Anne:

After that shock, I wasn't in no humor to go off and see Father Anselm and M'sieu Roget, but we went anyway, in our little cart, me at the reins and Erik sitting quiet as a little mouse in his best clothes with his fiddle case across his knees. I was quiet too.

I couldn't help but remember the talk that led to his being born…

"I don't see how you can work with food all day and not get fat. You're always eating." I was making lemon-cardamom cookies. Mademoiselle Daaé snuck a finger into the bowl of dough and came out with a fingerful. "I'd blow up like a balloon."

She sounded jealous. M'mselle Daaé was a pretty girl, but that day she had dark rings under her eyes, and looked like she hadn't been sleeping good.

I was working for her foster-mother, Madame Valerius, as more than just a cook. The old lady was poorly, so I was as much a nurse as I was a cook. I was working to save up enough to go back to Lyons, and getting together the francs wasn't easy nor quick.

"But I don't go eating all the time. I just has a taste here and a drop there, to be sure I'm getting it right. I'm always on the move, too. I spend all day on my feet, lugging great heavy pots about, and suchlike. So while I'm not skinny like what you is, I don't get fat, neither."

"You think I'm skinny? Truly?" she asked.

"Yes? Don't you? We're of a height. Look at your hand next to mine."

She'd got a lady's hands, smooth and white, with veins as blue as the sky wandering over her little bird-bones. My hands was rough and red, from all the work I done, and you couldn't find my veins through my skin.

"Oh, I see. Compared to you, I'm the thinner one. Do you like being a cook?" she asked.

I don't like nosy folk, generally speaking, but she had winning ways about her. "Best job in the world," I told her.

"How did you know you wanted to be a cook?"

"It was Madame Julie, the cook at the Comte de la Fere's. I was new there, and powerful low in spirits, being away from home for the first time—and other reasons besides—and she give me a plate of raspberry tarts one day, and let me sit in the kitchen and eat. It was a Friday, if I recollect right, and she was poaching a whole salmon. She's a body what likes to talk, and all the while she worked, she told me what she was doing, and why, how to tell if the fish was fresh or no, all the ingredients that went into the court bouillon she was poaching it in, and I started helping. It wasn't like housework or lace-making where you have to do the same thing everyday, the same way you done it before, with folk looking to find fault with what you done. Madame Julie got to make different foods everyday, and she got to try new things and come up with new recipes, and folk praised her to the sky. I knew then I was meant to be a cook, and make delicious food. Knowing what you're born to do is a gift as isn't given to many in this world. What about you and singing?"

Her face went as blank as a glass of milk, and then she wrinkled her brow and frowned. "I fell into it, more than anything else. My father was a musician, so when he died, and I turned out to have a good voice, they sent me to the conservatory. Singing was chosen for me. I was really a mediocre student, in all truth. The only times my voice has ever taken flight—was when my Angel lent me his wings." She was quiet a space, and then her face crumpled up.

"But my angel turned out to be only a man…" She put her head down and began to cry, right there among the bowls of cookie dough and raisins and flour.

"Hold on now, what's the matter?" I gave her a towel for her face.

"I can't do it." she wailed. "I want to give him what he wants—but there wouldn't be anything left of me, afterward. I'd be lost, I'd be drowned. There's so much of his personality, and he burns so, I'd go up like a bit of straw. I could never find myself again, afterward."

It took some little while before I could get the sense of what she was going on about.

"So there's this 'Erik' what taught you and helped you, and you took his help without ever asking what he would want back, cause he said he was an angel." My voice must have told her what I thought of that story.

"I know I was as naïve as a little girl, and it sounds like he's an unspeakable villain, but he never would have done it if he weren't so desperately lonely." She gulped, and wiped her face.

"…Right. And he did it for love, but now he wants some back, and you agreed cause you're fond of him, but now you want to go back on it." I wanted to be sure I had it right.

"It isn't that simple. I don't love him—not as I love Raoul." She brightened up like a wilted flower put into water when she said that name. I knew who she was talking about. I'd seen him around. Prince Charming, in the flesh. "I'm afraid that if I give myself to Erik, just once, I will never be free again."

"What, just because you'd have given him some?" I asked.

"Yes. Oh, what should I do?" she moaned.

I'd only been working there for two weeks. She must have been desperate, to be talking so to a stranger like me. Or maybe, being a stranger, she found it easier.

"If I was you, I'd keep my word. You'll feel better for it. Look here, I know you got to be a virgin, cause of how you're making more out of it than what it is. You'll still be yourself, after, and then there'll be all of your life to live with your Raoul. As for it being your first time, well—it'll be downright uncomfortable, but not so bad as all that. The second time, it won't be so uncomfortable. Once you're doing it regular, that's when it'll start getting good."

"What? You mean you've done—that?"

"Yes. That's how I got to Paris. I done something stupid." I sighed. I couldn't help it. "Up till three months ago, I was still working under Madame Julie. Then there was this man—no, I'm being too kind. This great overgrown boy, for all his years. It was spring, and—and I was a damn fool, that's all there is to it."

"Are you married, then?" she asked.

"No—and I'm right glad of that! Now I've gone and shocked you. I thought it was love—he promised to marry me, and I went along of him. We came to Paris. For a while, we lived on his money, which didn't last long. Then we lived on my savings, which lasted a lot longer. He promised as he would get a job, which he never done, and when I wrote to Madame Julie for a reference, so's I could get one, he said he didn't mind me working, but that a girl with a figure like mine could make a lot more money going with men."

She gasped. "You mean—he wanted you to—."

"Yes. And that was when I knew it wasn't love, cause if he loved me, he never would have asked me that, and if I loved him, I would have done it. That was the end of it. I said no, and he seized on a broom and gave me a crack across the shoulders with the handle. Then I broke his damn nose for him—lugging pots makes a body powerful strong—and the next day, I went down to the domestic employment agency, and they sent me here to you."

