Thankfully Erik did not die overnight. Not even the night after. And not in the next two years either.

Partly because he did not even have time for that, as he jokingly remarked sometimes. After that one concert, which was a huge success, they had to perform the symphony many- many times, and sometimes they switched places with Erik for special requests. Flo played the violin, and Erik conducted. This, however made people realize that Florian was also an incredible violinist, just like his father. This caused him to receive commissions for playing the violin at many concerts and private ceremonies of High Society. In half a year, the young child prodigy became London's main attraction, and aristocrats were financially challenging each other to have the boy play at their parties. Of course, people weren't only madly in love with the boy's, but the father's playing as well, as Erik made the audience weep at each concert. Many noble families requested them play a duo, which gave Erik an extra task besides aiding his son. Practicing and learning new pieces, refreshing the old repertoire, and composing new pieces for himself and his son to perform, or learning Flo's new compositions. Christine was sometimes worried that Erik will overstrain himself yet again, just as in Paris. It was a challenge for him to take care of the family already, and he was so old… Christine was terribly afraid of new seizures and possibly worse health issues to come. She was praying for Erik very often, asking God to give him strength.

The loving wife's prayers must have helped, as Erik, despite he turned 70 in February 1902, was totally changed. Both his health and his mood turned considerably better. He did not have any grand mal seizures since they moved to London from Paris, he only suffered through small absence seizures, which weren't too serious, only caused him to stare blankly in front of himself for a few seconds, otherwise his health was perfect, and he felt like he got back his youth. He was able to run up and about, organize concerts and keep everything in mind, managing son's career and tutoring all the other children, practice and compose just as he was younger by thirty years. He had only so much energy back when he was working on the Opera, as he remembered back.

- You can wait, my children, until you inherit something. I will be 100 years old when you have to literally drown me in my bath if you want to get my belongings before you all turn at least 50 as well.

He teasingly remarked sometimes with a nasty little laughter all the children seemed to enjoy. They knew he was only joking and all of them wished him to be around for as long as possible. All the children loved Erik so much they could not imagine what they would do without him.

And Erik loved all his children as well, just like his dear Christine. Each of the children gave him so much happiness in his old days he could not imagine to have before. He felt God was trying to make up to him for the first 50 years of his life by giving him a loving and caring family. It was already 21 years since they were married with Christine, and his beautiful wife could not be a better companion. He knew he was most likely not getting another 50 years for compensation, but he found every second with his family a gift from Heaven, and praised the Lord for it. Unlike in his younger years, he started praying in his mind, with his own words, often thanking God for his family, and asking him to keep all of his loved ones in good health and happiness.

Mahtab was a great aid for Erik, to begin with. The good old man wasn't at least all alone for all of the tasks. Erik used Mahtab as his right (or well, he was left- handed so maybe left) hand. Mahtab was helping him a ton by sending out important letters, lining Erik's paper for writing sheet music, as it was a boring and tiring task Erik hated to do, and Mahtab was more than happy to provide freshly lined sheet music paper for Papa and Flo as well. He was also copying and filling out melodies, actually acting like a real composer and copier. Erik would always tell him what kind of cadence Flo or he imagined for that part, and he gave Mahtab a rough sketch of their imaginations and the oldest child always filled that out and helped Papa and his brother all he could. Mahtab finally felt like he was useful. He taught Florian to speak English, and they were good enough to converse in English only after a few months. They mostly used it if they did not know the younger kids to know what they were talking about. These were his lucky years. He learned how to wear that human mask and was already old enough to understand the concept of hiding his face artificially and naturally, just as the rubber mask were his real features. No one knew the family in London. Mahtab received a chance to be normal, and he loved to live with it, yet he was a bit of too awkwardly shy in other people's company. Partly he was afraid of the same thing as his father was before – that his false face was going to slip off of him, causing people to see his real face and things would turn out to be like before: hatred, beatings, screams… sometimes he still remembered back at the happenings on the train and at that school. Yet he tried not to worry too much over this happening. He tried his best to socialize just as the Daroga and Erik trained him. He was taught to dance and politely approach anyone, so he acted like an honorable member of society and son of a family everyone respected in the city.

