Author's Note: Back again! And this time with not much to say, other than to thank everyone for reading and reviewing. Your continued support means a lot to me; keep it up! :D This chapter was a lot of fun to write, especially exploring Erik as a daddy with all the shit he's been through. It could have gone a lot of ways, but I opted for some fluff for a bit. Finally, the title for this chapter comes from the Richard Marx song of the same name. It was definitely fitting, as the singer wrote the song for his own son. Please remember to drop a review, but most importantly enjoy!

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Chapter 28 – Now and Forever

Christine

The brand-new presence of a son in our lives proved to be a singularly incredible experience at the very outset – I often found myself reflecting upon just how much we were obliged to change within ourselves from the moment Charles was born. Meeting him face-to-face had granted us an entirely new perspective of him, unspoken yet undeniable; for even while I was ever-aware of him fluttering and wriggling below my heart during my pregnancy, to hold him in my arms and to continue to dote upon him thereafter somehow made him all the more substantial. No longer was he an intangible aspect of the future to be anticipated – he was real, and he was ours. I was in awe of that fact – even as the days flowed into weeks it seemed somehow too momentous to believe what we had been given, and yet even so the truth remained. It was a precious understanding to attain. He required our utmost attention, and in turn we were given ample opportunity to understand the being that Erik and I had created through our own love for one another.

In the simplest terms, we did not have the time to worry over whether or not we would make capable parents – certainly not after the baby was born, at any rate. Charles ensured that we occupied our time tending to his immediate needs while concurrently finding ourselves teetering on the brink of exhaustion as we sought to forge an acceptable routine. Indeed, it was nearly impossible to live in trepidation of the future when any and every spare moment was spent in favor of even the briefest attempts at rest. We spent the first days of his life simply getting to know him, allowing everything else to fall in place with time. In truth, he was a perfectly ordinary infant in every sense, prone to bouts of fussiness equaled with moments of perfect tranquility during which we would simply fawn over him before my pull toward sleep and Erik's need to work or compose would pull us from the baby's immediate presence. But the time we spent with our child proved to hold all of our attention, and it became quite easy to shut out the rest of the world.

In spite of his fears to the contrary and his constant insistence that he was quite ignorant of all things regarding raising a child, Erik made an exemplary father. He was attentive to his son from the first moment he held the baby in his arms. Oftentimes, he was the only one of the two of us that could lull the baby to sleep on the occasions when the child simply refused to give in to his weariness. On more than one occasion did Erik note that our son had taken after him in regards to a certain distaste for slumber, and he could only laugh good-naturedly when I would balk at the notion that I might never know a full night's rest again. But it was all too easy to forgive him for his teasing – he tended to the baby whenever possible. It seemed to me that he was encouraged by the privilege of doing so, that somehow in spending every spare moment with our son, more of his former confidence emerged. I found myself absently wondering how deeply his own troubled childhood had impacted his interpretation of fatherhood, that perhaps he could right even just a few of the wrongs in the world that he had witnessed for far too long by ensuring that his own son would never have to know of such horrors from the people he trusted the most. It was saddening to consider, but in that melancholy spirit I was able to find the redemption that Erik was offered as he took up his new responsibilities. I knew that he would never allow the past to repeat itself where our son was concerned – that he had made the decision to remain unmasked in the presence of Charles was evidence enough of that.

On the whole, we lived well, and it came to pass that we had found our peace once and for all. The haunting echoes of our past that we had once dreaded seemed far away and inconsequential. So long as we had our son to love and care for, we were whole. Charles had proven himself to be the balm that would sooth our long suffering, a Heaven-sent being that kept Estelle close to our hearts and the past far off while reminding us constantly to move forward – for the sake of our son, we simply had no choice, and no longer did that notion appear to us as daunting as it once had. We allowed ourselves to believe that we were capable, were determined to carry on for the sake of our children; in the end we could both be grateful in spite of so many tragedies we had been made to endure.

Beyond the first weeks of getting to know Charles, the autumn of that year brought many changes to our lives. It was near the end of November that I received letters from both Madame Giry and Meg proclaiming that Meg herself had discovered that she was expecting a child. I had responded lightheartedly that her timing was impeccable – Charles would surely need a little companion of his own as he grew older, and of course Madame Giry couldn't possibly limit her affections to only one grandchild. Meg's offspring and my own would certainly keep the matronly ballet mistress in high spirits as they grew to know and love her, and in turn I was certain that she would grant them all of the love and wisdom that she had imparted upon Meg and I during our youth – although something told me that she would be rather less stern in her approach to our children. Better to allow the parents to impart judgement while the grandmother enjoyed her time as the neutral party, after all. Meg's news gave me all the more reason to look forward to the years ahead – while she and her husband were properly settled in their home near Paris, I was certain that there would be ample opportunities to bring the families together in London, and once again I found myself with many occasions to look forward to as my life fell into the comfortable patterns that were being established with each passing day.

