All standard disclaimers apply.

Dear Father,

You will be proud to know you are grandfather to Charles William Jr., born March 28, 19 - -.

And then I paused. What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to tell him his grandson was for all intents and purposes a freak of nature? He'd never believe it, worse, he would be so upset. Determined, I turned back to the letter.

He was born with dark hair and my curiously coloured eyes. However, the doctor is concerned about some certain health issues. If at all possible, I would advise you coming to Paris as soon as possible.

Father was in his forties and did not travel from London very much; in fact, the last time he had been to Paris was when we had taken in an opera at the old Populaire when I was 17. He said he didn't have much use for the city, in actuality, I think it brought back painful memories of Mother. Father would tell me stories of her singing voice. Never one to be given to exaggeration, I would have dearly loved to hear her sing in her voice which rivaled the angels', but I never did. After I was born, she wasn't prone to singing very often, and then when she got so sick...I still think of her sometimes, how, even as a young adult, she was so protective of me, so fiercely determined to keep me from any sort of harm. I remembered the evening of my first major piano concert, how she was so proud of me, bought a new dress for the occasion and made sure to get a good seat, it was Father who washed my face after a rather embarrassing case of nerves caused me to vomit, and I begged him not to tell. I believe he never did.

Father and I always had a curious relationship. When I was younger, he seemed to seem almost indifferent to my accomplishments...he was always loving, but it seemed lacking in connection. Mother was always quick to shower me with praise and tell me she was proud of me, but Father seemed more content to watch from a distance, as if to see how the scene might unfold. It wasn't until after she died that he came around a bit more, and we became friends, despite the demanding travel needs of my career.

And then I met Rosalind. I remember playing at a Paris recital. It was Rachmaninov, and throughout the performance, I would glance into the crowd. The same face always caught my eye, it was the brown eyes of a particularly beautiful girl, and whenever I chanced to glance over, her gaze always met my own. I introduced myself to her afterwards...

It was a whirlwind courtship. I had never had time in my career to consider a female companion, though my concerts- and this sounds terribly egotistical - always drew a crowd of young women who were eager to watch me play. I had become aware at a young age that it was not always the music they were drawn to, and had learned early on to avoid unwelcome advances. But this was different. Rosalind was different. She knew what she wanted and knew exactly how to manipulate me - in a good way! - to get it. She was tough to please and prone to fickleness, but I loved her all the same, and she loved me, so it made good sense to get married, a mere eight months and two weeks after our initial meeting.

When she told me she was expecting a child, I was overjoyed. I immediately put a freeze on all engagements past her seventh month and through the approximate third month of our child's birth. I wanted to be there for every moment of his or her early life, I did not want to be preoccupied, as I saw my cousins' husbands, I never wanted my child to doubt my love for him. And now, it appeared that I would be asked to rise to that challenge in a way I never imagined.

"Rosalind?" I asked, knocking lightly on her door. The cradle had been placed in another room, and I had not attempted to hire a nurse. For the past day, it had been up to me to care for little Charles, a task for which I was finding myself wholly unprepared.

"Yes?" I entered the room and saw her bathed in the lamplight.

"Rosalind...about the baby..." at the mention of his existence, Rosalind turned her head away."Rosalind..."

"I don't wish to discuss it!" she said petulantly. I blinked, and prepared to go to battle.

"Well, love, it really isn't a matter of that," I said as tactfully as I could. "You see, Charles has to eat. Charles has to be changed. And I've really no experience in the matter."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? The doctor said I can't get up for four days unless absolutely necessary."

"I will bring him to you." And before she could protest, I walked out of the room, fetched our son, and returned. She refused to look at him.

"My dear, surely you understand..." when she still refused to turn towards me, I found an extra blanket and draped it loosely over our son's face."There, now...you don't have to look at him, but you do have to nourish him. I don't think the milk is doing the trick."

Sensing I was not going to back down on this, she took the bundle from my arms and settled it to her breast, doing her best not to look at him, or me, and I knew she was just as upset with me for forcing the issue as she was about the whole debacle to begin with. But our son needed to eat; I knew that if I knew nothing else. I attempted to leave the room, as there was a new composition I was working on, but as soon as I retreated one step, she called out to me.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm just going to the other room, there's something I need to get down on paper before I lose it."

"But surely you're not leaving me alone!"

"With our son? My dear, yes, I am. You do understand that in three months' time I am expected to start playing again. The concert is on July first, I have to be ready. When you are done feeding him, I will come back and settle him in his cradle." She looked at me with fear in her eyes.

"I...don't want to be alone with him," she protested.

"With your son?" I was incredulous. "My darling, surely you understand the time will come when you will have to be. He is your son. You must - we must - raise him here until he is old enough to go to school."

"Until he goes to school? You've got to be mad! No school in the world will take him!" I sighed.

"Well, we have five years to figure that one out. In the meantime, perhaps we should just see to feeding him."

"Stay with me?"

I paused. And gave in. Taking a seat at the armchair, I sat for the next twenty minutes as Rosalind painfully undertook her motherly duties. And then just as quickly returned him to me.

It was going to be a long three months.

Raoul

I stared at the letter in my hands. A grandson! And yet...the same nagging feeling I got when Charles turned six and surpassed both of us in intelligence and ability returned. The proud de Changy line may continue in name, but it was I alone who understood that it was not my line at all, but that of a man whose last name I will never know, who vanished from this earth before his son ever graced it.

Yet, he was my son, too, wasn't he? I was the one who raised him; I was the one who taught him what I knew and was there for all his recitals. Together we mourned his mother and grew closer...if he was not my flesh and blood, he was certainly my family. And now he had his own to marvel in.

The letter mentioned health issues, but I couldn't say I was surprised. Charles himself was a delicate baby, and his wife looked barely strong enough to hold her own weight the last time I saw her. Some doctor had probably seen his opportunity to fill my son with worry and net himself a healthy income at the same time.

Still, I couldn't get the nagging feeling from my mind that I needed to go to Paris and see this child, this Charles. Paris. I could certainly do without visiting the city again. All it held was ghosts.

But I booked a trip all the same, but not before notifying my brother and his family that at long last, there was a boy to carry on the name. My grandson.