The girl wasted no time going to the door, but before she could get through a body pinned her to the ground.

"Jacqueline, you cow! Get OFF!" She huffed, before tossing the other ballerina off of her.

"What a way to watch yourself. Apparently, you've got to keep close to me anyway. Can't see what help I'd be though. Some depraved deviant comes 'round, I'm just going to throw you at him and start running the other way as fast I can." Jacqueline giggled while groping playfully at Caressa.

"How compassionate of you. I've only just learned I'm in danger from 'all men.' Give me some time." She rolled her eyes and held her hands up in a defensive position.

"Is that other words for, 'my chest is growing rather large, and everyone knows that's all that men are looking for. Which is all well and fine because everyone loves me!'?" She threw her hands up in mock splendor and continued. "Because your chest has been growing. In fact . . . We were just discussing it in the dormitory the other night!" Jacqueline's words sickened her.

"You must promise never to speak of me in such ways," Caressed begged and grabbed her hands. "Please?"

"I promise. I was only fibbing; we never discuss your chest. But there were other things the girls were discussing. For example, there had been so many rumours about why you'd left. Some said you were found dead in a river; or you were carrying a manager's bastard; others said you took your own life under the pressure of being the lead; even one circulated that you'd been swept-away by an American, and that you were to be married. Actually, Reinette and I started the one about the American, you know, 'cause there were so many horrible rumours. Very few knew the truth." Jacqueline chuckled at the idiocy of the tales. "Oh, but my favourite one, you must hear this, is that you were kidnapped by the Opera Ghost. Can you believe that? When we— I mean, when Reinette thought the Phantom was after you. It was so ironic."

"Coincidental, not 'ironic,'" Caressa corrected.

"Yes, yes, whatever. I must admit, that was wicked how you tricked us. You almost had me believing the Opera Ghost was sending you those notes. And the make-up on your neck was brilliant." Caressa had told Jacqueline that all of the notes, bruises, or anything else concerning the Phantom were all pranks that she set up to spook her and Reinette. It had worked like a charm. "I nearly forgot. Old Giry told me not to tell you, but who listens to her anymore? This morning you stopped breathing, like you used to when we were little. I found you; you were still in your bed. You'd had your corset on the whole night."

Caressa was saddened, knowing Erik had lied to her, but tried not to let it show. "What do you say we forget this depressing banter, and try on some costumes?" She snatched a dress off of a rack and held it to Jacqueline. "My dear, Comtesse, you would look so lovely in this gown. Care to see the fit?"

They laughed, knowing full well it would not fit, because it was designed for la Carlotta. Then she pulled it over her head anyway.

"My dear, you look ravishing." Disappearing into the rows of racks, Caressa emerged dressed as a man. She pulled her hair back, and tucked it into her shirt. "You have committed a terrible crime against me, fair Comtesse," exclaimed Caressa's character, in her manliest voice.

"What crime is that?" Jacqueline batted her eyelashes.

"You have captured my very soul with your unspeakable beauty. Dance with me, you graceful cad!" She grabbed the other girl's hand and waist. "I lead, you follow." Jacqueline planted a kiss on the other girl's lips and they were lost in laughter, while counting their steps.

The shadow in the rafters had nearly hanged Jacqueline right there as she mentioned Caressa's brush with death. He had not missed her pained expression. And yet, when they started to play, he was more entertained than he had been in a very long time. The man she pretended to be was 'Andre,' and the Spanish Comtesse she named 'Carolina.'

"One day, my dear, I shall write an opera for us." Caressa extended her arm into the air, with what she considered a Spanish flourish. "You shall play yourself, however I shall have to find someone else to play me whilst I'm away in India, searching for the long lost pygmy colonies." The girls launched into a new set of giggles.

"Perhaps I might assist you?" A new voice came from the door.

"Oh, Matteo, not a moment too soon. Come, you shall audition. Here, dance with my dear, Carolina." The boy took Caressa's place and danced with Jacqueline for a moment. "Brava, brava. I believe you know me better than I know myself. Come, we must alter character to accommodate the new member of our opera." Each split up, and took a different row. "Matteo! Only wear men's clothing. Otherwise it shall be quite disturbing," Caressa ordered.