As the autumn gave way to the snowy haze of wintertime, I was pleasantly surprised to meet an older woman named Iva Kipling that had recently settled into our quiet neighborhood. Upon making her acquaintance, she informed me of the driving force which compelled her to settle in London. She had only recently taken in her two grandsons, Timothy and Victor – a toddler and a little one only just older than Charles, respectively – after their parents had taken ill and passed away quite suddenly. I felt a pang of sympathy in my heart for both the matron and her grandsons, for I understood quite well just how their tragedies had and would continue to impact them as they led their lives. But happily I found a friend in Iva, a truly good-natured woman with a stern, even temperament. In many ways, she reminded me of Madame Giry, and having Iva so close by while my own son was still so young granted me a great sense of comfort. Indeed, she had offered her assistance and advice on many occasions when Erik and I had found ourselves exhausted and entirely without answers as to how to sooth any given ailment of our baby, and I was immensely grateful to have met her. Moreover, I knew that the children were sure to get on well as they grew older, and it was with no small amount of motherly pride that I looked forward to minding the children as they played together.

Often I found myself daydreaming of all of the possibilities that the future held, as yet unseen but eagerly anticipated. At night, when Charles had gone to sleep for a time and after Erik had finished his work for the day, I would wonder aloud to him what kind of a person our son would grow to be.

Even in his early infancy he seemed to possess an intelligence that matched his father's – and his stubbornness, to boot – and it occurred to me on more than one occasion how much the two were alike. Charles was bright, to be sure; as he grew older and more active it was clear that he was a most inquisitive little one. He was very tactile, enjoyed simply holding his rattle or feeling the surface of the piano as he explored his home. As he began to crawl and take his first steps, he would not rest until whatever new and wondrous thing he had discovered had been inspected to his own high standards. And as he so adored being held close to either of his parents, it came to pass that he was most soothed when we read fairytales to him or sang lullabies. Although as I observed him over time, I had to wonder if he simply enjoyed our company over the oral tradition. He seemed to crave affection, which we granted without a second thought – only to be rewarded when he was old enough with a bright smile and the breathy laugh that only infants seem to be able to put forth into the world.

He was the sunlight of our lives, our pride and joy, and even in my endless wonderings on his part, I was at least certain that he would grow up to be a good man. He would know kindness – Erik adamantly refused to raise a child among the prejudice and loathing that he himself had known for far too long. Charles would never know that kind of life, and I knew that in fending off as much pain as humanly possible, we could give our son a wonderful upbringing.

Yes, we lived quite well, and I found myself looking forward to each new day in ways that I hadn't experienced in a long time. The only true threat that befell our fragile hearts came about in February, once again on the night of Estelle's birthday.

Two years had passed since that awful night, and it was clear even all that time later that her death still impacted us deeply. But that year we were prepared for the crushing blow that had come about at our minds' betrayal – we thought of her more in the weeks preceding, much like the calmness of the world before a storm, yet even so we knew that immersing ourselves entirely in our grief once more simply could not be done. We knew that, with each passing year proving to be as difficult as the last, we could not allow ourselves to become lost in the icy grip of desolate memories and regret. Instead, we decided to observe the occasion in a stoic, reverent silence. We opted to light a candle for her, much like I had done for my father all those years ago in the chapel of the Opera Populaire; I whispered a prayer for my daughter with Erik by my side in a stony, reflective silence. I knew that he might not ever give voice to his prayers – if he even said them at all – but I could feel the love he gave to our lost daughter, the respect he granted to the life which had influenced us for so long even in its absence. Having him by my side as the solitary candle flickered softly before us gave me enough strength to wander through my returning turbulent emotions in order to mark the passing of another year in Estelle's absence without feeling compelled to break entirely once again.

From that night on we decided that the darkest February day would no longer haunt us as forcefully as it had the year before. We had to let our daughter rest, and it was imperative that we do so with the proper reverence and ample reflection. No more and no less. We had come too far to allow ourselves to take any more steps backward where she was concerned. Our son depended upon us to carry on – our hearts required it of us.