Respect was something new to Erik. He used to hide from mankind before and live as separated as possible. No one heard his compositions before, and now that London adored him and his sons, and daughter, he did not know how to handle the situation. Love and acceptance from others than Christine and his children was completely alien and he exactly knew it was just false adoration. If these people knew how he looked like under the realistic mask, they would do just the same to him as in Paris. Avoiding contact, brush accidental touch marks off of their clothing just as if he had leprosy, sending him weird glances, laughing at him, throwing stones or bits of ice at him, calling him names… But at least London did not yet know what he and Mahtab were. He prayed that they will never ever find out their dark secrets they had to hide behind that normal looking face.

Christine had a lot of things to do as well, despite Erik was the manager to Flo. Christine was the honorable wife of the widely respected Mr. Spoke (yes, they usually still misread or mispronounced their names, but Erik and everyone were too tired by now to correct them), and she had to raise the younger children, write the letters Erik had to, as if Erik wrote them, no one in the Universe, including Erik would be able to read them, and such a cramped handwriting was really not be able to live up to the first class performer her husband was. She was a kind of secretary other than a wife and mother, and she liked it. She adored to spend time with her small daughter, who turned out to be a little lady.

Belle was already 4 years old, and a talkative cheerful little girl who adored to wear beautiful clothes and jewelry and loved to play with her mother's make – up accessories. Just like a small girl in her age. Belle also had a kind heart, and an interest about animals, especially cats and horses were her favorites. She was an enthusiast dancer and when the older children received some lessons to be able to dance in public, even though Belle was yet too young to be present in a party that required such a talent to be shown, she also wished to learn to dance at least proper waltz. Christine show her the steps and she was so happy when Mama praised her for learning so fast and easily. Belle ran to Erik excitedly to show off her new skills and Christine had to wipe a few drops of tears out of the corner of her eyes, looking at the sweet little girl dancing with her kind of old, but still childishly happy husband. Belle had to stand on Erik's shoes to be somewhat tall enough for them to be able to do something that looked like waltz- but they had so much fun together it was touching to watch. Belle adored her father. No matter how much she was clinging to Christine and wished to learn girly things, it was Erik who had to put her to bed, telling her a good night story. Christine also offered her to tell her a story when Erik was late to arrive home, but the little girl would rather wait for her Papa to return, yawning and nearly dozing off, but still she wanted Erik.

- You don't tell the story as well as Papa, because he talks on more voices and you don't.

She explained. Well, it was true. Christine could never get close enough to Erik's intonation and ventriloquism he used to entertain the children. Belle, despite the secret they did never talk about, held a special place in both of the parents hearts, Erik often called her "my little Queen" or "darling". She was already fluent in English, that was the language she got used to in half of her life, yet she did not forget French either as the family used French to communicate mostly. Erik did not consider telling the bedtime story to Belle after arriving home from concerts a burden. On the contrary, it helped him to relax after the hard work. All the other children were already too old for a story, so father and daughter could concentrate on just each other, having some alone time together. The bedtime story wasn't always the usual one you would tell a child. Bell, in her complete enthusiasm about horses, often asked Erik to tell her a story about horses. Erik would improvise sometimes, or tell something he learned about them in his youth, and once he got the random idea to read the horserace report to Belle from the newspaper. She found the names of the horses funny and she was seemingly interested in it, so it was at least something acceptable if he had no better idea.