"Oh—Oh! That's terrible! Did it hurt badly, when he hit you?" She was all big eyes.

"Not near so bad as knowing I'd been such a fool. I'd left a good job where I was happy, left all my friends, run through four years of savings like it was water, and given it to a long streak of widdle with the soul of a pimp. I feels like a bag of broken glass, inside, with being heart-sick and troubled in my conscience. But I never, never stopped being me. He had my body, he bruised my heart, and threw my mind into confusion, but he never touched my soul."

"But—that means you're ruined—aren't you?" she asked, all timid-like. "How will you get married now?"

"I knows it's different if you're a lady, but folk like me don't make such of fuss about that. Anybody what I would want to marry is going to want me for more important things than just my maidenhead. Anyhow, I'm not romantical. I don't want what you got, like a fire burning all out of control. I'll be happy with just a hearth-fire sort of love, in a comfortable home, with children and a reason to get up in the morning and go to bed at night. And I've got time. I've still got my figure and my teeth—even if they is crooked—and I'm just sixteen."

"Sixteen!" she yelped. "I thought you were as old as I am—or even older. You don't look sixteen. You've a—um—very womanly figure for sixteen."

"That I knows," I said. "When I was twelve, I could be mistook for sixteen. Now that I'm sixteen, I'm taken for twenty. I hope that stops."

"I'm sure it will. It's not your face, you know, it's your figure. So—would my husband be able to tell—if I did keep my word to Erik?"

It was a bit of a leap getting back to what we was talking of before. "Is he real experienced, that you knows of?"

She went pink. "No. No more than I am."

"Then, no. You might prick your finger with a needle, if you wants to leave proof."

"And you didn't get—in the family way?"

"No—dozens of times, nothing happens at all." What I didn't tell her was that I'd have another two weeks or so until I was sure I wasn't going to have a baby. Or more, cause anyone can miss once for no reason.

I did come to regret that little talk—but I couldn't say I regretted it now. After all, the end of it was sitting right next to me, giving me a glance every so often.

"You're awful quiet, love." I said to him.

"So are you, Mam."

"I'm just having a bit of a think. We're not stopping by the book shop, cause that's your punishment, but that's all the punishment you'll get. It wasn't all your fault."

"Can—can M'sieu Makepeace still give me lessons?" he asked.

"We'll see. Let's find out what happens here first." We pulled up to the church, and I gave the reins and cart over to the odd-job man.

Lemon-Cardamom Cookies

1/3 cup golden raisins

2 tablespoons lemon juice

2 ¼ cups all purpose flour

¼ teaspoon baking soda

Pinch of salt

2 teaspoons ground cardamom for the dough

1 ½ stick of unsalted butter, softened

1 cup light brown sugar, firmly packed

1 large egg, room temperature

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

2 tablespoons brown sugar, for the topping

1 teaspoon ground cardamom, for the topping

Soak the raisins in the lemon juice in a cup or small bowl for at least half an hour before using. Sift the flour, baking soda, and salt together. Set aside.

Using an electric mixer, beat the butter until pale and creamy. Add the sugar and 2 teaspoons of cardamom, and beat until combined. Add the egg and the vanilla. Beat until well combined. Using a large spoon, beat in the raisins and any remaining lemon juice. Add the flour gradually, while beating with a mixer on low speed.

Using your hands, roll the dough into a fairly even cylinder. You may need to flour your hands to keep it from sticking too much. Wrap the cylinder in plastic wrap, and chill in the refrigerator for at least two hours, or as long as overnight.

When you are ready to bake, preheat the oven to 375 F. Spray a cookie sheet with cooking spray.

Unwrap the cylinder. Slice the dough into ½ inch slices with a sharp knife. Place the cookies about two inches apart on the sheet.

Mix the remaining teaspoon of cardamom with the two tablespoons of brown sugar. Sprinkle the cookies with the topping.

Bake for 11 to 14 minutes until they are turning pale golden brown around the edges.

Remove from the oven, and allow to cool for five minutes before transferring them to a wire rack using a spatula.

Enjoy! Very good with tea, coffee, or milk.

A/N: As you can see, a recipe is here this time!

Some of you are amused at the idea of a truffle black market, but there really was, and is, such a thing! Black truffles can fetch as much as four thousand dollars a pound, (which is how Anne has been raking in the money) and sums like that will attract crime and criminals. Owners of known-truffle producing lands often find that people trespass and dig truffles in the middle of the night, which can lead to violence and bloodshed if they are caught at the scene. Other crimes involve fraud—the dyeing of white truffles so they appear to be the more highly prized and expensive black truffle, and tampering with the weight by caking truffles with dirt or inserting bits of metal or pebbles so they will fetch more money.

Shout-outs!

Allegratree: Erik has a tremendous surprise waiting! Anne is going to be doing a lot of thinking…

Erik for President: Thank you. You are supposed to be confused, but in this case Anne means what every mother who adopted a child thinks when her child says to her, "You're not my real mother." A biological mother may carried and give birth to a child, but the woman who wants, raises, and loves that child, is the real mother. Often they are the same person; sometimes not.

Awoman: I hope you get this chapter before you leave—it's Monday afternoon for me, but I'm not sure what time or day it is in Germany. I send you a virtual hug.

Sat-Isis: Did you think I was going to make it easy for either Erik or you? Here is a new recipe, as requested! I passed on your comment, btw. It was much appreciated.

Bella: Thank you! You can expect an email soon, and as you can tell, my power is back!

HDKingsbury: My power is back! My sanity is saved! I will write soon.

Thank you also to: Sarahbelle, Alittlerayofsunshine, Nota Lone, and Ante Mortem!