The birth of our second child was a blessing for us beyond compare. When once, long ago during the tumultuous days beneath the opera house and the subsequent need to find one another again, Erik and I had truly believed that we may never know the very life in which we found ourselves. Our desperate flight from Paris to escape from the gypsy's wrath, combined with the immensely tragic loss of our daughter, had in many ways reinforced the notion that normalcy and happiness might be beyond our grasp after all. But in the end, it seemed that we had only needed to be patient. Perhaps we would never know or understand the true reason behind our suffering, but I was sure that was how it was meant to be. I myself could come to remember that God worked in ways beyond any level of human comprehension, and even though Erik would not say whether or not he agreed entirely, he could concede to the fact that everything we knew about our lives simply had to come to pass in its own time. To have our son, a family of our own at last, was simply yet another part of that grander plan.

~~oOo~~

Erik

Under the cover of darkness with only the pale moonlight shining through the sheer curtains of our bedroom, I held Christine in my arms as we sought to become one. I was determined to feel every part of her with my lips, my hands, until we both achieved complete ecstasy in one another's fervent embrace. That had been my intention, at any rate. Our child's demanding cries for care had interrupted us on more than one occasion in the two years since his birth, and this night was no different as the sound of his voice suddenly carried through the air from his bedroom. I groaned at his inopportune timing and rested my head on my wife's shoulder in a gesture of resignation.

"Your son is awake."

She laughed, "I'll go to him," she said before promising with a suggestive smile, "I'll be back soon, love."

I sighed but smiled back to her, feeling a longing for her in her absence but knowing that I could not blame the toddler for his need for care. He simply needed his mother that night, and he certainly hadn't woken or interrupted us nearly as often as he had when he was younger. It was hard to believe that so much time had gone by since those first weeks of his life, and not for the first time I realized with some regret that he wasn't only a baby anymore. Time passed us by far too quickly for my taste. At one moment, Charles was still a newborn entirely helpless and completely dependent upon us. But then I would blink, and suddenly he had grown, had reached yet another milestone, constantly reminding me that he was growing up before my very eyes. I regarded the phenomenon with curious, inexperienced eyes – surely it wasn't possible for so many hours to escape us, to hurtle us forward so quickly.

Being a father occupied more of my time than I ever thought possible, yet even so I found that I would not have it any other way. He had changed me for the better, had captured my heart as enduringly as Christine had long ago, and perhaps even more so. She and I had created him together – had fought through the bonds of a life that had leveled more tragedy at us than we knew we could ever be capable of overcoming in order to bring him into our lives. Our love for one another had culminated in creating that existence. My family was the driving force that kept me from giving in to the worst parts of myself – I wouldn't allow it. Charles had not asked to be given me as a father, and I would be damned if I did anything to be less than he deserved, just as I had promised long ago never to be less of a husband than my wife deserved. Charles was a constant reminder of those vows.

And perhaps that was for the best; he had me wrapped around his finger, and as such I was compelled to be that much more conscious of myself. We were entirely enamored with him, with the very idea of the life held within his soul, and it was an experience entirely new to me. If Christine was the light of my life, then surely he was the very air which sustained me. Having the both of them near to me gave me a sense of assurance that, in my youth, I would have dismissed as utter nonsense and certainly nothing to be counted upon as permanent. I had never known what it meant to be a part of a family, but when I found myself immersed in just that, I couldn't say that I minded the bout of terror I felt occasionally at the new responsibilities presented to me. It was only on seldom occasions that I experienced that all-too familiar and overwhelming sensation of restlessness and disquietude, and even then I felt more confident in the fact that it would pass. It seemed that I no longer lived in fear of myself. When Christine and I had married, I had considered myself very fortunate indeed; when Charles was born, I was absolutely overwhelmed with gratitude.

I certainly had very little idea of how to actually go about raising a child – only the most basic ideals seemed prevalent in my mind, the idea that I was the provider and the giver of wisdom and comfort when the time came that my son might need me. Beyond that, I must admit that I was lost. But even so, Charles didn't seem to mind. As an infant, he needed only for us to keep him safe, to tend to him and to love him. As he grew and his personality traits became more apparent, he simply wanted our company and attention. It was simple enough. But in time I came to truly understand that he was a person, and as such he quickly grew to be a most unique person indeed.