Noel had changed much in those 2 years. Practicing the violin taught him a lesson. He became less wild, more patient, and determined and less prone to make trouble. Of course, his Erik – like sassy temper stayed, but tamed much, and he was mostly an obedient and helpful boy by the age of 12. Other than Mahtab, he resembled the most to Erik, even more than Mahtab in some aspects. While Mahtab's movements in general weren't like Erik's, Noel walked, bowed and gestured with his hands while speaking just like his father. Even his hair started turning darker by his teens, and now he had a light brownish hair, and his nose became pointier. He wasn't ugly, he had a quite handsome face and an enchanting smile, yet he still had some angled features that suited him and only added to his maturity. He was much taller than an ordinary 12 year old, and his voice started to resemble Erik's in a way. He could not even deny the relationship between them.

Noel wasn't the only one who changed, yet the other change wasn't that positive. Florian changed as well, slowly but steady. His success and the admiration surrounding him were slowly turning him vain and self- conceited. The meek and modest little boy that arrived to London so excitedly, slowly disappeared, and was replaced by a cynical, arrogant teen full of star allures and special requests and needs. He started to think he was the best musician on Earth, even better than his father, and that people adore his music for the reason it was the best ever. He did not like to play pieces by other composers any more, thinking they could not reach his skills, this included Mozart, Bach and Beethoven too, and this behavior was only made worse by the newspaper's admiring criticisms, which put Flo on pedestal concert after concert, claiming him to be the "best thing that had happen in music history after notes were invented" and such. He took on a habit of making his younger siblings call him "Maestro", and call them deaf idiots if they missed a note during rehearsals or family gatherings. Erik did not like this change in Florian's way of acting at all. Neither did the other adults, and it annoyed the children as well. All of the family, including Erik, Christine and the Daroga often gave him lectures about modesty, humbleness, respect for the old masters and the way a true artist should see and approach the arts. He did not really listen to his family, and would either yawn at the lectures, showing how much bored he was, or he would just tell them that he did not need to be lectured as he wasn't a small child anymore and he knew his father was only jealous for not having such a talent as he had.

- Papa, next generation always seem to have more talent. Sons outgrow fathers, Papa, think of the Mozarts. You are kind and I am thankful you taught me to everything I know right now, but the lessons are over. You can't teach me to more things. I am now the perfect musician. I know everything and there is nothing I could not solve by my incredible talent.

Erik, after these sentences, really had to concentrate on not to slap his son. He never got the urge so much before to hit one of his children, but it really would not solve anything. This was an issue neither slaps nor would other kinds of common punishments solve. Florian deserved a punishment that he will keep remembering in all his coming life, and learn to respect other musicians, the older, the wiser, and arts in general! Seems like the boy was praised too much in the last two years, and thinks too highly of himself thanks to that fact. It can't stay this way if they want him to grow up to be a man with normal standards. Erik did not blame the boy too much for it still. He had to admit he had a similar phase in his youth just as his son. He learned the lesson on the hard way as well, when he had to notice he wasn't able to do anything he wanted and he will always have boundaries, and could not say he was the best. He knew already that losing his voice back then wasn't God's punishment for his vanity, he was only maturing and had to overcome his voice changing, but it was at least good for something for Erik: it put him on his place. Florian needed the same kind of humiliation as he had to suffer when he wanted to show his angelic voice to the crowd, and realized he wasn't able to do more than some laughable chuckles. That was when he learned talent was not always enough to be the best, and that you shall never think so highly of yourself. Erik, to be honest, still was a bit of too proud of his music and talent and he listed it as one of his flaws, but he was nowhere near Flo's level of extreme pride which had to be stopped.

Actually Erik felt sorry for his son in advance for the lesson he had to face, but he knew nothing else would help as he did not listen to nice talking before. He was in the worst age group: he was a teen and boys in his age did not like to listen to adults. One has to learn from their mistakes and sometimes the lesson is a very painful one.

The next concert was at a noble family's party, who was a returning client. Florian did not really care about it, he considered it as a routine job. Especially that he liked to take practicing too easily nowadays. "I know it anyway, and if I happen to make a mistake, these musically untrained things won't even notice." He would say. He did not take the new piece seriously either. He only knew Papa wrote it for him and he was used to sight reading, and besides Papa wrote him good and easily playable pieces.

