Any fear I had of hating the child was banished as soon as they laid it in my arms. The nurses all looked horrified; the doctor, pseudo-Raoul, was staring at me with a pained expression, as if he expected me to break into tears at any moment—or, worse, as if he feared the blissful look on my face was due solely to a mother's blindness; Erik was crouched in the corner, eyes shut, refusing to look at the hospital bed. He must have known what sight awaited him; the room was silent, aside from the whirring and beeping of the hospital's expensive instruments. They were all trying to look at my child, without actually looking—they were all trying to memorize every detail, for later gossip, without actually staring, without actually remembering what they viewed as a horror.

I cradled it in my arms, not even knowing whether it was son or daughter that I looked down on. No one had remembered to tell me. I did not care. My head lowered slowly, and pressed kisses to that chubby face.

Its left half was perfect; it looked exactly like me.

Its right half was perfect, as well; it looked exactly like Erik.

I felt my husband's form drawing near, saw his skeletal hands position themselves on the railing of the bed, as he peered down at the silent bundle in my arms. The air in the room was difficult to breathe, but I must have been the only one who noticed—I must have been the only one breathing.

Erik reached forward with one cautious hand, and the baby—my brave, beautiful child—reached up without hesitation and curled its tiny hand around its father's finger. Its mouth fell open, and a single note tumbled out, wooing my ears just as easily as its fathers did. There was something different about that note, however, and my mind picked it out almost instantly.

It was a woman's note.

I had a daughter.

You, of course, do not care to hear about Sonora Angelique's first step, first laugh, first birthday, first Christmas. I doubt you even care to know this, though I will share it because it has far more meaning than any of those other things.

Her first word—Sonora's first word—my daughter's first word—Erik's child's first word—

—was "angel".

It did not sound quite like "angel", of course; it sounded like no word known to any language I have studied. But upon closer inspection—and upon countless efforts to repeat it—we discerned that it was, indeed, "angel" that was tumbling from those lovely lips.

It became clear early on that she would have blonde hair. Erik frowned over this for several hours, before I, as gently as possible, pointed out that he could surely not question the parentage, considering Sonora's appearance.

Grudgingly, my husband agreed.

Sonora grew up very quickly. She walked early, talked early, read early. She was playing Erik's piano by age three, as naturally as he must have at her age. To his disappointment, she showed no inclination to draw, and found anything involving architecture to be as dry as the saltine crackers she grew to be so fond of. She did, however, show an amazing talent with penmanship; once taught her letters, she began to develop an elegance and a flourish that neither of her parents had ever possessed.

And, of course, like any sensible girl, she loved horses. Erik taught her to ride; the child practically grew up on a horse's back.

There was much debate, early on, about how to handle her education. Erik wanted a private tutor; I feared shutting my daughter away from the world completely. In our home, our grand and luxurious home, there was little need for her to ever leave—ever. I did not want my child to develop the same reclusive habits my husband had. I feared she would never be happy, in such circumstances, but the only time I ever was foolish enough to say as much, Erik snapped at me: "And do you think the world would make her happy, Christine? Look at her!"

If I had not known better, I would have thought he hated his child.

I did know better.

They were inseparable, on most days; always, they were playing music together or for one another; always, they were riding together; always, they were talking to one another about secrets I could never hope to possess. I was the mother. I was not privileged to have the role of secret-keeper. I was the disciplinarian, the strict one. The only time I received a secret was when it involved "feminine concerns", and even then, I think she would have been happier to talk to Erik, had she thought he'd talk back.

I am not sure if it was just the hormones of late pregnancy that had driven me to such vicious thoughts of jealousy and hatred. Certainly, it was not any true intent to be so, and I was not terribly surprised to find that I was no more jealous of Sonora than I was of Erik. Naturally, I felt a little disappointed that the kinship in my family was so uneven, but at the same time, I understood the reasons behind it. They grasped a genius I would never have.

I was meant to love geniuses, not to be one.

Erik did return to our bed, as he had promised he would. In fact, he returned with a great amount of renewed vigor, and I was more than happy to accept him back into my arms. Sonora kept us from returning to our passion of old, but certainly did not keep us from returning to passion. Nothing ever fully extinguished the passion between he and I.

But you must stop me from rambling—I have already gone on for so long, and not even finished telling you of Sonora's education!

We made a compromise. She would be privately tutored through to third grade, until she was old enough to understand herself and her father, and to face the world. I told you she grew up quickly; it was not a lie. By third grade, she was stronger in spirit than I ever had been, or ever would be.

I was always a child; Sonora never was.

I do not know what happened, when first she was given a mask. It was the week before she was due to make her debut in fourth grade, and Erik had deemed it appropriate that he be the one to speak with her. There were no tears, I am certain of that much. I know, because I shamelessly stood outside of her door and listened. I could not understand his words, but his tone was gentle; she asked a few questions, and he answered them with little hesitation. When he came back into the hallway, he looked tired, and I could just see Sonora tying the black sash of the white leather mask, as he shut the door.

She looked beautiful, when she looked up at me, on her first day. We arrived at the same time as every other student; I had asked if she wanted to arrive early or late, but she had calmly replied that she wanted to be like everybody else.