I was quite certain that my son was incredibly intelligent; no one would convince me otherwise. He observed his world with bright and inquisitive eyes. When he became ambulatory, his curiosity more often than not got the best of him, and he was eager to discover absolutely everything within his reach. Like any child his age, he was prone to bouts of petulance and defiance, but on the whole he had an easy manner about him, much like his mother, and he was easily appeased with the prospect of any new activity presented to him. He had to be a part of the world around him – he simply wouldn't have it any other way. We talked to him almost constantly, whether prattling on nonsensically in order to encourage his vocalization or to explain basic concepts to him, and he took in every word as any disciplined scholar. I was certain that he owned a keen intellect. Yet oddly enough, he was slow to begin talking. We spoke both French and English to him, hoping to encourage him to be able to communicate well with the people around him; but in spite of the near-constant availability of spoken words, he remained silent for the longest time, opting instead, it seemed, to content himself in quiet observation. Christine was an absolute wreck of nerves with each passing day of silence on his part – she had convinced herself that she had done something wrong, and she remained fearful that she had somehow stunted our son. But before long, once his first words passed his lips, he proved to be rather talkative with those familiar to him – he was quite articulate indeed, and I had all the more proof that my son was the owner of a strong mind.

I couldn't have been more proud to relay this fact to Madame Giry in person when she, Meg, and Giles had made the journey to reunite our families just before Charles' third birthday. We had corresponded often with news of our son, of course, but I was glad for the opportunity for our extended family members to see our child's development for themselves. They had precious little time to spare away from their daily lives, and their visit was eagerly anticipated; even I couldn't even say that I minded the relatively excess number of visitors within our home if it brought my wife even the smallest measure of joy. Meg and Giles had their own daughter, Sylvia, in tow, and while Christine and Meg fawned over the little girl, I spoke to Madame Giry about my son with barely reined in pride. She could only shake her head and laugh at my display, but even so I was more than happy to give her every detail of my son's life, if only for the fact that he was mine, and I wanted nothing more than to share that singular fact with someone as motherly as Madame – someone that could absolutely understand my sentiments.

During that visit, Christine had introduced Vera to Meg, and the three happily occupied themselves with the care of the children. I was surprisingly content to spend my time with Giles – quite similar to me, he was a rather reserved man, and much to my relief he did not pry for details about what lie beneath the mask. Madame Giry and Meg had prepared him at the outset of their journey for my extreme reluctance to answer questions about the truth behind the object, and as he knew nothing of my connection to the disaster at the opera house, he easily believed the story that I had suffered a workplace accident and left it at that. That fact alone had immediately earned him my acceptance. And so, we could talk easily about our respective trades and be content in one another's presence. At one point during the visit, Meg announced that she was sure that her little Sylvia would someday marry my son, and her husband and I could only sigh and humor her in her dreams of grandeur. A part of me felt a certain pity for Giles – he had chosen a wife with a formidable, dominant personality, a stark difference from his own reserved demeanor. But even so, they seemed otherwise entirely devoted to each other, and on the whole our families got on well together as a result of their light mannerisms.

When our guests had departed for the evening, Christine and I spent our time together preparing Charles for bed. She was holding him close and talking to him in hushed towns in an effort to calm him after his most eventful day.

"That's right, Charlie, you rest now," she whispered, "I know you're very sleepy."

"What did you call him?" I asked, reaching out to have her pass him to me as I eyed her with curiosity at her unfamiliar address to our son.

"Charlie. Vera calls him that, did you know? It's a…" she paused, trying to remember the translation, "It's a nickname."

"It's not his given name," I said warily, unused to such informality regarding our son.

"No, but it's an endearment. And besides," she admonished gently, "There's no need to be so serious with him all the time."

"What do you think, little one?" I asked Charles; he looked up at me and laughed, entirely ignorant of the nature of that strange controversy which surrounded him, but made no other sign that he understood me in the least. Still, Christine took his easy expression as an assent on his part.

"I don't think he minds at all."

I sighed, accepting my defeat as I spoke directly to my son once more, "Alright, Charlie. It appears that I've been outnumbered."

I laid him down in his bed before Christine fussed over tucking his blankets securely around him. He resisted his weariness at first, and I wasn't surprised. It often took him time to settle down before he succumbed to sleep. I was preparing to turn down the lamp when he called out, "I love you!"

"Goodnight," I whispered, smiling even while reminding him to keep his own voice low, "I love you, too."

Christine kissed him, and we left him alone for the night, both absently wondering how long it would be before he would escape the confines of his bedroom in a futile attempt to see our household under the cover of darkness. We always inevitably caught him attempting to return to his tin soldiers or choosing a book that he hoped we would read to him, and the process of settling him down to rest would begin all over again. That particular occasion was only one of many that left us with a feeling of lightheartedness that only our son – our family – could bring about in us. And even while I was unsure that night about the necessity of calling our child by any other name – as absurd as the notion seemed – I had to admit that I could grow to be fond of the endearment. Such joviality was still somewhat foreign to me, even all those years later, but it seemed that I truly had no choice but to embrace what my life had become. It was far better than the alternative that I had once been certain would be my fate.

