The tip of the pencil broke against the paper and Gracie frowned. The numbers on the page were big and crooked, and the page was covered in stains and smudges. She looked at the other page on the table, the one Papa had written the problems on. It was white and smooth, and the numbers were even and slim. Gracie's cheeks burned in frustration. Why couldn't she write as beautiful numbers as him? Stupid, stupid pencil, she thought, as she watched it. How could it seem so light and easy to handle when Papa wrote and yet be so long, heavy and unruly when her fingers wrapped around it?

However, it was not entirely the pencil's fault. Gracie's hands were too small, too weak and too clumsy to do what Papa easily did. He could span an octave with one hand in the piano and he always played with ease. She had trouble playing a simple tune and often struck the wrong key. When they made dinner together, he peeled three potatoes while she struggled with one. The rind of the potatoes he peeled was a thin continuous strip while she could only produce thick, short stripes. When they painted, he spread the colour evenly. Her paintings were uneven and smudged.

All that made her angry, but Papa never seemed to care that half of the potato ended up in the bin when she peeled it, that she struck false keys or that her lines were crooked and her paintings smeared. He just put the potatoes in the pot, told her to start over with the tune and hung her paintings in his bedroom. When they had taken down the decorations of the Christmas tree, he hadn't kept the beautiful stars he had made, but the small crooked ones she had cut out. Papa had also told her over and over that it didn't matter she couldn't draw straight lines or play a tune right away. It was all a matter of time and practice. Eventually, her hands would grow and they would learn the appropriate skills, and she would do things ten times better than he did. But Gracie couldn't understand why she had to wait years and years until she grew up. Why couldn't things just turn right, now?

With a sigh, she stood up and wandered to the sitting room, where Papa was sprawled on his armchair, reading a book. He looked up as soon as she came in.

"What is it, Gracie?"

She pursed her lips and showed him the pencil. He smiled, put aside his book and leant forward.

"Aha, so it needs sharpening again, doesn't it?"

She pressed her lips tighter, ashamed, trying hard not to cry. His bemused smile softened, and he waved a hand beckoning her.

"Come here, love."

She went to him. He opened his arms and she climbed on his lap. She snuggled against his chest, still fighting tears of embarrassment. He hugged her and nuzzled the top of her head. She liked when he did that. It tickled. After a little while, he spoke.

"Do you think you can let the pencil go?"

She gave him the pencil, and he reached for his penknife. Still with her on his lap, he sat on the edge of the chair, opened the knife and started to sharpen the pencil with swift, precise movements. He was careful to stretch his long arms so neither the pencil or the knife were close to her face. Gracie watched as the white chips jumped and flew towards the fireplace. Not a single one landed on the carpet. In no time, he was finished and handed the pencil back to her.

"There you go. How many problems have you solved?"

She sighed. He had posed ten problems and she had only figured out four.

"Four."

His visible eyebrow darted upwards.

"Four already?"

Suddenly, it didn't seem as if four were so few. She nodded, proud of herself.

"You'll be finished before we start supper, then. You're not hungry yet, are you?"

She shook her head.

"And you're not tired?"

"No," answered Gracie.

She felt expectation rise within her. That was a question Papa seldom asked, but when he did, he took her out with him. And she loved those outings. He would take her to the Bois or in long strolls along the Seine, to watch the moon reflected on the waters. They never went out during the day, because he couldn't go out where people would see him, but although their excursions took place in the dark, Gracie was never scared. She was with him, and he would always protect her.

"Good," his smile widened. "I have a surprise for you this evening."

Her eyes brightened, and Erik couldn't help chuckling.

"But first you'll have to finish your problems," he admonished, lifting his index finger in mock sternness.

