His words gave birth to phantoms in my mind, which haunted me for days. The more I considered what he'd done—accident or not—the more I became wary. It disturbed me, this outwardly calm yet inwardly turbulent man, and I considered our past weeks together.

He seemed incapable of killing a man. The way in which he laughed when we spoke, the gentle nature in which he addressed me…the way he looked me in the eye and showed no sign of repulsion belied his past. A murderer would not have befriended me, I told myself. Only an angel could tolerate my presence—and I had found an angel of death.

He was a good person at heart. There was no other way to explain why he'd taken me under his care and supervision when I was destined to die by my father's hand. Loyalty persevered, however, and I felt I could forgive him for the news he shared with me. Yet it made it no easier to bear.

We never again spoke of the man he killed, but I thought of the incident often.

The weather grew intolerably hot over the next three days and we resorted to traveling at night once again. He blamed it on the heat, but I knew he was exhausted because of his health, and I had no qualms about only walking for a few hours a night. Even riding astride Moon was more than he could bear. He needed to sleep, and while he rested I took to reading by the fire.

The skies were clear, each star in the sky easily seen by the naked eye. While he was awake—and to keep me occupied and out of trouble—The Shadow insisted that I practice the violin. I did so at sunset while we prepared to start our trek and the travelers we passed were bedding down for the night. My talent was appreciated through gifts of food and sometimes coins. I'd taken to wearing my uncle's hat, which shielded my face from others. Unseen, I was a musical genius, one worthy of hearty applause.

But during the day the heat made me irritable and I spent most of my day tossing and turning. No matter how much I fanned my face I was still hot and sticky with sweat. There were too many people using the streams to cool themselves and I would not go near them. I wanted nothing to do with people. Thus far I had not experienced anything pleasant with others, aside from my uncle.

"It will cool down soon enough," my uncle promised. "I can already smell the rain in the air. It's a day or two off, but it will come."

"I despise heat," I glowered. "When I grow up, I'm going to have a house made of ice."

"Indeed." He chuckled, which only fueled my determination.

"And I will have it all to myself so that no one will bother me when I want to swim."

"If your house is made of ice it'll be too cold to swim, my boy."

"No, it won't. I'll heat the water."

He laughed heartily. "If you insist."

For all of my misery, I still managed to laugh. "You'll see. You may visit as long as you wish."

"Old men aren't fond of the cold. I'm afraid I'd stay in your heated water all day and all night." He looked at me with one eye opened and the other closed. "Besides, I thought you wanted to live alone."

"You would be my guest."

"What about Moon and Girl?"

"They would live with me."

"Then how could I possibly resist?" He blotted his face with his handkerchief. "Would you build your home yourself?"

"Yes," I answered, though I had no idea where I would begin.

"How?"

Suddenly the heat diminished and I sat up. "Do you have more paper?" I asked.

He handed me paper from his pack, and a pencil I sharpened with a knife. While I entertained myself, he closed his eyes and slept for several hours. Every so often I heard him snoring and I glanced up but he never woke, not even when Girl decided to nudge him in the chest and steal his dried beef directly from his shirt pocket.

With my drawing long completed, I rifled through his pack and discovered an envelope addressed to J. Kimmer. Glancing up, I made certain he was still asleep before I opened the unsealed envelope and swiftly scanned the contents. His handwriting was small and barely legible, which I assumed was on account of pinching a writing tool between his thumb and smallest finger.

I was too nervous to note anything in particular and shoved it into the pack before I was caught. Then I removed it again. I wanted to know what it said.

Not enough time.

Only three words read before The Shadow grunted and turned onto his side. I sat frozen, note in hand. He now faced me. He would catch me.

Images flashed through my mind. A figure at the top of the stairs. The dark, musty cellar. Blood. My blood. On my shirt. On my face. On my hands. Beaten. Unable to cry out. Fearful. Still fearful.

I was afraid of what he would say much more than I feared what he would do—though I admit my thoughts lingered on the story he'd told me, what he was capable of doing. Perhaps he would unintentionally kill me. Over a note.

But instead of rousing, his lips parted and he sighed. He was fast asleep and I was more wide awake than ever. I glanced down at my trembling hands and the note still tightly clutched between my forefinger and thumb.

There is not enough time.

The single sentence popped out at me. I wanted to read what came before, what came after, but Girl began to growl at the darkness and Moon tugged on her rope, and I spooked. I crammed the paper into the envelope and shoved it into the pack, mostly unread.

"What has upset the animals?" The Shadow questioned.

My gaze shot up and I looked at him. His eyes were still closed and he inhaled deeply.

"I don't know," I answered.

"And what has upset you?"

My heart stopped. "Nothing."

"Aye, something has. I can tell."

Suddenly my heart pounded and my breath lodged in my throat. Had he seen me?

His eyes remained closed but a smile lingered on his lips. "Your voice is different. Filled with…guilt."

"No," I blurted out.

He chuckled. "No, not at all."

I winced at the accusations, at my bald-faced lies. I was guilty. Fearful…and unable to hold my tongue.

"I…I looked."

His eyes popped open. "Excuse me?"

My stomach tightened and I felt as though I'd be sick. "I apologize."

"For what?"

"For looking."

"At what?"

"At the note to your son." Instinctively I turned my head to the side, fully expecting him to rise and stand over me.

"Ah, well, then I know my handwriting is legible still. It has been a long time since I've written a note."

My hands continued to tremble despite the amusement in his tone. Confused, I sat very still and waited for an explanation.

"Why didn't you ask if you could read it?"

More than fear, I was slapped with a sense of shame. Tears pricked the back of my eyes and I hung my head. "I don't know."

"Because you thought I would be angry?"

"Yes."

"And you decided it was better to deceive than to ask for permission?"

I was a terrible child, always sneaking about, always escaping. I shuddered.

"Yes."

He grunted and sat up. "You do not trust me?"

I lifted my head and stared at him. "I trust you."

"Should I trust you, my son?"

Blankly I stared at him, wanting to tell him yes but afraid to speak. I didn't know why I had done it, why I hadn't asked him what the note said. In truth I had read one line and stopped, but I couldn't tell him I had not succeeded in eavesdropping on his private affairs. I couldn't say a word.

"How did your house plans come along?" he asked after I failed to answer his question.

"Not well."

He studied me a moment. "You are quiet and you are very swift of hand. However, you have a greater gift than illusion, Erik." He paused and I stared at the ground. "You have music. Think of how many people listened to you play."

"Because they did not see my face." My chest hurt, the words cut through me. I could live with knowing I was different, that I was scarred…but it physically hurt to acknowledge it to another person, even one I loved dearly.

"Talent outweighs appearance, your gift for music—your appreciation for the violin and for how it is played will show through more clearly than anything physical. Face, hands, torso…none matter the moment you take up your violin."

But vainly, I wanted it to matter. I wasn't made of notes, decibels…I was flesh and blood. I was physical—and jealous of the beauty of my music.

"Now, let me see this house of yours."

Without looking him in the eye I handed him my folded piece of paper.

"A fine start," he announced after several moments of examining my attempt at architecture. Our eyes met and I could see it in his expression: He knew I was fearful. But he chose not to acknowledge it, at least not verbally. The warm smile returned to his gaunt face. "Now, what have we left to eat?"