~~oOo~~

Charles was nearly four years old when he had taken to walking with me into the city on the days when I had to take designs in for presentation and review.

I had grown to be rather successful and even respected in my trade over the years – enjoyed the relative novelty of making an honest living in comparison with my former occupation – and as such I was better able to work within my own parameters. When at the beginning of my time as an architect in London, my request to work from my home had been met with some hesitance – even thinly veiled annoyance – and it was only my talent in the craft that had granted me that request. As time went on and I continued to prove myself time and time again, I was offered still more respect regarding my need for privacy. The thought of having to work in an office surrounded by apprentices and overbearing overseers was not appealing in the least – beyond the constant presence of other people, I knew that any modicum of creativity I could have achieved in such an environment would have suffered greatly. And so it was with no small amount of relief that I worked under my own terms, only having to venture into my place of employment when it was absolutely required of me.

But even so, I was ever-reluctant to venture out into the city – I was simply resigned to the fact that perhaps I would never grow accustomed to immersing myself within the folds of society. As I walked, I was more often than not given second glances, eyed with suspicion at my curious façade, and I dreaded the journey each and every time. I would often find myself feeling that old sense of nervousness and an ardent need for self-preservation, as if I had to be constantly prepared for scorn and violence as I had so many times before. But on some level, the citizens of London which regularly made their way into the streets had grown used to my occasional appearance, and many of Christine's fellow parishioners knew of her husband's so-called eccentricities, and I was grateful for at least that much familiarity on their parts. As far as they were concerned, Paris' loathsome Phantom of the Opera did not exist – I did not have to hide away in fear of capture, and with time I realized that I could go about my business without the constant fear of attack. And so, knowing that, with time I felt that it would be safe enough to allow Charles to accompany me on those excursions. His presence by my side made the experience exceedingly more tolerable, and we often found ourselves lingering in the city in order to simply be in one another's company.

On one such occasion, we were making our way home when his attention was captured by a lone violinist performing in Larwin Square, and my child all but begged me to take him closer to the attraction. I assented, knowing that we had no real reason to return home immediately and wanting to further encourage his fledgling interest in music. His curiosity was satisfied only briefly when yet another part of the world around him grabbed his attention. I chuckled at the way his eyes lit up as he looked all around him, as if seeing that particular part of the city for the first time. I had taken him up in my arms as the crowds increased around us, and from his higher vantage point he was able to see the docks of the shipyard and the glistening sea beyond.

"I see the water!" he exclaimed, "Can we look?"

I hesitated for a moment.

We had certainly been to Larwin Square dozens of times, but I never intentionally led us that close to the docks before that day – to those docks which held nothing but painful and unpleasant memories in my mind. The last time I had set foot there had been the night that Vito had engaged in his brutal attack against myself and Christine, wanting only to exact his revenge. I remembered the fear I felt when she came home bleeding, begging me to stay with her and remain safe – I remembered what exactly had compelled me to act in spite of her pleas, the news of her first pregnancy and the promise of a family that I was absolutely determined to protect. My bones had been broken viciously, and more than once I had nearly lost the fight for my life against my pursuer, but in the end it was I that had taken a life. The fact that I was relieved that blood had been spilled would be something that haunted me, made me question my ability and right to raise a child, and from that point on the nagging doubt had eaten away at me. I wasn't sure how to overcome the horrors that Vito had imparted upon my life from the very moment he entered it. Standing in Larwin Square once again served as a bitter reminder of the darkness that had defined me for so long, and I had to suppress a shudder at the onslaught of memories. That life seemed so far removed from what I had come to know as I held my son in my arms, it didn't seem possible that I was remembering myself in that place. I felt like an entirely different person than the man I knew that night so many years ago.

I took a deep breath, briefly considering refusing my child's request in favor of fleeing to the relative safety of our home; but the sun was high and the air was clear all the way to the horizon, and perhaps that would be enough to drive a way the ghosts whose wails echoed with a past that I wanted nothing more than to forget entirely. In truth, we were entirely safe even among the masses. Moreover, it didn't make any sense to deny his innocent request – he knew nothing of the reason behind my discomfort. I nodded and walked toward the railings.

"Do you like it here, Charlie?" I asked, holding him carefully as he peered out over the water.

He nodded enthusiastically, "What's out there?" he asked, pointing toward the route that led back his parents' homeland.

"France, far away from here," I replied, "Do you remember? That's where Sylvia lives. Mama and I lived there as well."

"Did I live there?"

"No, that was long before you were born."

"When are we going back?" he asked after a moment.

I laughed, "Someday, perhaps."

"Not now?"

I smiled, quite thoroughly amused, and shook my head, "No, now we're going home."

