"After my beating, I woke up alone in the room on the first floor where we were taken when one of us became ill or injured back then. The third story room where I climbed out to fix the roof, was where I slept with nine other boys."

He shrugged. "It brought back some memories I'd rather forget, although it would seem the entire place has the strength to do that. But I have you now," Erik said, nuzzling her cheek, "and being here doesn't hurt nearly as much as it might have." He tightened his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his side. "Are you warm enough?"

"Mm," she murmured, drowsy from the warmth of the fire and the long fingers stroking her hip, lulling her nearly asleep.

Erik was sitting on the floor with his back against the settee, one knee raised, the other leg stretched out before him as he sipped from the glass of brandy he'd poured for himself earlier and forgotten. He had wrapped Christine in one of the blankets, only willing to make this trip back to his tortured past with her beside him.

"I remember when I awoke, I only wished to go back to that netherworld again. Every inch of my body hurt. I recalled walking up to Frankie Mowry and Tug Jones, wanting to play ball with them- wanting to be included in something for once."

He continued to stroke her hip and stared unseeingly into a past that was harsh and painful. "They took exception to me standing too close to them, because Mowry gave me a shove backward and plucked the sacking off my head at the same time. The burlap bag was what I was able to fashion into a mask of sorts," he explained. "It was scratchy and uncomfortable, but at least it hid my face from view."

"I'm surprised Anna didn't make you a better one."

Erik took a sip of brandy. "She did," he responded, "but it was stolen one evening while I washed, so I went to the barn and swiped a burlap bag to replace it. I knew who was behind the theft; Tug Jones was the leader of his little gang, and it was the four of them that afternoon; they were anywhere from twelve to fourteen years old. I was stick thin," he looked down at himself and said wryly, "much the same as now, I suppose, but not so tall. I was no match for them. One on one, yes, but not all four at once."

He swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into the fire. "I knew they were repulsed by me, but I still wanted a bit of acceptance back then- craved it, really. They were disgusted by my face, of course, and very soon they were laughing at my lack of a nose..." He kissed the top of her head, as if reassuring himself that it was all in the past. If those four boys were to appear now in front of him the outcome this time would be completely different. But they were gone from here long ago, and she was with him. Hadn't they just made love?

"One of the four hit me in the back of the head; just a cuff, but that was only the first blow. The second came from Mowry and that one split my lip. I swung at him and my fist landed on his nose and that was all it took. I tried to cover my head, but it didn't matter. No, not at all. They pummeled me, Christine. And kicked. I-I don't remember anything after that, until I woke up wishing I hadn't.

"I was alone and in pain. I cried then- hating them, hating a mother I never knew..." He glanced quickly at his wife who cried now for him and that poor misbegotten boy he had been. But this time he tried to take her pity in stride. For it was only her love for him shining through her tears, wasn't it? He hoped that he was wise enough to see that now.

"But most of all, I hated myself. I was a travesty of a human being and knew I could no longer stay in this place. Mrs. Guthrie- Anna, returned to the room and tried to get me to eat some broth, but I had no appetite. That good woman sat with me and nursed my injuries, and as soon as she went to bed, I crept to the kitchen with a blanket and gathered some food together. All I could find. I could barely walk, and I was a mass of cuts and bruises, but I refused to stay here any longer."

"I only wish I had known you then," she said, kissing his shoulder where her head had rested. "I would have given you shelter. You could have stayed with us."

"Mm, yes. That would have solved everything, no? But you were ten years away from being born yourself, and I hardly think I would have been welcome in your home, even if such a thing had been possible.

"I didn't get very far from town that night," he resumed. "I hurt too badly to make good time, so I found some woods and curled up in the blanket on the ground." He got up then and put more coal on the fire then turned to face her.

"I traveled for days, gradually healing and staying away from people. I made another mask out of a grain sack I found in someone's barn and mostly traveled at night, remaining hidden during the day. Soon my food was gone and hunger was becoming a big problem, so I approached a farmhouse late one afternoon and spotted three pies cooling on the windowsill."

He returned to his wife's side, needing to keep her close by to shield him from painful memories. He sat back against the settee and pulled Christine into his arms, made calmer by the simple act of touching her.

"I almost had one in my hands when a young girl close to my own age came around the corner of the house and stopped short when she saw me. She stared at me in my gunny sack and started to scream and yell for her mother. I should have just run away, but I wanted those pies." Erik looked at her wryly. "I haven't craved apple pie since that day."

She threaded her fingers through his and brought his hand to her cheek. "You were starving. That's why you didn't run away."