"Will do, chairman," he called.

Erik noticed the exuberance Caressa displayed around her friends. She was almost wild, not at all the innocent flower he was used to.

"Oh, you know what? I've forgotten that Madame Giry needed help chaperoning the younger rats today! I must be going! Have fun you two, don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Jacqueline called, before slamming the door shut.

"Well, I guess that leaves our possibilities wide open! What's your opera about?" Matteo asked from a few rows over.

"Tragedy and comedy. Romance goes without saying." She slipped a black silk gown over her head. "As we've shifted characters I am no longer 'Andre,' the drunken—yet kindly—heartbroken pickpocket, I am 'Elena,' the easily enticed, undertaker's daughter. And you are now 'Marcos,' a most handsome and fine swordsman from Spain."

"'Easily enticed'?" Matteo wondered about her meaning.

"She's hopelessly naive. Trusts anyone. Does as she's told. And that is how Marcos convinces her to deliver six bottles of the vintner's finest wine late at night." The two almost collided as they reached the end of their rows. "And he then gets her to dance with him. He tells her 'Just one,' but they dance through three songs." Matteo offered his arm, and they began dancing slowly.

"What happens next?" He asked, laying his head close to her ear. He noticed she was taller than him, but only by a finger's width.

"He begs her to drink a glass with him, before she goes, as a thank you for coming so late. She obliges, as he knew she would, and drinks well over a few. Once she is successfully under the wine's spell, Marcos seduces her. And she can do nothing, but fall to his will."

The boy brought her closer to him. "Does he tell her she's beautiful?" Caressa nodded. "'You're so very beautiful. No one holds a flame to your loveliness. I think of you night and day, no matter what I am doing. For so long now, I have wanted to hold you.' Would he tell her things like that, Caressa?" The girl nodded again, slower this time. "Well, he sounds like an insincere bastard."

They erupted with laughter. "That was a wonderful performance." The act was over, and they stopped dancing.

"Caressa, I've been wondering where were you? You were gone nearly a month, with no word. There had been the most horrible rumours. None of which I let myself believe. I especially knew you hadn't run off with some filthy American. So, what happened? Where did you go?" He wondered.

"My father passed away. And I went to Spain for the funeral," she explained.

Matteo looked remorsefully into her eyes. His eyes were an amber that seemed to change colour with his every movement, and they were filled with concern. "I don't know what to say now that I've made a great fool of myself."

"You don't need to say anything, I've heard enough, 'my condolences,' already. I suppose people forget that reminding you of what happened hurts like you're being stabbed," she admitted.

"Ah, I know what to do. When you describe it like that I know some of what you feel. My parents were robbed and murdered when I was 13." The girl in front of him gasped at the casualty with which he said such a terrible thing. "In time, you learn that it is in the past, and it will no longer consume you. But for now, you are right to feel hurt. Through the whole ordeal afterwards, people kept telling me I had to be a man, I had to be strong. When all I wanted was for—"

"—Someone to hold you," she finished for him.

"Precisely. I know what would've helped me. Will it help you?" He offered.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out." As a sign of her consent Matteo wrapped his arms around her to hold her close. His companion followed suit. Caressa silently admitted that not only did it help, but also it made her feel much happier.

Erik was going to kill him. There was no question, he was plotting it from the moment he was alone with Caressa—his Caressa. He was touching, dancing with, holding his Caressa.

"I must confess that I've not come to you with the hopes of being cast in your opera," Matteo told her this as he pulled away and looked at her again. She stifled a giggle, and tried to keep a straight face as his black hair, that he attempted to slick back, brushed against her forehead.

"Oh, if my opera so horrible," she said sarcastically before opening the door and walking to the stage.

"You see, Monsieur Maugnaut ordered me to inform you that 'a visitor awaits in your room.' That's all he would say. He ordered me to return to tell him that I told you the message. So, I'd best hurry or I'll lose my employment." The boy waved and ran off.

You'll lose more than your employment if I catch you with her again, Erik thought as he looked onto the lonely Caressa. He wanted was to go to her, take her into her arms, and assure her that no boy could give her what he would. The only thing she had to do was call his name. For a minute she had thought about it too. In the end, she'd tread silently off of the stage, and out of his sight.