"Right now?" he asked despairingly.

"In a moment, yes, when we're through here."

He sighed, but continued, "But we can go France, can't we?"

"Yes, if you wish, we'll go one day," I assured him, relieved when he seemed to take my words to heart at last.

So long as he was assured that he would be granted the adventure promised him, he could allow himself to move on to other objects of his interest. I wasn't sure if and when the day might come that we three might actually make the pilgrimage to France – I knew that we most certainly couldn't go to Paris, at the very least – but if my son was determined to see other parts of the world, then perhaps I could convince myself with time to assent to his innocent wanderlust. I smiled inwardly at the thought, ever-entranced by his view of the world. We should all be so lucky to have his singular sense of wonder.

~~oOo~~

The same scenario occurred nearly every day, sometimes even down to the last detail. We would gather for breakfast, but Charles seemed to be determined to do everything in his power to delay his meal, seeming to think instead that there were far more important things to be done with his precious time. It was entirely my fault, of course – I was the same way, often skipping meals altogether in favor of working when the proper inspiration struck me. Charles had inherited the majority of my bad habits, and not eating when he thought it benefited him was one of them. I freely admitted that I hadn't set a good example for him, and aimed to correct the behavior. It had been my intention to take meals in the dining room like any other civilized man in an attempt to instill better manners in him, but for all my efforts I seemed only to inspire in him a need to talk while we sat. I simply had to wait for the onslaught of questions and near-constant chatter to begin.

"We're minding the boys today," Christine's voice came through my thoughts as I sat before the table reading an architectural journal, thoroughly annoyed that such an absolute imbecile had been allowed to publish his work. I had meant to continue reading in the hopes that the words before me would begin to form at least one coherent thought, but when that didn't happen, I was admittedly grateful for the distraction that Christine presented.

"We are?" I asked pointedly, knowing that she was referring to Timothy and Victor. I didn't mind their presence in my home. They had grown up with Charles as Iva had proven to be a regular figure in our lives, and they were well-behaved, to be sure – Iva had most assuredly seen to that. But even so, they were still young children; the thought of the neighbor boys and my own son being left, for the most part, to their own devices filled me with dread at the prospect of their company. The noise alone would most likely ensure that I would get very little work done, and the necessity and unpleasantness of wearing my mask while they visited was an unwelcomed truth.

She laughed, "I will be taking them into the garden. You may while away in your office, if you must," I scoffed before she continued, "Would you like tea?"

"Please," I responded emphatically before she kissed me in parting. I turned my attention to the child beside me, "Do you know what this is?" I asked my son, pointing to a figure on the page in a stubborn need to prove that even my young son would make a more credible architect than the one writing for the journal.

He looked, then responded confidently, "A baluster."

"Very good."

"Daddy, what's my middle name?" Charles asked from his seat.

I laughed at the title – daddy was a term he learned from his English-speaking friends, and while I was still wholly unused to that form of address, I didn't reprimand him for using it. He often switched between speaking French and English, and I wasn't surprised at the different vernaculars he opted to use at any given moment.

"Gustave, for your grandfather," I said, "Why aren't you eating your breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't had a bite," I reminded him, "So eat."

"But, wait," he said in a rush, "What's Estelle's middle name?"

"Amelia," I responded with a distant sadness, although a part of me was proud that he had remembered the sister that he had only known through stories.

"What's your middle name?"

"I don't have one. Eat."

"Everyone has one," he said matter-of-factly.

"Charles," I said in a warning tone, leaving no more room for discussion. I could only indulge him in his need for conversation for so long, but in the end I wouldn't have him going hungry. He sighed and obediently took a bite of the food before him. But it wasn't long before his attention wandered again.

"What is our last name?"

I sighed, but humored him nonetheless, "Lennox. You know that."

"What's Miss Vera's last name?"

"Reynolds," I replied absently, attempting to continue on with my reading until the moment came when I would have to be more stern with my son once more.

"I'm full," he announced confidently.

"No, you're not."

"You're not eating," he observed defiantly.

I sighed, beginning to lose my patience, "Charlie, do you want to see your friends today?"

"Yes," he responded eagerly.

"Then eat your breakfast."

He obeyed yet again, and by the time Christine returned with the tea she had just prepared and had settled down beside me, I noticed the child's wandering attention once more. I couldn't show it in his presence, but even when my patience had been worn thin by my son's stubbornness, the entire situation was utterly amusing to me. Admittedly I found that I looked forward to breakfast time and the subsequent battles it brought forth in us. Charles had a way about him that was all too endearing, but even so I knew that it was imperative that I remain stern with him, even if it was only half-heartedly so on my part. Before long, the child finished his meal, albeit grudgingly so, and asked to be excused as he had been taught. When we granted his request, he was out of the room in a flash. When I heard his footsteps enthusiastically bounding up the staircase, I could only assume that he was preparing some new trinket or game to offer his friends upon their arrival.