"Yes. I was hungry, but they must have been as well. The two women- the girl's mother and grandmother, no doubt, came out and joined her." He chuckled, but she knew it was not from any amusement. "They were frightened by my appearance, probably thinking I was there to rob them, but they were more than ready to fight me for those pies. The girl threw the first rock."

Christine's hand tightened on her husband's and she kissed his knuckles, wanting to hear his past, but fearing in the end what it would do to him.

"I tried a different tactic then, thinking I could reason with the women. I told them I was very hungry and would work for the food and a dry place to sleep, but how does one explain the need for the sack over one's head to people only interested in chasing the child away?"

He snorted. "The answer? You don't. The girl's stone missed me, but the mother's caught me in the knee. I threw caution to the wind and grabbed one of the pies, which had all three of them lobbing rocks at me, and some were connecting quite painfully. But I had that damned pie in my hands and I was going to eat it if it was the very last thing I did."

He wearily put his head back and closed his eyes. "I stopped very close to that farmhouse just to assuage my hunger with a few bites, but I ended up wolfing the whole thing." He gathered Christine's blonde hair in his two hands and ran his fingers through it again and again, gently combing out the tangles.

To her, his touch was soothing.

For Erik, it gave him the courage to continue.

"I kept moving east, living precariously hand to mouth and eventually made it to Kansas City..."

"I'm from Kansas City, Maestro! My parents lived there for years." She smiled in spite of her sorrow for him.

He caressed her cheek. "I know. Madame Jules told me so one evening a long time ago. An interesting, busy town if ever there was one. Many people at that time were joining one of the many wagon trains going westward; the Oregon and Sante Fe trails were busy back then. So there were plenty of horses. And that meant livery stables- I was looking for work; I approached one after making myself as presentable as I could. And was turned away. But no one threw rocks at me," he said dryly.

"I was turned down twice more and entered a stable that was not exactly high-end. It was dirty and ill-smelling and that was only the proprietor. Jasper Jenkins. He was half drunk and it was only mid-morning, so he probably wasn't seeing me very well for he hired me on the spot."

Christine once again poked her fingers through his shirt and stroked his thin chest, his breast bone sharp beneath her fingertips. She wanted some part of him under her hand always. He left her once, and the lonely months had created a fear in her that was difficult to lose. In the back of her mind, it hung there; he could leave again. It didn't matter the reason. She would be devastated. And something else bothered her. He hadn't removed his mask this time when they made love. Perhaps it was just the place working on his mind; old ghosts revisiting the small deformed child that still existed in the adult Erik. She would be glad when they boarded the train for home.

He sighed in contentment at her soft touch. "I was worked hard for that room and board. The food was merely bread with some salted pork thrown in from time to time. My sleeping quarters were in the hay loft- my bed, a pile of straw. But it was more than I'd had; Jasper even had a fiddle and I learned how to play from watching him. Music always came easily to me, and it was the one bright spot in my life then. I also liked working with the horses, grooming and saddling them; I was expected to keep their stalls clean, plus feed and water them."

He grunted. "I did it all and learned to do it better than old Jasper. I didn't have two cents to rub together, and so I went looking for other work, but only after dark and in back alleys."

She looked up at him and smiled. "With your many talents they should have been coming to you."

He said nothing to that, knowing it was her tender heart doing the talking. "I made a few pennies sweeping out the saloon and running errands for the barkeep. One afternoon the place was empty, so I went over to the piano and tested it out. Just a short scale, but I tell you, Christine, I missed that old upright at the orphanage. I played a little melody on it. I believe it was Camptown Races, one of Mrs. Guthrie's favorites, then another. And another. The barkeep and one of the saloon girls were listening and wanted to hear more. To make a long story short, I became the new piano player for the Red Pony Saloon."

He stopped and got to his feet, his rangy length cramped from sitting. He poured another glass of brandy and took a sip. Christine watched him a moment then put a hand out. "May I?"

He handed her the glass, sitting back down in the ancient chair next to the fireplace. He stretched his legs out and surveyed his wife with amusement as she took a cautious sip of the brandy, and wasn't surprised when she made a face.

"I think I'll stick with the occasional glass of wine," she stated firmly as she got up, still wrapped in the blanket and went to him, handing the glass back.

Erik held his arm out to her, and she gratefully curled up on his lap yawning. He tilted her chin up and kissed her. "I can stop this anytime, Christine. I'm sure you are tired."

She shook her head. "No. I want to hear it all. It's your life."

"Very well." He drained the contents of the glass, the brandy warming his belly nicely.

