A/N: Thank you so much for your kind reviews! I wanted to try something different, so I'm glad it's been well-received so far. Please continue reviewing, positive or negative, as it really does help me shape the story.

Disclaimer: You know I don't owe the famous ones. Charles William and Rosalind are mine.

Charles

By the time Charles was three, I wouldn't have been able to recognize my life if I hadn't been living it.

Rosalind had come back that night my father came to visit, long enough to grab some clothes and leave once more. She remarried soon after, to a wealthy gentleman whose reputation was well-known, if not untarnished. Though it seemed the entire Parisian nobility knew of Charles' disfigurement, it was obvious someone with looks such as Rosalind's would not remain unattached for long. I let her go, it was clear to me that she did not want to stay, nor would she have been a good mother to the boy. As surprised as I was by her leaving, I was equally surprised to learn that, after the sting of her betrayal had worn off, I did not miss her very much. I could only imagine how miserable the boy would have been under her care, though I doubted he was very happy under mine.

I understood music, I did not understand parenting. Much of his first year was handled by my standing exasperated in his doorway, hearing his cries and demanding, 'what do you want?' after it seemed I had tried everything to quiet him. Of course, by the time he was thirteen months old, he had no trouble telling me in a disturbingly articulate voice exactly what he desired. Usually, he wanted me to read to him, even at a young age, he had a voracious appetite for books.

He was intelligent, I had no doubts about that. By the time he was two, he could escape from any sort of confinement I could contrive. I did not like to keep him confined to any place, it seemed he detested that more than anything, but without a nanny, and with the demands of my work, it had to be done sometimes. Little Charles was like a monkey, the second I sat down to compose, he would be in my lap, trying to have his own turn at the keys. If I sat down to practice, he was right there, making up words to the music. He also showed an uncanny ability for drawing, which I did not understand, never having been particularly artistic myself. I presumed he got that from his mother, and he enjoyed drawing houses and other buildings to the best of his very young ability. It amused me greatly to see my son, who was normally a boundless streak of energy, sitting quietly at my large desk, on his knees on the chair to reach the surface, for sometimes as much as an hour, sketching seriously. The drawings were crude, but they held his attention like nothing else, except for the piano. When I sat down to it, there was nothing that could keep him away. Well, he came by that honestly enough…

"Papa, how does the clock chime?"

"Well, son, it has this mechanism in it, and so at certain points of the hour-"

"Yes, Papa," he said, somewhat impatiently, "but how does the mechanism work?" And with that I would be off on some search through the library to find something that might satisfy his curiosity. I imagined that when he was old enough to read, this might keep his attention as well, the endless search for facts and answers. He was also interested in the church, though at his present age his interest was limited to the colors in the stained glass windows and the sung Mass, I dreaded the day when he came to me with some complex religious question!

Yes, I took him into public, and because of my station, no one dared to make fun of the boy, at least not in front of me. However, I always took the precaution of fixing a piece of thin leather over the majority of his deformities, curiously, little Charles did not object to this and would sometimes come to me while in the house, asking to wear the mask and saying he would like to pretend he was a spy.

He had no idea about his physical limitations, and I would not tell him until he was old enough to fully understand. No one in my family was permitted to speak of it in front of him, indeed, most of them were struck dumb the first time they saw him but kept their own counsel. Perhaps Father had warned them…

Father had moved back to Paris shortly after Rosalind's departure. He always volunteered to watch the boy when I had to perform, a service for which I knew I could never repay him.

"Nonsense," he said the first time I expressed my gratitude, when Charles was six months old. It was the evening of my first performance since his birth, I had been obliged to push back my return by a few months and was anticipating not being able to return for several years before Father moved to Paris. Most of the work was local, though I planned to travel more when the boy was older. It was simply too much trouble with a baby, and an even greater challenge when that infant became a small boy with far too much creativity and dexterity. When he was old enough to better understand how to mind, then, perhaps, I could tour more. It wasn't that he was badly behaved, in fact, it was quite the opposite. As long as I was kind to him, he obeyed me. Well, he tried to. He would just get so curious, and that intense longing to know how, or why, would inevitably lead him to seek his goal, despite my warnings. And yet, I found it very hard to be angry with him, he was always so pleased to learn something new, even as a young, young child.