This was Florian's huge flaw that he underestimated the new composition, as it was a trap just made for him. The piece Erik wrote was the hardest piece he had ever written for the violin, technically nearly unplayable, requiring such a virtuosity that it was a challenge even for Erik, who happened to play the violin for long decades. It was Devil's Toccata in 13 pages. Yes, 13 pages of violin solo. Erik's lucky number was 13, and he wished to send a message to his son by the fateful bad luck number. Erik listed his son's weaknesses he knew about as he exactly knew what Flo wasn't the best at nowadays, especially that he did not practice enough. The piece was completely made of staccato pizzicato notes, challenging bowings, huge jumps between notes, all, of course in "prestissimo" tempo signature, and written in F sharp major, making sight reading more complicated, following all of the sharps, but Erik often used natural signs to confuse the child even more.

The proud little artist suspected nothing when they walked into the main salon of the family. He and Erik both wore their finest gala suits and everything looked so perfect, just as usual. It was nearly boring. There were about 100 people there, so it wasn't a big deal. Flo was already used to play in front of hundreds of people without a blink of an eye. When people started paying attention to them, Erik stepped next to his son, and at first, was considering to cancel his plan. Oh that boy did not deserve such a punishment… but when he remembered back to the other day when Florian yelled at Mahtab and Noel, calling them deaf idiots just because a wrong note, his thin malformed lips squeezed together behind the rubber mask, and he took a deep breath.

- Ladies and Gentlemen! Tonight's performance is going to be a unique one as my son likes to brag about being the most talented musician of all time nowadays. Therefore, today I brought him a piece that will show his talent.

Florian closed his eyes halfway and grinned. Oh, Papa, you always make me feel better. Erik put the sheet music on the stand, and announced:

- My son hasn't seen this music before. I wrote it for him, and he is going to sight read it.

Flo nodded graciously and opened the sheet music to look at the first page, but upon seeing what the piece looked like, he gave out a little gasp. He turned a bit pale-ish, knowing he will have trouble playing that by first sight, but he was too proud to admit it. He stood up in playing position and tried his best to follow the music… but what a devilishly hard music was that. He was hardly able to play it at all. Erik and all the guests were staring at him with disbelief in their eyes, while he struggled with the notes. "Can you not play this?" He read it from the expressions. He miserably failed many times, the naturals confused him, the sharps were often misused, he failed with such quick staccato pizzicatos and oh God… it was technically unplayable. Flo was sweating, turning pale, rolling his eyes desperately, and trying to collect his spirits to struggle with the Devil's music. He wanted to show his talent… that this music was nothing to him… yet it was not true. He gave up at page 6, after many – many horrendous tries and flawed technique. He just stood there, defeated, humiliated and unsure of his talent. Can it be he is not THAT good? But at least, sure Papa can't play it either…

- What's wrong, Florian? – Erik's voice rang through the room, as he slowly walked closer. – Is it really that hard for SUCH a genius as you are? I thought you were the best musician ever, and it was supposed to be a child's play for you…

Flo only shook his head, and looked at Erik with pleading eyes.

- Papa… can we stop? – He whispered.

- Stop? – Erik leaned closer, whispering too. – No, son. The audience deserves the music played.

He took the violin from his son, sending him a small defeating glance, and he started playing instead of the child. Erik could play flawlessly. Florian felt even worse by facing the fact that he was nothing, still nothing compared to his father. As Erik played the extreme level of crazily hard, but still beautiful musical piece, he nearly sank under the floor and wanted to cover his face, but he had to keep the last crumbles of his dignity. It was the worst thing ever happened to him in his life. He felt nothing like the self- conceited artist any longer. The layers of vanity and pride were peeling off of his soul, leaving nothing but the 14 year old boy he was before.

While they were going home, he said nothing, and neither did Erik. After they returned, he disappeared in his room to cry. Erik felt a bit of guilt and he told Christine what had happened. She nodded and softly said:

- That served him right. It is hard to say such a thing… but he deserved it.