"My life in Kansas City wasn't ideal. I still had to endure taunts and the occasional physical attack, but by and large I was left alone. I outran the drunks and bullies who considered it sporting to thrash the strange boy wearing a grain sack. But what I couldn't fight was betrayal. And it came about from an unexpected source."

"Where?"

He sighed. "The actual owner of the Red Pony was a woman named Maude Adams. She operated the saloon at a profit always, and made even more money from the crowds coming in every night to hear and see the new piano player. Me. Word of mouth spread like fire about the masked child who could play better than anyone in the entire state of Missouri. And Maude only smiled and counted her money. She was an odd woman, Christine. Beautiful and charming, but tough as nails. And profit as I said, was always the bottom line."

"H-How beautiful, Erik?"

He kissed her forehead. "Nowhere near your beauty, dear girl. But she gave me my own place in the Pony. Only a tiny attic room, to be sure, but it was mine and I had a pallet on the floor."

He stopped, remembering how the noises from below him would filter up to his small room. The squeaking of the bed springs from the rooms of the painted and half-dressed girls plying their trade. The sights that met his young eyes. One woman had winked saucily at him, baring her breasts to his eye-popping amazement. Another, a skinny girl with red hair, was pushed up against the wall by a stocky man in a rumpled suit, one of his hands shoved between her legs. Maude arrived just then, and with a clipped command, directed the whore to take the customer to her room.

He cleared his throat. "Only once did Maude tell me to remove the sacking. She was not asking, Christine. No. She demanded it. I wanted to keep what I had- a roof over my head and a piano to play. And I was discovering the music of the old masters, and opera as well." He shrugged one shoulder. "I removed it."

Erik paused, recalling the sting of shame. "I cringed at her reaction. When I looked at Maude that day, it was all there- fear and revulsion, questioning what her eyes were seeing. But I saw something else that puzzled me. Excitement. As if she was looking at the eighth wonder of the world. That bothered me, and in time I found out why." He laughed curtly. "She said that I was the ugliest son of a bitch she had ever seen; that I was positively hideous, and told me to look my fill at her girls. Unless I had a pocketful of cash, that is all I would ever be able to do. Look. No whore would ever want to lay with me- no decent woman would ever call me husband.

"I thank God that she was wrong about that," he murmured, pulling his wife even closer.

Maude Adams had said much more than that; she had advised him to cultivate a desire for cards or fine whisky, because getting his ashes hauled like any normal male might prove to be difficult, unless he was willing to beggar himself for the privilege. She told him these things as though conferring a great bit of wisdom on him, as if he hadn't realized for himself just how different he was from everyone else. Erik had taken her words to heart. As he grew, and his mind and body turned to thoughts of a sexual nature, his stiff necked pride had to grow apace with those urges; even so, his rigid self control often took a beating as he eyed the saloons and brothels with longing.

Many times over the years, he had been sorely tempted to simply throw his money at one of the scantily dressed whores as they draped themselves suggestively over a railing above the saloons he rode by. Red heads, blondes, and brown haired lovelies smiled coyly at any man who looked twice at them, but that didn't include the young bounty hunter, face masked and eyes curiously absent in the hot noonday sun. He was dangerous, and they could sense it as he passed by, his gaze steady on the fascinating bits of female skin he was permitted to see. The saloon girls turned away from his intense perusal, just hoping he would keep moving.

And somehow, he did.

Rather than suffer the humiliation of a whore's derision and ultimate refusal, he never stopped, although he knew his money would eventually find one willing enough to bed him. Of just as much concern, was the very real threat of a woman's curiosity leading her into a poor decision concerning his mask; catching him off guard while he sought his release- slipping her fingers beneath the edge of black linen and satisfying herself as to what it concealed.

He had damned well known what her reaction would be.

He was just as certain about his.

Knowing himself the way that he did, he concluded that her action most probably would have culminated in her death. His younger self had carried a world of bitterness and anger throughout his career of collecting bounties, and he was afraid his behavior would have been poor indeed by the casual betrayal of a prostitute. Realizing this, he managed to forgo any comfort from a woman's touch, even that for which he would have paid well. The whores were safe from him, but Erik's antipathy merely grew. He chose in the end, to shun society as much as possible, and that included the lowest dregs of it; instead, he took out his considerable frustrations on those he hunted, tracking them with single minded purpose, and dispatching them in much the same way.