And I expected that life was going to be cruel enough to him; if I could make him feel safe in his own home before he realized how rare that might be, all the better. I dreaded when he was to start school, but knew that he was advancing very quickly and would need formal instruction before the requisite five years of age. I knew that if I did not get him into some kind of education routine, he would try to find out on his own. He already had…

The night had been late when I returned from a concert at a local hall. Father greeted me at the door with a strange expression on his face.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, looking about the room for Charles, then a few months past his second birthday.

"Yes, fine," he said, tightly. "Charles went to bed for me hours ago."

"Well, that's good, then!" I said, knowing full well that Charles in a cantankerous or talkative mood could make bedtime a challenge. But Father's expression didn't change. "What's the matter?"

"He asked to have a look at my pocket watch," he explained. "I didn't think it could do any harm, so I handed it to him. Then the doorbell rang, so I went to answer it, and when I came back…" he gestured to the hall table, where what I presumed had been his watch lay in pieces.

"Oh, no," I said. "Father, I do apologize…and we will replace the watch."

"There's no need," he said. "It's just a watch, though I must say I'm glad it's not the one your mother gave me. It's what he said afterwards…he told me that he was very sorry, Grandfather, but that if I just gave him a few minutes he could have it back together."

"He said that?"

"Yes."

"Did you give him ten minutes?"

"No…I said it was all right and probably better if he just went to sleep. I think he thought he was going to get in trouble if he didn't mind, so he obliged me."

"Oh. Well, I'm sorry about the watch."

"No harm done, just a watch." But he still looked put off by the incident. I offered him a drink, he thanked me but said he had better be getting home, and left shortly.

I don't think either of us doubted that he could have had that back together in less time than that, but I don't think we were ready to believe it.

Raoul

I'm watching Charles William again tonight. I don't mind doing it, I dote on him the way any grandfather would dote on his only grandchild, what might well be the only grandchild that he ever has, unless Charles marries again. I don't see him doing it, honestly. He always seemed so put-off at the women who would come to see him play just to get a good look at him- and how ironic that he was such a beautiful youth! – I was surprised when he started courting at all. Or maybe it's just that I'll always see him as that golden boy of 12, coming to me to share all his newest compositions, old enough to talk to me seriously but still young enough that I might catch him running through the garden on a summer day, enjoying the sun before being called inside for supper.

I don't understand how this could have happened. I don't understand why. It seems like if anyone had to raise a child with such unfortunate circumstances, it should have been us. That would have been a fitting price to pay all around, wouldn't it? It's so strange, he let her go with me, and she chose to come, but I've never gotten over the feeling that it was I that took something precious, I that stole something that never belonged to me.

He never belonged to me, either, but I made it fit because I had to, and I love him like I might have loved my own son.

I've forgiven Erik for that whole debacle between the three of us, but I don't know if I can forgive him for doing this to my son. My son. Erik never knew him, though I'm sure he would have liked to. I wonder if he knows now.

That child of Charles' is Erik through and through. He has the looks and the frightening intelligence that Christine always spoke of. Charles, my Charles, though generally intelligent and brilliant in the field of piano, was nothing in the face of this clear genius. That night he took apart my watch - what was he, two? – and said he could put it back together, he was halfway at it when I took the whole thing away and put him to bed. I couldn't watch it anymore, it was so fascinating, and I began to understand how Christine must have felt all those years ago, standing in Erik's house and taking everything in.

It's too painful, but if I owe Christine anything, it's to keep her son safe and happy, and if I can do that by helping to raise my illegitimate grandchild as my own, I'll do it just as I raised her son. And little Charles is taken with me, even though I don't understand him as his father does. I don't think I could.

So many times I've wanted to tell him the truth. So many times when he's been puzzled by something his son has done, or clearly confused as to how all this came about, I've wanted to tell him what I know, wanted to show him his mother's diary, to point him to the people living within miles of his home who could tell him even more. I know where they are, I've kept tabs on them all these years. I've wanted to tell him, but I can't. It would destroy him. It would destroy me. Tt would ruin my family and shatter everything.

I couldn't give Christine what she really wanted, once I understood, it was too late. I couldn't save my son from losing his wife and I couldn't save my grandson from a fate that was going to be all too cruel.

But I could protect them, and I would, until the day I died.