Sorry for the long wait! Here you go :)

Also - I have a playlist for this story, if you're interested. It's on Spotify, and called "Strings of Silver and Gold" by samantharok.

Enjoy!

Chapter 3

Before he came to work for the Daaés, Cook had made meals for an aristocratic family estate in the country. As such, the food he made was delicious and a touch too bountiful. If this man prepared crepes for breakfast, he didn't just make five or six servings - enough for the household - but would instead make double or triple that.

It was a genuine wonder that they weren't all rotund.

But rather than tell Stephen - Cook's Christian name - to prepare less, Gustave allowed it and offered uneaten food to their neighbors. Stephen enjoyed making large amounts of food - and the people who acquired the leftovers didn't complain.

This morning, however, Christine's father did not intend to give any breakfast away, nor was he going to save it. Today, he told the household, they had a guest.

Gustave sat at the head of the dining room table, with Christine to his right and Antoinette next to her. Governesses did not typically eat with the family they worked for, but all of the house's staff were considered part of the household for the Daaés, so Antoinette was more than welcome to the table. The only reason Sophie and Stephen didn't join them for meals was because she was busy serving and he was still making, and cleaning up, the food.

So the one person to Gustave's left was Erik.

Christine tried not to stare at him as they sat down at the table, but it was incredibly difficult. Even harder was keeping the rude smile off her face as she watched his round eyes take in the piles of food.

His gaze passed slowly over the breakfast and then landed on her, and only then did she look away. He'd done her the courtesy of staying quiet about last night, so the least she could do was afford him respect.

Gustave held out his palms on either side of him. "Hands?"

Christine put her fingers in his, but Erik only started, not moving his hands from his lap. Mme. Valerius wrinkled her nose and frowned, but before she could remark on his poor manners or breeding, Christine explained, "We must say grace before each meal."

"Oh." Erik shifted. He nodded and took Gustave's hand at last, staring down, then closed his eyes. "Yes. Of course. Excuse me."

"Has it been a while since you've done this, Erik?" Gustave's voice was soft, without judgement.

Erik nonetheless cringed. "Yes, sir. I apologize."

"No need." He closed his eyes too. Christine and Antoinette followed. He prayed. "Amen."

"Amen," repeated the table.

Even as everyone else then dug into breakfast, Erik still only watched. His chocolate eyes passed over the silverware as though he were a pauper invited to a king's feast, frightened to touch anything for fear of being accused as a thief, like the whole affair was a cruel trick. Only an emphasized, wide smile from Christine as she put a bit of crepe in her mouth gave him the courage to finally pick up his fork.

"How much...am I allowed to eat?" Erik's voice was small, lips barely moving.

Antoinette cleared her throat. "Speak up, boy. Do not mumble."

His throat bobbed, and Christine could see shame pass over his face, like he worried his question was stupid or presumptuous, or both.

Gustave came to his rescue. "Not to worry. I heard him." Her father gestured to Erik's plate. "If it's before you, you can eat it."

The boy nodded, but a white spark of disbelief twinkled in his eyes. He sliced a bit of egg and scooped it into his mouth. His eyes passed quickly over the faces of everyone else, shoulders taut, then he stared down again.

"Today will be a busy one," proclaimed Gustave, and took a sip of coffee. "First, I will bring Erik to Louis's, my favorite barber, to sheer off all that excess hair. And then we will hunt for a new wardrobe for him to wear. How does that sound, dear boy?"

"Fine, sir," he said, not looking up, and Christine saw that he was in some of her father's clothes, the sleeves rolled up.

"Perhaps a new mask as well?" suggested her father.

Erik glanced up very quickly. "If you insist, sir, as long as it covers...yes, sir. That's fine."

"Making him presentable for a new home, M. Daaé?" Antoinette placed a single raspberry in her mouth and chewed.

Christine's father raised a brow. "Pardon me, Mme. Valerius?"

"I asked if all of these errands are a preparation to send him to a more suitable home."

"Hm." Gustave regarded her. "And what makes this home unsuitable?"

Antoinette blinked slowly. "Surely, M. Daaé, you do not mean to house this urchin long-term?"

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "This urchin possesses a name, my dear Mme. Valerius, just as you and I do. I think it polite if we use it. I do not refer to you as 'the governess', do I?"

She gave an uncharacteristic blush. "I forget my place, M. Daaé - but surely, you must think of Christine."

"Most days, I think of nothing and no one else." He gave his daughter a wink, who grinned wide and took another bite of her crepe.

"This urch- excuse me, this boy...Erik...might not be the best influence on her, coming from a freakshow in a carnival. The kinds of things he might have seen...the things he might have done! We do not know of his history, do we? Please see sense. She needs-"

"A friend." He smiled at Christine, then looked at Erik, who'd shrunk to the smallest size he could manage amidst this conversation. "I think they both could use a friend. And besides, Antoinette, you give Christine little credit. Perhaps she will be a good influence on him."

The mail arrived that day after Gustave and Erik had already left for their errands. This mundane thing was always exciting for Christine, on the very occasional chance that it was a letter from one of her aunts or uncles or grandparents in Sweden. What her father said was true: she could use a friend.