Throughout the years he would frequently find himself craving what he could never have- arms to hold him close and douse the flames of unfulfillment. Those times he would awaken in his own sticky release, stubbornly clinging to the dream in which he was wrapped lovingly in a woman's soft arms, her kisses anointing his blighted face with ardent tenderness. The dream was often repeated, the woman's face always indistinct, as the gossamer fragility of his sleeping self soon gave way to bitter reality. Those times, he felt bereft, and mourned the emptiness left in the dream's place. Pushing such notions away, he instead took a grim satisfaction as he carved a living from nothing, and if it was a loveless half life, he made do with it. It had been enough.

Until now.

He had no idea what he had missed.

His eyes lost their faraway look, and refocused on Christine. His beautiful reality. "The next day Maude bought me some new clothes and cloth for a more serviceable mask. She made sure I had enough to eat, and she kept the drunks and rougher customers far enough away from me when I played piano that I felt safe. No one dared defy Maude, especially in her place. She was kind in a rough sort of way; good to her girls," he shrugged, "even nice to me, and nice wasn't a word with which I was at all familiar. I was a nine year old boy, and she was pretty and smelled good. I had a harmless crush on her, and I would have done anything to please her. I still worked at the livery, but now Jasper had to pay me a real wage. Life for me at that time wasn't so bad.

"At least it wasn't until the fair came to town a year later. And then, well then my suffering truly began."

Christine, drowsy and perfectly content in his arms, opened her eyes at that. "A fair?"

"Mm. They set up in a field outside of the city limits and nailed posters all over town. I was excited at the prospect of going; waiting for dark and hiding in the shadows, but exploring for myself all the sights and sounds. I wanted to see everything. I was young, and at that time I still wanted to belong in the world, and everyone wanted to see the fair, including a child with the face of death."

She put a hand up to his jaw and stroked his bony chin. "No," she said quietly. "It's not the face of death." She ran a finger across his thin lips. Lips she enjoyed kissing. "It is the face of my husband."

He said nothing for a few moments then swallowed hard. "The...The posters showed games of chance and animals. Exotic animals, Christine, and I was mad to go. And then I saw the other posters in front of the saloons and mercantiles. Posters touting oddities. Freaks. The Wolf Boy and the Two-Headed Calf." He shook his head. "How about the Bearded Lady? I wanted to go less and less. For wasn't I an oddity myself?"

His arms were holding her close, taking heart from her nearness even as he stepped back into a nightmare. "I started taking the posters down. They were advertising for acts at the time; paying good money for the unusual and horrific. I knew even at ten years of age, that most certainly applied to me."

He was silent for a moment, his head down, reliving some of the worst moments of his life. His next words were said in a calm monotone that hurt her to hear it.

"Maude got two thousand dollars for turning me over to Nicu Pesha, the bastard who kept me in a cage for two years of my life."

Christine knew he had been treated poorly when he was younger, but she was shocked that he was kept caged like an animal. She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears for her husband. "My God, Erik!"

"Hush now. It is in the past."

She nodded quickly, hearing the warning in his voice. She took a deep breath, knowing how he despised pity.

"Two thousand dollars is quite a sum of money even now. Maude simply weighed the options of keeping me at the piano or getting cold cash for my sorry hide." His smile was bitter. "She took the cash."

"H-How did she get you there? She couldn't make you go. Could she?"

He massaged the back of his neck. "No. She couldn't. But she appealed to my boyish need to please her, and she asked me to escort her to the fair one evening. I was so proud to accompany her that night," he said softly. "So very proud. Which I did to my deep horror.

"We went into the tent with the freak show. I never came out. I often wondered why her eyes held a touch of regret the last time she looked at me." He paused, staring hard at the fire. "She apologized just before I was grabbed from behind and carried off. Said it was simply business. I fought back, but someone hit me and I blacked out."

"How could she do that to you! You were only a child and you trusted her!" she cried, feeling his old sorrow at the woman's betrayal.

"As I told you. Money. It was all business. Maude realized the first time she saw my face what she had. She was looking at a nice return on her slight investment of food and clothing. She pointed out once to me that I resembled nothing more than a death's head. Words that burned, but were true all the same. A memento mori." At her questioning look, he shrugged. "Latin, which roughly means a symbolic reminder of man's mortality. My face worked very well for her, but led me to torture and abasement.

"I awoke in my new home- a cage six foot by six foot, on a bed of dirty straw which over time became even dirtier. Every so often my hands were cuffed and I was taken out of it and led to a stream or creek nearby and pushed in to bathe. I actually looked forward to those times. It meant that my cage had been swept out and new straw added. He couldn't have his new money-maker disgusting the paying customers with his over-ripe smell, could he?