"Your son is going to be the death of me," I informed Christine when he was out of earshot.

"Our son is simply too much like his father," she retorted, smiling even as she teased.

I changed the subject quickly, "Will Iva look after him tomorrow night?"

"Yes, she's looking forward to having him. Will we be gone late?"

"No later than usual," I said with a wry smile.

We had been season ticket holders at the Royal Opera House for quite some time, since Charles had been old enough to be left for such a long period with either Iva or Vera. We hadn't attended for much of the current season, simply for the fact that we had been utterly preoccupied with various other aspects of our lives, and we were both anxious to immerse ourselves in the theatre and its music. It had been far too long since our last excursion, and although Christine and I practiced our music together within our own home, we felt in equal measure that it would be a welcomed change to simply sit back and enjoy one another's company while our beloved music surrounded us. But finally the opportunity had been presented to us, and we looked forward to the experience. Although I was not quite yet entirely fond of remaining in public for so long, I did so knowing that it brought Christine joy to be near the stage again, even if she wasn't the one appearing before the adoring audience.

The following evening, secured in our box, we waited in a companionable silence for the house lights to turn down and the performance to begin. I looked over at Christine as she read through the program, rendered breathless by the person that had been by my side for so long. I didn't know it was possible to fall in love with someone all over again day after day, and yet she had proven to inspire that love in me endlessly. We were nearing our eighth year of marriage, and that singular fact alone was enough to leave me in absolute disbelief. As when Charles was still a baby, I couldn't believe that night in the opera house how quickly time had passed us by. Moreover, it was almost impossible to comprehend just how much peace I had felt in that time. I felt alive. I recalled our first days in London, I time when I was certain that I would never find it in myself to simply settle down and let my life unfold before me; I hadn't thought that I had deserved such a life. Yet as the years had gone by, as we fought through so many battles that would come to define us, I had taken on an entirely new perspective that had proven to change me significantly in the end. I realized then that it was all for the better. I was happy – we were happy – and somehow I could not bring myself to doubt that the sensation was deserved in the end.

I reached out and took Christine's hand, suddenly overcome by my love for her; she smiled at me radiantly, a truly genuine gesture, and I counted myself lucky for my good fortune. The lights dimmed, the first strains of music coming forth into the air around us – music that had been the catalyst in the circumstances surrounding our first meeting. I wondered absently what might have become of us had we not been united all those years ago. But I quickly realized that I didn't want to think about it for too long – no alternative could ever compare to the life in which we found ourselves then.

When the show was over, we remained in our seats for a time to allow the crowds to dissipate. It was a habit – a need for distance and privacy – born long ago that I simply couldn't relinquish, but I would be lying if I didn't say that I had no qualms about it remaining. In the relative silence of our box high above the rest of the auditorium, we were given ample opportunity to speak of everything and nothing in hushed tones, husband and wife wanting nothing more than to steal kisses in the shadows and simply enjoy one another's company. No, I certainly didn't mind the wait.

"Thank you for coming with me tonight," she said at length.

"Thank you. It was good to be out. Did you enjoy the show?"

"I did," she responded brightly, "It was wonderful to hear the lead soprano, she's quite talented. We haven't been out in so long, I'm not sure if I recognize her."

"Do you miss it?" I asked after considering her words, "Performing?"

She thought for a moment before responding, "A part of me does, yes. I think that's to be expected, of course. I grew up in the theatre, and it was a wonderful experience."

"I still regret pulling you from that life, your opportunities," I said truthfully.

"Don't you dare have any regrets, Erik. I wouldn't change what we've come to have with this life."

I paused before speaking again, "Would you ever consider singing again?"

She laughed, "Darling, I have far too much to occupy my time as it is."

I smiled, becoming lost in our fanciful conversation, "Now, yes. But Charlie is getting older. Perhaps in time it would be worth considering an audition."

"I might, someday," she conceded indulgently, "At any rate, right now I'm content to sing at home, and in church. But it's nice to dream."

"It's a worthy dream," I continued with a devilish grin, "I could think of a few things we could do in your dressing room," I said softly before pulling her closer to me and capturing her lips with my own.