Although, if she was honest, she didn't really need one. She was perfectly content with her little household, her lovely family letters, and her books - the characters in stories that she held so dear. Other children - for, most definitely, she had interacted with little girls her age - were so preoccupied by pretty, uninteresting, dull things. Clothing, rumors, accomplishments such as needlework. Oh, so dull! Only when they spoke of topics such as music or art was she vaguely interested.

But, of course, she was the frivolous one for her obsession with fictional adventures and page-turning romances.

Perhaps this strange boy, Erik, wasn't so terribly boring.

Antoinette chided her for being so cruel to other little girls for their very normal interests, and she chided her now for her impatience - which, she said, was very unbecoming of a young lady.

"I've told you, Christine, I will let you know if I see a letter from your family."

"But Uncle Olaf's letter should be here any day now! It's been enough time, Antoinette. It really has." She went to the tips of her toes in an attempt to see the return address of the letters, but to no avail. Mme. Valerius was entirely too tall. Christine wished with a small huff that she would just sit on the couch. But no. She insisted on standing in the middle of the parlor. Christine tapped her foot.

"Patience, Christine."

"Did you know," she said, ignoring her, "that Papa's name used to be Gustaf? With an F? Uncle Olaf said so. Papa changed it to Gustave to sound more French once he came here, to fit in better. Isn't that interesting? Uncle Olaf disapproves, and believes he should have 'stuck to his Scandinavian roots', he said. But Grand-père thinks it was a very intelligent-"

"Hush."

At the sudden severity in her tone, Christine closed her mouth like a trap shutting over her tongue. Antoinette was staring intently at one of the envelopes in her hands. Her brow stitched and she sat, with a distracted float down, on the couch. She opened the letter and read.

Christine remained standing. "What is it? Is it Grand-mère? Is her cough back?"

"Please, Christine, hush."

"But-"

"It's not for you. It's for me. My brother."

Christine blinked in surprise. Mme. Valerius never received post. Sometimes it was easy to forget that she came from a family at all - though, of course, she must have. But they never sent her letters or visited. For her to receive mail from her brother likely meant something serious.

Antoinette's face opened into disbelief as she read.

"What's happened?" asked Christine. "What's wrong?"

"My nephew." She clutched the crucifix around her neck. "Tomas. He's died. A factory fire..."

Christine drew a sharp intake of breath. She knew that Antoinette came from a poor family, and that her nephew needed to work alongside the rest of his family for them to have a decently comfortable life - as comfortable as they could be, at least. He was only sixteen. She sent him a gift on his birthday every year. Despite their lack of contact, she did love her brother and nephew, and was saddened by her suspicions that they resented her change in station. She lived among the elites, while they were one missed salary from homelessness.

Her eyes welled with tears. "Excuse me, Christine." She stood from her seat, clutching the letter in her hands, and went upstairs. Christine heard the distant closing of her bedroom door. Not quite a slam, but certainly harder than normal.

It was a couple of hours later that Gustave and Erik returned. Christine only caught a glimpse of Erik before he was bid to his room to dress in his new clothes, but she was struck by how much cleaner he looked with his short hair.

Upon their return, Antoinette at last emerged from her bedroom and let her employer know that she needed to speak with him, perhaps in the privacy of his study. Christine was told to practice her needlework in her room.

She said she would.

She did not.

Instead, she listened outside the study. As she pressed her ear to the door, she heard her governess explain the situation with her nephew.

"I am truly sorry for your loss," came her father's voice.

"Thank you, M. Daaé. I think I should go and see my brother in Toulouse, if you would permit me a short leave..."

"Of course, Mme. Valerius, take all the time you need."

"Thank you. Thank you kindly." A pause. "M. Daaé?"

"Yes?"

"The boy. Erik."

Her father's voice tightened, but only just. "What about him?"

"I think, if you'll excuse me, that it is a rather strange coincidence that the moment he is brought into this home, my nephew leaves this world."

Christine could practically hear her father's lips thinning, his spine straightening. "It is a tragic coincidence. I agree."

"M. Daaé, if I may be so bold..."

"I know you will be with or without my permission, so proceed."

"There is something off about that child. Something not right. I can spot an ill omen when I see one. I see a darkness in his eyes - it makes my soul shrivel inside me. And that business with the mask...even his outsides are not right! I must warn strongly against bringing evil into your home-"

"Erik is troubled, Mme. Valerius." His tone was that of a man calming a spooked horse. "Troubled, not evil."

"I must - must - recommend that you keep him away from little Christine."

"Antoinette..." Gustave let out a heavy sigh.

"Do as you will, then." Her tone went icy. "I must pack. I will leave here in the morning."

At those words, Christine anticipated that her governess would leave the room, and she scurried away. Up the stairs, and to her bedroom. As she passed the room in which Erik was staying, her eyes lingered a second too long on the door. She tried to imagine the evil Antoinette spoke of, but when she pictured his eyes, all she could see was his timid brown gaze staring back at her.

Antoinette would have said that she was too young to understand. Christine wanted to think that wasn't true.

That, for once, her governess was simply wrong.