"Pesha was a pig of a man and as mean as the days were long, but he kept me under wraps until the next town just in case someone cared enough to come for me. Which no one ever did."

Christine's fingers were stroking the nape of his neck and pulling gently at the soft black hair. "I'll make it up to you. I swear I will," she whispered.

He looked warmly at her and kissed the tip of her nose. "Oh, my dear. You already have. Just for loving Erik."

They were quiet for a time, Erik simply holding fast to her, his anchor during this painful look backward, and Christine letting him choose when to continue.

"At first Pesha just left me in the cage and had me remove the mask on his cue. The first time I refused, he showed me the whip he kept reserved for disobedience. When I still refused, I felt the lash on my shoulders. After five strokes of that bullwhip I did as I was told. After all, I simply removed the mask and showed my face. Most of the women screamed. The men usually swore in disgust, followed by the jeers and laughter. S-Some looked at me with pity."

His hands tightened on her as he remembered the degradation of his ten year old self. "That was the worst. As if they were viewing a dumb animal that didn't know any better. Even with my eyes pleading for help- my body hunched over and miserable, they looked their fill and went home shaking their heads; back to their comfortable houses and well fed lives, making me the topic of their next conversation at the dinner table."

He rested his cheek on the crown of her head. "I think that is why I went crazy that day," he said in a low voice. "I was eager for your return home, so much so, that I could not think of anything else. I longed for you the entire time you were here in St. Louis. My excitement and joy were hard to rein in- at some point I was going to ask you to marry me. When you arrived home I was ecstatic; unfortunately for you, I went from happiness to blackest despair in very short order. One thing leading to another- I saw your pity and it horrified me. Enraged me, which I shall always regret..."

"But I love you. That's why I can't bear it, even now, to think of you being treated so shamefully. I just can't," she said brokenly, and laid her head on his chest.

He had nothing to say to that, but took a deep breath and continued. "Pesha heard me one night singing myself to sleep and told me what he expected from the next performance. He wanted me to sing as I just had, leaving the mask on my face until the last note died, then ripping it off for the grand finale. I refused...and h-he tried to flay me alive. He was a sadist, Christine. He enjoyed inflicting pain, whether it be physical or mental, therefore it never stopped. He would withhold food and water on a whim, and when I was hungry enough, yank me from my cage and make me stand and watch him eat from a table groaning with food. Most days, my greatest wish was to not awaken, but there was a mad imp inside of me that refused to let that happen."

"I can only be glad of its presence then, for I would never have known this," she replied softly, her arms tightening on him.

"You are so very dear to me. Do you realize that?" he said quietly with a slight tremor in his voice. Taking courage from her embrace, he only wanted to forget the misery of this look back. He sighed. "After one of the worst whippings he ever gave me, I agreed to sing. After I regained consciousness, that is."

"Your back, Maestro. Is that why you won't let me touch you there?"

"How much ugliness can you stand?"

She calmly began to unbutton his shirt, and as expected, he circled her wrists with his spidery fingers. "No."

She looked directly into his eyes, the yellow irises a stark contrast against the shine of black pupils, their rare color beautiful to her now. At the moment, they held a plea in them, and she spoke gently, "Don't hide from me anymore."

He watched her closely, his defenses crumbling, then nodded once and slowly removed his hands.

She undid the last button, then pulled the shirt open, and in the light from the fire, looked intently at the scarring on his belly and chest. He was tense. She could feel him vibrating with it. Leaning forward she placed a gentle kiss over his heart, and proceeded to put her lips to every one of the lash marks which criss-crossed his pale skin. Every pain filled stroke of the whip, the physical agony long gone, but an agony of a different kind was left in its wake. The sort that never ceases to hurt. Erik drew in a harsh breath when her hands went round to his back and shoulders where the scars were the worst and covered much more of his skin. Her fingers traveled lightly over his flesh, horrified that someone could have treated another human being so. She was unaware of the soft whimpers coming from her mouth, but her husband heard them and vowed to keep to himself the worst of the abuse.

She put her mouth to his and kissed him slowly, taking his lower lip gently between her teeth. Her hand traced down his chest and across his flat stomach, then lower still and fumbled to unbutton him, feeling very brave in her newfound sexuality. She was in love and wished to please him, and could readily admit to herself she wanted more of the delicious sensations he aroused in her.

"I adore you," she stated firmly, her eyes never leaving Erik's as she slowly unbuttoned him, freeing him from his trousers. She pushed the blanket out of her way, and keeping her mouth on his, straddled his lap, one hand guiding him inside of her. With a gasp of pleasure, he was sheathed in her moist heat, and groaned when his wife started moving on him, her fingers stroking his back and chest.