We were entirely hidden from the rest of the house, and in knowing that I deepened the kiss in favor of allowing us to become enveloped in our passion for one another, in that tangible expression of our enduring devotion. We remained that way for quite some time, staying lost in a world of our own creation for far longer than was necessarily polite, but it was of little consequence to us then. It was far more favorable to remain in one another's embrace, in a place of music not unlike the palatial building in which we had fallen in love so long ago. What we had discussed might never come to pass – although I could admit that I didn't necessarily mind the thought of my wife returning to the limelight after being away from it for so long – but even so, the fact that we had allowed ourselves to think of such a future was entirely freeing. As far as we were concerned, there was no force in the world that could take those dreams from us.

~~oOo~~

I sat before the piano one cold morning in November the year just after we had celebrated our son's fifth birthday. I had only just coaxed the flames to life in the fireplace, and had to simply wait somewhat impatiently for the warmth to permeate the entire room. As time went on, I had increasingly more difficulty with aches and pains deep within my bones when the colder weather overtook the world. I had suffered through far too many fractured bones in my life, and even long after they healed they seemed determined to come back to haunt me. Perhaps the cold and dreary atmosphere that made up London was the worst place to have chosen to settle – its climate proved year after year to bring about my continued suffering. But I chose to simply endure the pain until the warmth allowed it to recede enough for me to move about without stiffness or discomfort; I had been through far worse. I opened the lid to the piano after taking a deep breath, already beginning to feel better by comparison.

Christine had left early that morning with Vera to assist in caring for an elderly member of their church that had fallen ill, and so Charles and I had the majority of the day to spend together. I had recently begun to teach him basic musicianship, and it seemed that he was faring rather well under my guidance. I was admittedly less stern with him than I had been as an instructor to his mother in the past, but I knew that change was due in no small part to the fact that Christine had been much older when I began her lessons – I didn't dare tarnish my son's view of learning by speaking to him too sharply. I didn't want to traumatize the poor fellow. He ran into the parlor when he heard me warming up, eagerly climbing upon the bench beside me and asking questions as inquisitively as always. True to character, he simply had to know every answer possible before his curiosity would be satisfied. We worked well together. By then, he knew how to read music, where each note fell on the keyboard, and so in that spirit I opted to reinforce the fundamentals and gradually add more information with each new concept he mastered. That day, he would be given a review of the major chords.

"Find middle C," I instructed at length. When he found the correct key, I continued, "Very good. Now play the C Major chord."

"Like this?" he asked as he found the notes.

"Yes. Do you remember the chord progression?"

He paused thoughtfully before responding, "I think so. No, I do," he insisted, but played them too quickly. He hit more than one bad note in his attempt.

"Go slowly, like this," I played an example, "Don't rush through it when you practice."

He tried again, the following attempt hampered by clumsy little fingers.

"My hands are too small," he said despairingly.

I smiled, "Here," I said as I moved him to sit in my lap and put his hands over mine, "Try again."

I played the chord progression, and he laughed delightedly when I was able to coax the proper notes from the instrument. I transitioned into a very basic melody, eliciting still more laughter from him as he beamed proudly at the success of our combined efforts. Before long I eased us back into the lesson, and he complied with more patience than was usual for most other children his age. We continued on in this fashion for quite some time, lost in the repetition of instruction and practice. I almost hadn't noticed that someone had been knocking on the front door.

"Who is it?" Charles called out, sincerely expecting an answer.

"They can't hear you from here, Charlie. Shall we go see for ourselves?"

"Yes!" he cried out excitedly, likely assuming that his friends were calling to bring him outside.

Encouraged by his levity, I caught him off guard by hoisting him over my shoulder and carrying him from the room; his peals of laughter echoed in my study as I stopped briefly to dawn the mask, a self-imposed necessity I had always adhered to before granting anyone entry into my home. Once I'd determined that I was relatively presentable, I opened the front door, wholly prepared to dismiss my son to the company of his playfellows. But I was immediately aware that I had been mistaken in whom I presumed had been calling. I stared at the figure before me for a seemingly endless moment, slowly lowering my son to the ground by my side, and holding tightly to his small hand, before my now-racing thoughts caught up to me. A familiar face, one that I had not seen in nearly a decade, met my confusion with strangely haunted eyes, and I was more than taken aback by his presence. Although we had parted so long ago on civil terms, suddenly I wasn't sure exactly how to react to this unexpected encounter – in turn, that lack of preparedness left me feeling deeply unsettled, briefly forcing me back to an old mindset which compelled me to constantly be prepared to act in anger and self-defense. Charles stood beside me in abject confusion, obviously somewhat unnerved by my abrupt change in demeanor.

"Vicomte," I said more sharply than intended.

Raoul de Chagney was the absolute last person I had expected to call upon us that day.