Since this just came up….physically Julia Seuratti is based off Kate Winslet. Think of her character from Finding Neverland and that's what she looks like to me. Okay, Erik's impatient tonight.

Q: Do I read much?

A: Of course I do! What sort of dolt do you take me for? I read everything from Mary Shelly to Shakespeare. I am well-learned, fine lady! Hrmph!

Ghost36

Once dinner was over and Meg helped her mother in the kitchen, Alexandre assisted Charles back to his room where he intended to read for a while. His two friends who had visited earlier in the day were writing a book about India and wanted Charles to write the forward, as he was well-known for his stories from nearly every corner of the Earth. Charles entertained everyone around the table with his accounts of youth where he rode Indian elephants and built bridges in Madras. Alexandre was captivated, lingering on every word as though Charles were a book that had come to life.

From my room I often heard laughter coming from the study as Charles entertained his guests. There were nights when I heard Meg laugh so hard she gasped for air. At the table I witnessed first-hand why Alexandre spent time with Charles after his lessons ended for the day.

He was attentive and knowledgeable. He enjoyed sharing his stories of adventure, leaving those around the table to decide what was true and what was embellished. In a way it made no difference. He could have said he traveled to the moon and we would have lingered on his every word.

Charles had traveled more extensively than I had first thought. Each time
he mentioned a place he traveled I prayed that Alexandre would not ask me if
I had explored the world in my youth as his teacher had done. Already I was faced with telling Julia of my past, and that in and of itself was heart-wrenching, but if word of my past deeds found a way to Alex I would be devastated. In those days I never expected to touch a woman let alone father a child. My regrets had been my own. Now my regrets belonged to the two most important people in my life.

Once Alex returned to the dining room he plopped down across from me again and looked at me with a slight smile on his face.

"Yes?" I questioned as I sat back and sipped a cup of after-dinner tea.

"I didn't tell Charles about the ramp," he said. His grin widened. We were partners in a brilliant scheme. He was enjoying himself and the idea of a secret conspiracy. Normally he blurted out everything he knew with unabashed delight and candor. Keeping a secret was new to him, and by the look on his face it was slowly killing him.

"Good. But you do realize he will know we are building something once the materials arrive?"

He nodded.

"When will our supplies arrive? Did the shopkeeper say?"

"In a week." He yawned into the crook of his arm. "Father, may we build a drawbridge?"

He still wanted to build a castle. I crossed my arms and ran my thumb along the divot in my chin. "It's impractical," I told him. He blinked at me. "It's unnecessary. We don't need a drawbridge."

"But Monsieur Lowry—"

"Alexandre, I can guarantee you that Charles does not need a drawbridge. A ramp will suffice for now until the unlikely day when the back garden floods and alligators appear." His eyes widened at the thought of the house transformed into a castle and the garden into a moat. "There are no alligators."

He nodded and yawned again.

"Prepare for bed, Alexandre," I told him. I reached across the table and took another lemon cookie from the tin tray Meg had placed in the middle. "I'll see you in the morning."

"I'm not tired," he said, yawning yet again.

"Apparently," I muttered. He was so stubborn sometimes. He would protest until the moment his head fell forward and rested on the tabletop.

"Father? May I ask you something?"

"Of course," I answered, hoping that it had nothing to do with dragons or castles.

"If you come to dinner do you think you will play the violin afterward as you did before?"

His words took me by surprise. He was only learning to walk when we would sit in his room after supper. I would the violin for him while he lay in his crib and cooed, sometimes mesmerized, sometimes bouncing to the rhythm or laughing at the different sounds. The music or a story would eventually lull him to sleep and on many occasions I fell asleep in the chair by his bed or sprawled out on the cold wood floor. When I could force myself to move I returned to my own room but there were many more nights when I would simply watch him as he slept, as the breaths came warm and quick through his tiny open mouth.

Those quiet nights ended when Alex attempted to remove my mask. I wondered if he remembered how I stood abruptly, dropped him from my lap and walked from the room. I was angry with him that night but angrier with myself for how I had treated him. Until that moment I had always encouraged his creativity. My own need for learning had been thought of as unnatural and dangerous. I didn't want Alex to be stifled in any manner. Through him I saw what my life could have been.

But that night he reached for the mask and I pushed him away, literally discarding him from his place at my side. He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound as I stormed from the room and stood in the hallway, unsure of what to do next.