Erik's hands cupped her backside as she gripped him tightly inside of her body. It felt good. So very, very good. There wasn't a place he didn't touch or kiss her; he was an eager novice in the art of love-making, and his wish was to please her by putting his fingers or lips in a certain location just so, and hearing her soft cries of pleasure. It was the headiest of feelings for him and he reveled in it. Took heart from it.

They moved against each other in a sweet, gentle rhythm, making it last as long as possible, drawing out their enjoyment of one another as they grew closer to repletion. At last he tipped over the edge, his masked cheek pressed to hers as the intensity of his release blasted through him. Christine gave a tiny cry, her soft thighs on either side of his hips, clamping him tightly in a velvet prison. He felt the tremors of her climax surrounding him, squeezing him in the most delightful way, and he wondered briefly, before his mind shut out everything else, if it was possible for one to die from pure pleasure. She clung to him, kissing him over and over while his ragged breathing evened out.

Erik's joy was that of a man discovering the happiness found in loving another. Her body was his playground- his temple to worship with his hands and mouth. To explore as thoroughly as possible. He was a latecomer to this delight and needed to make up for lost time; to have Christine as his willing partner did much to heal his battered mind.

He rose with her in his arms, and crossed to their nest of blankets, laying Christine down before stretching out beside her. "You really are my angel, you know," he whispered, curling his thin body around her slight form.

She was nearly asleep when she remembered something. "Hannah took us to the fair a few years ago. The man that ran it said he was a Roma. Maybe... well, maybe it was the same monster who abused you."

"No. It wasn't the same man, Christine," he said with conviction. "His son Marko, no doubt. And just as miserable as the father."

"But how can you be so sure?"

"Because I killed Pesha."


She was curled up in one corner of the settee as Erik once again tended to the fire. Dawn was only a few hours away, but she couldn't sleep after her husband's confession. He had admitted to killing the brutal gypsy with little to no inflection in his voice. Christine was well aware he had killed before. Knew that her husband had often walked along a dark and cruel road. And she accepted it. Hadn't she been present when he ended the lives of the two brothers who kidnapped her?

"How did it happen?" she asked him, curious only. She would not scrutinize his past actions.

He shook his head. "Not what you might think. There was no actual trigger to what occurred. Just an opportunity for freedom, and I took it. Pesha was so drunk one night, he did a poor job of locking my cage, and I was able to escape that filthy prison and walk without being bound for the first time in two years. But I wasn't leaving without restitution. Oh, no."

He sat down beside her. "I wanted nothing more than to get out of there, but I had nothing, just the rags on my back, so I went looking for food and money. I started my search in Pesha's office."

He looked away from her, a muscle working furiously in his jaw. When he faced her again, his eyes were leached of all warmth, his beautiful voice flat and deadly, "Being a frequent guest of his, I was familiar with it. It was well after midnight and no one was about, so I crept in to find him passed out on the cot he kept in one corner. I should have backed out of there and run like the very devil, but I wanted to search for cash and perhaps a weapon."

Christine had to know if he killed the gypsy in cold blood. "D-Did you kill him while he slept?"

He thought hard about his answer to her. His sins belonged to himself alone; he wouldn't give her more to grieve over. Nor would he go into detail and cause some of the light to leave her eyes. That warm light in her eyes for him alone. There was much about his past she would never know, refusing to sully her young mind any further, most especially the full details of Pesha's end. By the time he was done with his hated captor, there was blood everywhere. He was covered in it. Stank of it. Erik had stabbed Pesha over and over, and the hated Roma was as dead as a body could get. He could have shrieked with laughter; he wished in the worst way, to be outside once again, and smelling the smells of freedom. Instead, he merely stood there in that godforsaken tent and cried silent tears; large drops that pooled and ran from his deep eye sockets. Tears for the boy forced to endure the sadistic treatment until his young mind felt warped and broken.

As much as the doorway to the outside world had beckoned, he only had one particular thought. Kill Pesha and rid the world of a pestilence- the bane of his existence for two hellish years. The floggings? Oh, yes- those. But reducing him to little more than a beast had been just as painful, and the fear of degradation would never truly go away.

