The maid was gone – the door locked neatly behind her as if she had never been there at all. Erik cursed her, first in French, then in Russian as he coaxed a fire out of the dead coals in the kitchen stove. He found the tea kettle in the sink, and reached to rinse it out when he caught sight of his stained shirt. He ripped it off, wadding it up and shoving it into the stove with a slam of the iron door. The white cotton burst into flames, sending fingers of fire up through the burners.

A soft rapping came from the front door, and he glanced at the kitchen clock before returning to the sink. Only 8 o'clock – too early for the doctor. He washed out the kettle and filled it with water, then ran back upstairs to check on Ella. She was curled up in the bed, her head buried in her arms. He watched the reassuring rise and fall of her shoulders for a few moments. In the early morning light she almost looked normal –lost in the comforter, her hair spilling over the pillow. On any other day, she might have looked up and smiled, and held out her hands…

He gave her one last look before edging silently out of the room and walking to his own. The knocking resumed, louder now, and he pulled on a new shirt with a violent snap as he walked back down the stairs. Erik flung open the front door to find Mary Whitcomb standing primly on the porch, a maid cowering behind her.

"I came to see Ella," Mary announced without preamble. Her brows knitted together with alarm as she stared at his disheveled clothing.

"She is not well," he said curtly, and started to shut the door.

"I know – your maid came by this morning with the message. I came to sit with her." Mary looked him squarely in the eye, her chin rising. "I sent for a nurse, as well – the doctor was a fool not to send one last night."

She stood firmly in place until Erik relented, reluctantly standing back to let her inside. They walked up to Ella's room in silence. The room looked exactly as it had the night before, littered with towels and linen, and Erik heard Mary click her tongue as she surveyed the area. The maid began to speak, a sharp whine of alarm that rang through the silence like metal scraping across rock. Mary cut her off, her voice as matter of fact as ordering a wrap at a ball. "You may run down, Riva, and set up the breakfast things. Bring up broth, tea…and some toast to begin. You may tidy the room when Lenka returns." Mary placed her coat and hat over the top of a dresser, and moved to the bed as Ella struggled up onto her elbows. Erik raised his hands in apology, but Ella's eyes were glued on Mary. "Ella, darling," Mary crooned, her eyes wet as she took Ella's outstretched hand in her own. "Poor child, what a fright you have had."

"The baby is gone," Ella chocked out, the words tumbling one on top of another in an ugly jumble. Erik slipped out of the room, unable to watch her face as she began to tearfully tell the story. Mary's response followed him out into the hall, her voice soft with pity.

"I know, dear – I know. I am so sorry. You must be careful, though – we nearly lost you, too."

She is right - it nearly killed you, he agreed silently. He continued the argument in his mind, blocking out Ella's description of the previous day. I am glad it is gone – relieved. You nearly died – and for what? Something you would have hated in the end. You would have hated both of us in the end…

Ella's voice broke as she continued her story, and Erik looked down at his hands and saw they were balled up in fists at his sides. The maid had returned, looking at him strangely as she balanced a tray of steaming cups in her hands.

"What?" he hissed as she cleared her throat and shifted from one foot to the other.

"I … I was just wondering if maybe you might want to rest while Mrs. Whitcomb is here?" She shifted from foot to foot, her eyes falling to the carpet. "If you would care to wait with Mrs. Whitcomb, where it is warm, I can make up the fire…"

He put her out of her misery, turning on his heel towards his bedroom. "No."

Erik paced back and forth before the empty grate in his room as he tried to quell the voices bubbling up from the past. Ella's hope for the baby and her tears raked through his thoughts like an accusation. It could have been fine – it could have had her face, and she would be healthy and safe, and happy.

It should have had her face – and instead it nearly killed her.

He tried to hate the poor creature, but could not find the anger; he tried to mourn it, and could not imagine it as a living, breathing reality. In the end he broke a candle in two pieces, and set them up on the mantle that stood against the wall of Ella's room. He lit them slowly, watching the flame flicker to life before reaching skyward in long tendrils of light.

A high, crystalline voice drifted back from the past, slipping between the lights before he could push it back.

Demon – you will be the death of her.

Mary came each day like clockwork.

Anya wrote, and promised to call as soon as she returned to St. Petersburg.

The Prince sent his condolences and a renewed offer for a contract. Erik accepted it quietly. Anya or no Anya, they could not leave now. The doctor had forbidden the journey.

The doctor said she would recover soon – a few months, more or less. He was fast to predict it after the first week, in spite of – or perhaps because of – Ella's awful silences. After all, she was young, healthy. There was no excuse, he admonished her gruffly, not to be well. "Put it behind you as quickly as possible. There is no reason you could not have another. In time, perhaps."

She had thanked him mechanically, but Erik found her crying later in the dark. The sound struck him like a fist - the fact that her tears were muffled, hidden making them all the more horrible.

"Ella." He winced at how flat his voice sounded to his own ears. It had always done his bidding: concealing, revealing, and changing on command for a thousand pointless performances. And now it seemed to belong to someone else entirely. "Don't cry - please… you will make yourself sick."

"It is my fault," she whispered miserably. Her breath came in ragged, spasming gasps, and when she looked up her eyes and face were swollen and distorted from tears. "It was my job to keep her safe, and…"

Her face seemed to crumple, disintegrate like an illusion at a fair into a mask of misery. She bent forward at the waist, burying her whole face into the bedclothes. Erik listened as the words hung in the air, twisting with the silent, misplaced condemnation.

The Daroga would have seen her safely home. If you took her out of Persia, you were supposed to protect her.

But you haven't, have you?

Not really.

"There was nothing you could have done. You could have died. You almost did." He eased onto his knees next to the bed, but she did not look at him. In desperation he sang for her, very lowly, repeating the simple melody over and over until she stopped crying. When she finally spoke, she sounded tired.

"They were right," she observed detachedly. "You have a gift."

"I have a curse." The silence stretched on through the dark, and he said the only thing left he could think of. "I am sorry, Ella."

"I loved her – I would have loved her…even if you could not."

He said the only thing he could. "I know."

A/N: Thank you for taking time to read, and for the follows & reviews!