I didn't know how to comfort him as I had been the one to hurt him. In shame I returned to my room and left Meg and Madeline to tend to my son.

For years that moment had haunted me, showing what a failure I was. Had the night also haunted Alex? I wondered.

"If you wish to hear the violin I will play for you."

"Tonight?" he beamed. He attempted to hold back a yawn.

"Tomorrow," I replied.

His brow furrowed as he climbed to his feet. "Father," he said as he walked around the table and threw his arms around my neck. I held him briefly, patting him on the back before he stepped away. "Why did you stop playing after dinner?"

His dark eyes were so innocent, so trusting. He didn't remember that night, or he did but didn't associate it with the termination of our evenings together. I still spent a great deal of time with him but things had changed. He sat at my feet or in a chair beside me, and for the first few nights after the incident I merely sat in the room and waited for him to fall asleep. Though I never told him he could not sit on my knee he understood that there was now a boundary, one that had continuously grown higher as the years passed.

"It was not your fault," I said.

He lingered beside me for a moment, his eyes cast down. "The white face," he said solemnly. "It made the music stop when I touched it."

It terrified me that he acutely remembered what had transpired that night. We never spoke of it. For the past four and a half years I had been attempting to forget it had happened.

But now we faced each other and yet another one of my mistakes stood like a sentinel guarding my mirth. Each turn of the road was a struggle. I looked at Alexandre and wondered if I could escape my wrongdoings and find true happiness.

"The music stopped because of my offenses not yours," I assured him. "You did nothing wrong."

He didn't wholly believe me. I could see the struggle in his eyes and knew he wanted to ask me something but was afraid to voice it. If he remembered how I had dumped him onto the floor and abandoned him in favor of my own room then I was surprised he had the courage to remain before me.

I remembered those feelings of longing, of wanting nothing more than a kind word. It was a simple need, a craving that no child should be forced to seek. Madeline was the first person who offered me something more than a shriek or abhorrent glare. By the time I met her I was already past my twentieth year. Two decades passed before I knew what it felt like to have someone smile at me.

I didn't care if I spoiled him. My life had been neglect, his would be abundance. I motioned him to me and he dragged his feet over, placing his arm over my shoulder.

He hugged me again, sighing against the left side of my face. I knew by the way his back felt against my hands that he was contented and relaxed. It relieved my fears that he would not be frightened of me now that he mentioned what happened years ago.

"You may ask whatever you wish, Alex. Curiosity shall never be punished."

His head remained tucked on my shoulder as he nodded. "When you marry Madame Seuratti will you have to wear the white face?"

I hesitated. "Not always. If I decide to take a walk I would prefer to have it with me but if the general consensus of the house agrees that it is unnecessary then I will not wear it. Is that what you want?"

He nodded. All these years I feared his rejection and yet he didn't want to see was the face I wore before him.

"Father? Is Madame Seuratti still going to be my mother?"

"I'm making my most gallant efforts to sway her in that direction," I chuckled.

He was silent again. I felt him pull away slightly and loosened my grip. There was more on his mind that he had not yet voiced.

"Do you know if…if…" He stopped speaking for a moment and swallowed hard. When he spoke again it was in a voice barely above a whisper. "Do know if she wants a son?"

"Alex, I believe Madame Seuratti cares a great deal for you and would be pleased to have you as her son."

"You weren't arguing about me before lunch?"

My heart sank. He had not heard the conversation but he heard our raised voices. I had never known he was so insecure as to think an argument took place over whether or not Julia wanted him as a son or not.

"There would never be an argument over you, Alex. If Julia, or anyone else for that matter, did not accept you then there would be no further discussion."

"Why were you yelling?"

"It was a disagreement between adults," I answered curtly.

"So she will still marry you?" He asked as he pulled back.

I looked him over and smirked. "Of course, the better question is will I still marry her?"

Alex blushed at my words and kicked the rug with the toes of his shoes. I rose alongside him and guided him into the hall where we stopped at the stairs.

"Good night," I said to him as my hand fell away from his shoulder.

Alex could barely drag himself down the hallway. I watched him zigzag down toward his room and wave once he got to the end of the hall and entered his room. When I turned to the stairs I caught sight of Meg standing in the kitchen. She watched me through the doorway as she dried her cooking pot, a small smile on her face. She said nothing as she turned away and returned to her duties.