She jumped from his lap and hurried to the adjoining room. Erik watched her as she climbed on the chair and started the new problem with renewed energies. He shook his head. If he had been told in the past that the blackmailing techniques he'd perfected during his years at the Opéra would one day prove handy to raise a child he would have laughed a whole day with the absurdity of it. But it was true. The only thing he had to do was to turn the threats into promises. . . And besides, Gracie was much more intelligent than Mesieurs André and Firmin had ever been. When he tried to force his hand, his blackmailing techniques would, more often than not, backfire on him. He would end up doing what she wanted and not the other way round. He picked up his book, smiling to himself.


Gracie hurried up and grasped Papa's hand tighter as she tried to guess where they were going. They were heading towards the river, but Papa had promised her a special surprise, a beautiful sight, so it couldn't just be a walk along the banks. They almost got to the Seine, but took a parallel course along one of the side streets, avoiding the promenade. Then they made a turn at one corner and ended into an avenue. Straight ahead was a long wide bridge lighted by gas lamps. Papa lowered his hat over his face. He looked around to make sure no one was on sight and he strode over the bridge. Gracie followed, bewildered by the brightness and feeling strangely vulnerable. When they had crossed the river, she noticed a huge building in front of them. They went up a few steps and strolled along its façade. It had three big doors and carved stone frames. She guessed it was a church. It was the biggest church she'd ever seen. Papa went around the corner of the building and stopped by a lateral door.

"Be still," he instructed, though she perfectly knew that she was supposed to stand by his shadow now that he had taken out of his pocket the two familiar metal sticks, curved at the end.

She had watched him pick more than one lock in their outings. He had explained to her that it was his way of shopping. Since he couldn't just stroll into the shops at daytime, he went into them at night, chose what he needed and left money for the owners. But she couldn't figure out what he was going to buy in a church. People only came to churches to talk to God and Papa. . .

The door opened, and he took her hand again. They entered the shadowy building.

"Papa, what. . . ?" Gracie was shocked still when the enhanced echoes of her whisper came back to her.

"This is a cathedral, Gracie," his voice was also multiplied by the arches and vaults, but his calm tone soothed her. "It is a beautiful building. Look."

He guided her a few steps further and stopped. He turned her around by the shoulders and pointed high above their heads. Gracie gaped. There, on the wall to their right, was a huge round window. She caught glimpses of many colours, but she couldn't make out the shapes, because the light was too dim.

"I'll ask Nadir to bring you during the day, so you can see the stained-glass windows properly. They were made many centuries ago. But now. . ." She looked up at him and caught his playful wink. "We're going to the roof."

He lifted her and carried her to the side of the building, pushed a small door open and went into a very dark and narrow staircase.

"Count the steps," he told her.

She started counting, sensing the movement of his body every time he climbed a step.

She had lost count at step number three hundred and twenty two and Papa was already breathing heavily when they came to a stop. He put her on the ground and she noticed him sensing the wall, grabbing something and pushing it with an effort. After two or three attempts, the door he was trying to open gave way and dim light flooded the stairwell. They stepped out.

The roof was flanked by two massive square towers and was very, very big. They had to cross a huge esplanade before they came to the balustrade that enclosed it. Gracie couldn't believe her eyes when she gazed over it. They were really high. Far below them, the Seine gleamed like a silver strip and the lights from the buildings on the bank opposite were like small candles. Papa stood by her, pointing several buildings to her, showing her the direction in which they lived, the place where he guessed Uncle Nadir's apartment was. After a while he guided her to the centre of the roof, sat down and extended his cloak so she could sit beside him.

"Look up," he whispered.

She raised her eyes to meet the huge sky. It was clear, and there were many stars. And then, there was a gleam of light, a tiny stripe that crossed the dark expanse at her left.

"Papa!" she exclaimed, "Did you see that?"

"It was a shooting star, Gracie. Look, there's another one."

She only caught the glimpse of it, following the direction of his finger. But then there was another one to her left, and another one, and another one. She giggled. They were beautiful, just as he had promised.


Author's notes: Thanks everybody for the reviews! I'm really happy to know you are enjoying this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Please, keep them coming!