His keen mind had withdrawn into a world of beauty and music for much of the time. Taking him away from the hunger and loneliness; the jeers and taunts of the paying public wanting to see the Devil's Child lunge at the bars of his cage. But the ethereal beauty of his voice had shocked them into silence, some even to tears. Only after he tore the mask from his face, did the young girls in their crisp white pinafores and clean shoes, wrinkle their noses at the dirty, evil smelling boy. They stared hard at his monstrous features with eyes greedy for a thrill that would take them away from their humdrum lives.

With his brutal treatment in mind, he merely stood there and surveyed the piece of human flotsam lying in the stink of his cheap whisky. But first he had to find a weapon with which to murder him. The shiny switchblade he found was perfect for the job, and while Pesha remained in his drunken stupor, twelve year old Erik stabbed him repeatedly until the cot and the body on it resembled an abattoir.

So he turned to her and lied to his beloved. "No. I did not. Although the thought of killing him had been a particular wish of mine for two long years. He awoke while I helped myself to whatever I could carry. And I found quite a bit of money- enough to get me clothing and a horse. One of the items in my hand was a very sharp switchblade, and when he came at me I stabbed him with it."

He lifted her hand and placed it on the nape of his neck. He loved the touch of her fingers there, and she began to lightly stroke him. Her husband sighed. "I swore he would never put me in a cage again."

He glanced at her as if daring her to say something.

There was a hard glitter in her blue eyes as she ran her fingers through his hair. "After what he did to you he deserved what he got."

Erik looked sharply at her. She constantly surprised him. Instead of feigning morality at a violent act which most women were wont to do, she revealed a part of herself he had never known existed. She was showing her teeth and claws.

"I took the money, the knife, which I still have, and a revolver. I left and never looked back, walking for days until I came across a small town with a livery selling horses, and bought one- a leggy bay gelding with a rough gait, but it was better than wearing out my shoe leather."

With her hand on his neck giving him comfort and keeping him attuned to the present, he thought again of his hasty flight from that blood soaked room. He had known that he would have to keep moving for a long while and keep out of sight. He went west, always west, to small dingy towns where news of the murder would never reach. After all, he hadn't killed anyone important. He hadn't robbed a bank or stolen from an upstanding member of the town. No. It had only been the bastard who had tried to break his mind and heart. And eventually the murder would be forgotten.

He glanced at her and smiled tiredly. "The rest as they say...is history. I found what work I could to get by; mostly playing piano in saloons and working in stables."

He stopped speaking when he saw her look of amazement. "Ah. You think your Erik was stupid enough to let down his guard again?"

She shook her head so adamantly he had to smile. A slight curl of the lip and no more, but to Christine after tonight's revelations, it was good to see it.

"At thirteen, I was already taller than most grown men and the one thing that living with Pesha had given me was, for lack of a better word- an edge. I had quite a bit of hatred for my fellow man by then. Oh, it is still there, I assure you, but nowhere near what I felt then. I think most saw it, and that coupled with my very remarkable appearance, kept them at a distance. Those that didn't- well, let's just say, they never got close again.

"But I found that my talents leaned toward tracking criminals, and by the age of sixteen, I proceeded to do just that."

Lawmen had no love for the austere and silent bounty hunter; they would not acknowledge a man who made his living out of cold and precise execution. Officially, that is. Truth be known, the sheriffs and constables had been secretly glad that the ofttimes vicious criminals were removed so expediently from their towns before having to deal with them on their own.

"Bounty hunting kept me far away from towns for much of the time. I would come in to collect my money on the latest bounty and gather provisions; after days of eating dust, I sometimes spent a night with a hot bath and soft bed. Even more rarely, I would find a saloon with a piano or join the odd hand of poker, but usually I just kept moving; I had little contact with people, which suited me very well. After being under Pesha's thumb as I had been, chasing down bank robbers and killers was nowhere near as difficult. I thrived on it."

She chuckled. "At sixteen I thought I was brave just by facing you everyday for my lessons."

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up against him. "And I adored you for it. I know how demanding I was with you." He couldn't help teasing her a little, for he loved it when she blushed. "Why, look how many times I made you cry! I lost count myself."

"Indeed," she giggled, knowing he was teasing her and loving it, "and look what your boorish behavior caused. Me for your wife, sir!"

He put his lips to her ear. "Which is the day that I truly started to live."

"Nadir said he met you in Paris, Maestro. Why were you there?" Her breathing had quickened at the feel of his lips.

He moved from an ear to nuzzling her neck. "I was in France looking for someone. It's a story for another time, and I promise I will tell it to you, but I think we have had enough for one evening.

"But I did meet the Persian then and we traveled together for a while, even to his country where I worked for a time."

"What did you do there?"