It had taken longer than he had anticipated to reach the passageway that led behind Caressa's mirror. The room was dark on the other side of the glass. There was a quiet crash near the mirror, and he could see a shape walking passed. With as much stealth as he possessed, he slid open the mirror. He took a forceful hold on the unsuspecting shape, and threw it to the ground. He was upon it quickly, pinning it to the floor from a straddling position. The shape was putting up an admirable struggle, however, was too weak to defend itself.

Suddenly, a dim light was cast upon the face of Caressa—she was lying, straddled beneath him. Her horrified gaze was turned not at him, but towards the door. A wide-eyed, young boy stood silently there, holding a lamp. All of them were plunged into darkness as he dropped the lamp in surprise.

Erik released the girl, got to his feet, and reached down to assist her. In a moment of blind weakness, he felt something shove him roughly, and he fell to his back. The lamp was rekindled, displaying his attacker, the boy, brandishing a candlestick at him. Caressa rushed forward to stop the boy's swing.

"Christophe! Please, stop!" She pleaded with him, and the boy let the candlestick fall to the ground.

"Caressa, I apologize. It was dark, and I believed you were in danger," Erik explained himself, truthfully.

"No, it's quite all right. We were just having some lamp troubles. Here let me help you." She bent down, and put an arm around his waist to aid him. The girl noticed Erik and her brother exchanging evaluations. Her younger brother gave her a confused glance. "Christophe, this is my vocal tutor . . . Master Erik. Is there anything you should wish to express to him?" The boy bowed his head, but did not remove his eyes from Erik's.

The boy refused to say a word to him.

"Thank you, for admitting you've done wrong," she praised the boy. And whispered to Erik, "I'll explain later." After she'd taken a step back she kindly commanded her brother, "Christophe, though Erik is not being a gentleman, I trust you to be." Erik was slightly stunned.

The bastardly brat attacks me, and I'm no gentleman? He scoffed, and the boy held out his hand to be shaken. Only moments before the child wore a scowl, but as Erik looked at him it was replaced by a cherub's smile. It was indeed a genuine smile. The boy had a firm grip for one so young. "An honour to make your acquaintance, Christophe."

Christophe nodded his head, and smiled wider.

"Erik, Christophe will be staying with me here, until Heinrich arrives back from business in London. All they want are Parisians goods I'll have you know." She motioned for him to have a seat, and sat across from him.

"You are in luck then. He is quite the protector." In response to Erik's compliment, the boy sat on the arm of Caressa's chair.

"Protective, however incredibly . . ." She narrowed her eyes at the boy, and wrenched him into her lap. " . . . Ticklish!" The childish play unnerved Erik; at times Caressa acted as a child should, but other times she had a meek sensuality about her that he assumed she was aware of. Her brother was gasping for breath as she assaulted him with her fingers, and he attempted to shove them away.

When Caressa looked at Erik, and stopped torturing her poor brother, he hadn't noticed. His attention was on Christophe. The child was 13 or 14, a reasonably good-looking boy, yet something was off-putting about him. Even as he watched, the boy calmed, and slid onto the floor. It had taken just a moment for Erik to realize he was asleep. After Caressa also realized this, they combined efforts to move him onto the bed.

She was watching Erik watch Christophe as they returned to their chairs, and wondered precisely what he was thinking.

"He is a fortunate boy. To be loved so," he had said suddenly, not looking away from him.

"I can't imagine being turned away by my own mother." Erik could not believe the audacity of the statement. "That vile woman just sent him to Paris with an address for Heinrich's shop, no escort. Heinrich disappointed me. He sent him to the opera house with a letter, and the best of luck. Well, at least he gave him a guide." She stood once again to kiss the boy's head. "Oh God, I despise her. I hate her," Caressa seethed about Christophe's mother.

The man across from her smiled warmly, she could hate. It wasn't only words; hate was in her eyes, and in her voice. "He's quiet," he remarked.

Caressa heaved a sigh. "He's not 'quiet,' Erik. He's mute."