Russia, 1850

There was a rumor that the Ottoman Sultan's harem was made up entirely of Circassian women.

Erik could not possibly comment on the veracity of that. His knowledge of the Ottoman Empire, Sultans, and harems was quite limited, alas. But if it was true, well! Now that he was mask-to-face with her, he could easily see the logic behind the Sultan's predilection.

Erik had seen many a pretty woman during his time in Nijni Novgorod: the wives of wealthy merchants, the local girls in sarafans, the slaves awaiting their fates in the markets. But none—none—compared to the young lady who was now standing in the crowd of spectators Erik was entertaining.

Her dress was slim-fitting, black and gold, with a high collar and velvet shirtfront covered in gold buckles: undoubtedly Circassian, and well-off at that. She listened to Erik sing, head tilted, dark eyes mischievous. Fine dark hair in two impossibly long braids, gold rings on elegant fingers, dazzling. She came with her serving girls in tow to hear Erik sing, as everyone did these days. And she listened, so intently, with such an impish look painted on.

He found that he could not stand to take off his mask when she came to see him, though that was always the part of the act that earned him the most coin. He kept on his devil's mask to conceal his devil's face, and sang blessings down on her beauty.

If she knew that he sang so especially for her, she did not give any indication of caring. She paid no more heed to him than any of the other entertainments in the bazaar that she frequented.

She liked acrobats and dancers, musicians and artisans, and yes—she rather liked the grotesque. Erik knew, for he took to ghosting her and her handmaidens.

She was Bora Toutaryk's firstborn daughter, he discovered. And Bora Toutaryk was a man of wealth and consequence amongst his people. It was rumored that his first dead wife had been a fairy-creature, so astoundingly beautiful she had been. Erik found it hard to believe she could have surpassed her daughter on that score.

He delighted in watching over her, being her silent guardian angel, as she walked—so tall, so proud!—amongst the pedestrian masses. He learned enough of her language to find that she was betrothed and soon to be wed, and the thought hurt him. What man was worthy of this goddess-girl?

Still she came, every few days, to Erik's little outpost, and listened to him call down the harps of heaven in his voice. She was generous in what she ordered her servant girl to give him, but Erik always refused.

Then came the day—that day—when she had called out for Erik to take off his mask as he sang.

How many times had he done that very thing, always to the disgust and amusement of the crowd around? It was the one act sure to transform an audience into a crowd of spectators, and he was loathed for her to see him so.

But, her eyes held all the persuasion of Erik's voice, and he found that he could not refuse her.

She had paled, and tensed, and she was—she was —disgusted. She had backed away and left with the same haste that everybody did.

That night, Erik had railed and thundered against heaven itself.

She did not return after that, and it pierced Erik, though he had expected it. She avoided him like the unholy plague he was, and he could not blame her.

But then—she was nowhere to be seen. She no longer laughed at the tamed monkeys, or tried on gold pendants, or chastised her servants with that wonderful, mocking voice. Erik worried for her.

It was not difficult to discover her fate. Indeed, it revolved around an event of some consequence and notoriety.

She had finally been given to her handsome little princeling, but the marriage was condemned to end before it began.

He had nicked her, they said, while cutting away her maiden's corset. It was an unforgivable mistake, a bout of clumsiness that constituted an utter failure in his first husbandly office. She had been furious and had refused his further touch. He had been humiliated and had insisted. She— who had that proud arch of brow and that fire in her eyes—she resisted. He struck her—she struck back— he lashed out with that wicked sharp side sword that had started the whole debacle.

The blade had crossed her face and the altercation ended as it might have began, in shock and blood.

The cut was bad, the gleeful gossips said. It was deep, and jagged through her brow, across her nose and cheek, pulling at her lip before ending at her jaw.

It was terrible, they reported, savoring every horrible word. Her beauty, so very much in the Circassian way, was ruined beyond redemption. She had fled back to her father's household, a virgin wife and desecrated masterpiece.

Erik listened to the tales, and he grieved for her, for she had been so wonderfully lovely. To have had such a face, and to have lost it, even in part! Poor girl, even if she could never be Erik's equal in misfortunes.

Or?...

His grief gave way quickly to something else, something that made his heart sing and his body vibrate like a struck bell. Some voice from deep within whispered seductions in his ear, nevermore alone. Never alone again.

He, of all people, would be able to see past such a trifle as a cut. And she—well! Would she not be glad to be free of the world that would now despise her? And once out of it, would she not be able to look at Erik and truly see? Why must they suffer alone, when they could find peace together?

It would perhaps take some time before Erik could keep her in the style she was accustomed to, but Erik was bright—Erik was brilliant. One day, someday, he would be a man of wealth and consequence, and what man of wealth and consequence did not keep a wife? And would not a wife help him in that suit? Would she not be, scarred as she was, a beacon announcing to the world that Erik was no less—and quite possibly much more—than rest of mankind?

He was running now, in his best coat and his most elegant mask, running towards Toutaryk's enclave. He darted in and out of shadow, singing to himself, thrilled at the thought of the future. He saw beautiful homes and riches and children with the Circassian girl's face and Erik's voice. He was not sure how to make it all come about, how to woo and win her, but if anyone could accomplish the impossible—

He slowed as he came near the house Toutaryk had taken up, setting himself up in a secure shadow, examining its walls and looking for his way in…

"Did you hear what happened to Toutaryk's daughter?" Erik heard one of the servants address one of the local tradesmen. He kept still and quiet, waiting for them to pass his hiding place by

"That Paka used the wrong sheath for his sword? Of course."

The Circassian did not seem to hold the same delight in elaborating on the mundane that the Russian did. "She's killed herself."

The Russian gave an exclamation of surprise. Erik would have as well, if he had been breathing.

The servant went on. She had taken her father's pistol and set it off under her jaw.

Now that was a woman to be proud of, the Circassian said, one that was willing to make the hard choices. She would not live, a burden to her family, disgraced and disfigured.

But they could have been happy, Erik thought, so very numb. Somehow, someway—he could have made the girl who would not live with a scratch on her face happy. Surely, he could have.

Couldn't he?

Circassian girls wore tight stays day and night throughout puberty. It was a rather critical part of a marriage that a new husband cut through the laces on the wedding night, without leaving a scratch on his bride. To have cut her would have resulted in utter humiliation for everyone involved.