His eyes glowed in the darkness. "What I did here. Or I should say, what the Phantom did here. Criminals aren't exclusive to America, and I was well paid to hunt them down." It was also where he picked up the use of the Punjab lasso, but he wouldn't tell her that.

"I stayed for nearly a year before I became disenchanted with the place, and I decided it was time to return here- the daroga accompanied me. And now it is time to close those pretty eyes for a few hours, yes?"

She yawned hugely. "Yes. I'm more than ready to sleep." She wrinkled her nose in thought. "Erik? What about Maude? She sold you to Pesha. D-Did you ever see her again?"

He could read his wife very well. What she meant to ask- had he returned to Kansas City for revenge?

He sighed heavily. "No. Never again. You see, I did go back and I'm sure you understand why, but Maude had been shot to death during a drunken brawl she was trying to break up. It was always profit with her, Christine, and those cowboys were destroying her property. This happened a year after I was hauled away with the fair."

She said nothing for a full minute. "W-Were you going there to kill her yourself?"

"I don't know." Which again wasn't the truth. She had betrayed him and consigned a young deformed boy to abuse of the worst kind. The likes of which he would take to his grave. He knew he was going there to kill her, but a tiny bit of him was glad he didn't have to make that decision. The active part of his conscience, that part of him wanting to be better than any of them, had been satisfied with the outcome. But he would have silenced that small part of his mind and killed her all the same. His penchant for swift and harsh retribution would have gleefully overrode any moral sense. Without a doubt.

They laid down together and Erik pulled her into his arms. "Sweet dreams, my darling girl," he murmured against the crown of her head, knowing his would not.

Christine's arm rested on her husband's chest, her hand curled in his shirt and a slender leg snugged between his, which was her usual position for sleep. Which she proceeded to do almost instantly. He envied her for her innocence that allowed her to sleep the sleep of the just. Not so for him. His deeds had long ago blackened his soul, and slumber could be elusive. And when he did sleep, often violent dreams were a part of it. Many times he had roamed late into the night, unable to rest with his thoughts so dark and disturbing. Music could help ease the pain, and he had often poured his torturous memories into the music, until he was either exhausted or had found a modicum of peace. But it occurred to him that he actually slept more with Christine beside him. He removed his mask and buried his face in her soft curls and sighed, enjoying the calm after dredging up the horrors of his existence. For such a small woman, Christine liked to spread out, and to his delight, she slept nearly on top of him every night. The perfect buffer for nightmares.

The next morning dawned cold and dismal once again, the sun still refusing to shine and melt the ice. Due to the still hazardous conditions on the roads, it was another night spent at the orphanage. Erik put it to good use by doing much needed repair work around the old place, making it more comfortable for Mrs. Guthrie. He spent the better part of the day working on the ancient boiler in the immense cellar of the building, and successfully got it lit and working again. Christine insisted on helping by handing him the tools he needed, nearly dropping the pipe wrench on her foot.

He also sat down with the old lady and gave her a sanitized version of his life after he ran away. During the evening he played his violin for the women and felt untold satisfaction at their rapt faces as he performed many of the classics, plus some of his own music. But what brought Anna Guthrie to tears was the duet the couple performed, admiring the beauty and strength of their joined voices. That, and the love they so obviously had for one another.

Finally the sun melted the ice and snow enough for Toby to get the carriage out and return them to their hotel room. On a bright cool morning they said goodbye to Anna, Christine entreating her to come for a visit.

Anna hugged the young woman and whispered in her ear, "Bless you, child. You have made him so happy!"

"He makes me happy too, Anna," she whispered back.

Erik took the old matron's gnarled hands gently in his. "Goodbye, dear lady. Christine is right! Come see us. Let me know when you would care to visit, and I will arrange everything."

Anna smiled at him, glad that her favorite charge whom she had considered dead all of these years, had found happiness. "Goodbye, Erik. You don't know how much I've enjoyed seeing you again." She clasped his hand tightly in farewell and watched until the carriage disappeared from sight.

They settled back in at the hotel enjoying all of the luxuries after the old children's asylum. Christine liked her comfortable bed and soft sheets; enjoyed a good soak in the tub, but she had taken their two nights at the orphanage in stride. She surmised, and rightly, that her husband had missed his hot baths more than she. And now knew why. His years of captivity had been so traumatic, it was more than likely he could never get clean enough.

They did more shopping, buying gifts for everyone at home, and attended the theatre for a pleasant evening of music, but after a few days they were both ready to return to Archer House. On a cold sunny day in late November, arm in arm, they boarded the train home to St. Joe.