After some time, Florian appeared next to Erik, stood next to him, squeezing the violin in his hand, looking up at his father with his eyes full of tears.

- Papa…?

- Yes?

- I am sorry… I am sorry for… for the way I acted. I was wrong. Terribly wrong.

- I am glad you see it. – Erik nodded and patted the boy's shoulder. – I only wanted the best for you.

- I know.

- And I am not angry with you. – Erik assured.

- Thank you Papa… and… not all the others are angry?

- Ask them about that. But maybe not. You have good siblings. They understand.

- Papa…?

- Yes?

- May I ask something? – He whispered.

- Of course, Flo.

- Please… teach me that devilishly hard piece… teach me… I need you.

- I teach you with pleasure, my son. I am glad you feel you still need me.

- And… I love you. – He hugged Erik, still squeezing the violin.

- I love you too, dear. And I will always love you.

Other than the concert, another life- changing happening shook the family's life on that exact week.

Mahtab was walking home from his walk in the evening. It was a cool autumn night, already dark. Mahtab liked to take walks alone, either sketching some buildings or just getting deep in his thoughts. He wasn't afraid even after darkness fell on the city, and foggy weather did not make him feel uncomfortable either. He knew he was able to defend himself from any kind of danger, and his parents knew that he was always home in one piece, and anyway… can anyone tell a 17 year old, nearly grown – up person what to or what not to do? These walks only lasted for an hour or so, and he always arrived home refreshed and happy, so there was no need to worry.

During one of these walks though, when Mahtab walked a bit further than his usual path, he suddenly witnessed something he could not pass without a single word and act.

As it was a foggy and unfriendly evening, there were no people on the streets. Yet at the London Bridge's stairs, there he saw two people. A fat, huge man and a smaller boy. The man was yelling so loudly that Mahtab wondered why no one opens their window to silence the drunkard.

- Ya only made six guineas? Ya think it's 'nough? Huh? Not 'nough for beer either, ya piece o' shit!

Suddenly the man slapped the poor boy hard, just as hard that the child fell on his knees. The beast yelled and grabbed the boy by his hair, lifting him up from the ground, demanding him to go back to beg for more money, otherwise he was going to kill him by various cruel ways. Mahtab gasped and hid to see what was going to happen. He was ready to interfere if the bastard dares to hit the boy once more. Sadly, he did not only hit. He kicked, and slammed the poor boy against the bridge's wall, several times. Mahtab never saw such a thing, and never heard someone saying so disgusting words about a child.

He could not tolerate the happenings any longer and he knew he had to save the child. From behind he jumped at the fat idiot, and before he could turn to face Mahtab, he already had a string around his neck. The drunkard could not ask for help as his throat got squeezed more and more, and the idiot also did what the victims mostly did wrong: he tried to free himself by getting further from Mahtab, which only made the string got tighter and tighter… After a few seconds the disgusting man fell in front of Mahtab's boots, lifelessly.

The scene which played between the man and the boy earlier made Mahtab so angry that he felt no sympathy for the man or regret about what he did. He thought it was only righteous what the man received, and the poor boy was most likely killed if he did not defend the poor thing. He only dragged the body to the water, removed the string from his neck and pushed the man to float away in peace. He did it with such a calm and lack of emotions and regret that he got surprised of it. Yet he now had more important things to do than to wonder about a worm's life.

The boy was lying next to the wall, unconsciously, as he did not react to the happenings. Thankfully maybe he saw nothing. Mahtab knelt down to examine the small body, happily realizing that he was still alive. Gently he lifted up the boy, who was thin, oh so thin as a skeleton, the little one.

- Come. – Mahtab whispered, but this time she used her girlish voice unintentionally. – We are going home. Fear not.

She knew Papa will examine the boy better than she could, and she also knew they did not have much time. The poor thing needed help.