Her choice of words had pained me, but I put on a happy face for her sake. The black ribbon of her mask stood out against her golden hair, but I did not question Erik's choices; he had worn the same for as long as I had known him, and certainly I had no place to interfere. The sapphire-blue eye that peered up at me from her porcelain-skinned half was serene and confident; the yellow one that looked up from amidst the white leather was defiant, almost angry. I bent and kissed her blonde curls—just as unruly as my own—and smiled down at her. "My cherub," I purred, "I have every confidence that you will be fine."

She nodded, and turned to look into the classroom, where parents and children alike were milling about, talking to one another, talking to the teacher. I had met the woman who was to be her teacher already, had sat down with her and discussed, at length, Sonora's.. eccentricities. It was unfortunate that Sonora was intelligent; we knew she'd always be a bit bored with things. We did not dare, however, to push her one grade ahead; if the other children had age over her, we feared what would come of it.

"Men are cruel," Erik had said once, on the subject, "but none as cruel as children."

I agreed whole-heartedly.

"Do you want me to stay for a while?" I asked carefully.

Sonora stood for a long moment, considering her answer. "Until the other parents start leaving," she said finally. Her hand raised up to tighten on mine—her right one, with its fingers so long and thin, compared to her still-childish left one. I clutched that gloved hand—it was not icy, like her sire's, but still cooler than her left hand—and walked into the room beside her with as pleasant a look on my face as I could muster.

The parents all greeted me kindly, and all were flattered by Sonora's smooth tongue and enrapturing voice. I could not help but be proud of her; she acted with every social grace, with every propriety that a woman of her status should have had. I was beaming by the time I left that classroom, and received several compliments in the hallway. Not a single parent asked after the mask, though I heard several of them instructing their children on how to act around Sonora.

I went home and gave my optimistic report to Erik, who only smiled grimly and coaxed me into his lap. He was sitting at his piano in the study, composing; I knew he was, despite the fact that he shoved his papers away as soon as I entered, and replaced them with sheet music for Liszt. I was kind enough to ignore it.

As his arms twined around my waist and tucked my now-just-as-slender-as-before body against his torso, I could not help but feel dark despair curling its fingers around my heart. Erik's pessimism was catching; all he had to do was give me that one condescending look, and already I was convinced that my daughter would come home bawling.

I only sat with him for an hour, listening to him play. He had work to do, and I could not bear to sit still any longer, regardless. I spent two hours in our little home gym, working off my frustration, and then migrated to the stables. Riding was lonely, without Erik, but roaming fields and dappled woods were much more favorable than moping about that dark house.

I kept track of the time amazingly well, and made it back to the house in time to shower before going to pick up Sonora. Once she had fallen into a comfortable routine, Henri had suggested we leave the fetching and carrying to him. I was still considering that plan; after all, I didn't have anything better to do, anyway, and I liked seeing my daughter fresh off the campus. It gave me a better idea of her day's quality.

When she climbed into the car, and settled into the pale leather seat, I knew already that it had not been a good day. My lungs compressed mercilessly as Erik's words traced through my mind. She had no injuries; her mask was none the worse for wear; violence was immediately cast aside as an option. I kept turning to look at her as we drove, with a slight frown. Finally, when she had not spoken to me for nearly twenty minutes, I took the plunge.

"Sonora? Is everything alright?"

With a look that was far too familiar, and a tone far too off-hand to be genuine, she replied, "I'd rather discuss it with Father."

Cue the first real twinge of jealousy.

"Well, I'm sure I could help with something." I was trying desperately to keep my tone playful. "Your old mother isn't totally useless, I'll have you know."

"Oh, Mother," she groaned, in so degrading a tone that I nearly grew teary. Admittedly, not the most adult response to such a thing—and that infuriated me even more. I was being treated like a child by my own daughter, and was even responding to the situation as would a child.

"Don't 'Oh Mother' me, young lady," I responded with as teasing a voice as I could muster. "It's true. I've even helped your father, once or twice."

She looked at me skeptically. "Helped him do what?" she asked after a moment. "Pick out drapes?" A pause, and she laughed condescendingly. "You don't even have good color taste. How on earth could you have helped Father to do anything?"

Erik, I thought, as my hands tightened on the wheel, you need to have a long talk with your daughter.

"Erik," I growled, "you need to have a long talk with your daughter."

He did not bother to glance up from the statement that he had received from our accountant this morning. He was frowning a bit; obviously, it was not an exceedingly good bit of news. "Why?" he asked distractedly. "Did the world not greet her as kindly as you expected?"

I scowled. "I'm not looking for a pissing match right now, Erik."

That brought his head up.

"Your daughter has somehow managed to pick up the belief that I am good for utterly nothing—that I cannot even pick out drapes, much less aid my husband in something! She thinks I'm some useless ninny! Now where could she have gotten that idea from!"

He shrugged, and looked back down at the statement, but he was obviously nervous. "Christine, rest assured I had nothing to do with it. You know my opinion of you is—"

"I don't care!" I snapped. "Wherever she got it from, she got it, and she needs to be set straight! I am not some kind of wall ornament, Erik!"

He promised to talk to her, and I believed him.

We never mentioned the subject to each other again.

But every night that I had an argument with her, he found it in him to distract me, with his voice, with his hands, with his body, with anything and everything in his power.

I don't think he ever really spoke to her, because I don't think he was of a much different opinion. Explaining my purpose in the home would have required explaining his history to her. My only purpose was to love and care for him. My only purpose was to keep him sane.

I knew he loved me. I knew I loved him. What else mattered?

...Right?