Chapter Three

A log in the fire shifted, a shower of sparks exploding in the stone fireplace that Erik was pacing in front of. The Persian rug beneath his bare feet was worn and faded, the golden thread no longer shining against the deep red wool and silk. The windows were gray with dust and grime; he hadn't bothered to clear them. The moon shone through the dirty glass, basking the room in an eerie yellowish glow.

Even the moonlight is disfigured in your presence.

He slumped onto a cushioned chair, rubbing the bare side of his face roughly. It had been a draining day, all in all. He glanced down at his ink-stained hands, wincing as he flexed the cramped muscles. For hours he has been writing, playing, composing, working his fingers bloody. And yet nothing came. The music he wrote now was sour. Meaningless, cold. The very sound of it left a bitter taste in his mouth. He couldn't understand it. Even before... her, he had his music. It appeared to him, sliding effortlessly into his mind from his soul and out of his fingertips. There were moments in Don Juan Triumphant, he knew, that were beyond the description man could give. Moments that could only be felt. It was music you could breathe, that you could touch. It could make you laugh with love or weep with beauty.

He ran a hand through his hair violently, ignoring the stabs of pain along his scalp. Throughout his entire life, his abominable childhood, Persia, Paris, that girl, throughout it all, he had had his music. Now he was being denied even that.

Good god, he thought, a bitter, twisted smile taking his lips, did you take that from me as well, Christine?

He was failing.

His music was eluding him, teasing him from great heights. He would often forget to eat, staying in the room he locked out of habit, bent over the piano until he would feel his strength gradually leave him. He wasn't sleeping. Every night was worse than the one before: twisting in his sheets, turning his body over so many times, his skin was raw from the friction of the blankets.

He was becoming thin with the exhaustion he couldn't seem to slake. He hadn't felt so weak in years, so utterly unable to cope with whatever was thrown at him. The feeling of helplessness was a bitter pill to swallow.

And there was the matter of his new home. Loathe as he was to admit it, the house he had bought in haste was in much need of repair. The roof leaked in several places, the cellar was a virtual swamp, and there was a draft in almost every room. And that wasn't even touching the aesthetic problems: the siding was peeling and weathered, carpets were stained, windows were cracked. After ten weeks of living in this house, he was ready to curl up within himself in disgust. This was no better than living in the cold, wet cellar of an opera house. This was no different. He had been gone too long, he realized. Too many years spent alone, brooding in darkness, away from prying eyes and sunlight. Perhaps that was what had driven him to the madness. That solitude he had cloaked himself in as protection had worked too well and had buried itself into him, a comforting loneliness that followed him everywhere.

He was still sane enough to recognize that he wouldn't be able to survive on his own for much longer at this rate.

The woman, Isabel, had seemed adequate to suit his needs. She was polite and concise, every bit a respectable Englishwoman. She seemed prepared to take on the somewhat unusual position of being the lone servant in a house with only one master. Her skills were of little interest to him. She was willing and she was there, and that was really all that mattered. The child had been a surprise, but the lack of any applicants made refusing this woman a very foolish idea indeed. The house was over four miles from the nearest village, and while this particular fact was part of the reason he had bought the property, he knew it may pose a problem to anyone he hired. If Isabel was to take care of the entire household, she would most likely require a horse and cart. Which meant he would have to build a stable. He sighed. Perhaps the physical labor would be a positive change of pace. The simplicity of the chores - changing the glass of a window, residing the house - would be a comfort; methodical projects that would allow him to let his mind wander while accomplishing what needed to be done.

The third floor he had promised her was in need of a good airing-out. While he wasn't particularly concerned with making a good impression, the rooms in the uppermost level of the house were full of mildew and mold, and it would not do to have his only servant fall ill. The child may have an unhealthy reaction, as well, and the last thing he needed was a grieving mother for a maid.

The child.

The boy had been stark-white with fear from the moment they had laid eyes on each other. Yet, during the course of the brief interview in the parlor, Erik had felt the boy scrutinizing him, studying him even through his obvious fear. He had clung to his mother and acted as frightened children do, gazing wide-eyed and silently. The woman had shown no visible reaction to him at all, aside from a slight eyebrow quirk upon the initial meeting. Perhaps she was in need of work so badly, she didn't notice anything abnormal.

Desperation blinds all, he thought.


Isabel snapped the lock on the trunk, sighing softly as she wiped her brow with a handkerchief. Thomas was in the other room of the apartment, carefully selecting which items he would take with him to their new home. The previous night, she had patiently explained why they needed to leave some things behind, even the things they would rather not part with. He had listened silently until her speech about doing without was over. Mr. Bertrand, she said, was not likely to be lenient about children's toys being strewn about his house. Thomas has smiled shyly at the gentle chide at his messy habits, then asked quietly if he could keep the cloth rabbit that Grandmother had made him.

"Yes," she had said, surprised by his lack of argument.

"And the straw hat Papa brought me from London?"

"If you wish, yes."

"Then I'll be fine." And he had bid her goodnight and gone to bed.

She couldn't suppress the swell of pride that grew in her chest. Her son was becoming a mature, level-headed man very quickly. She would have to remember to tell Daniel in her next letter.

Daniel.

She paused. Her husband had written a week ago, encouraging her to meet with the man who had placed the advertisement, looking for a housekeeper. It made sense; she had been a maid at Weatherby Park for almost ten years and certainly knew enough about keeping a house clean. Go, he had written. It can't hurt to try. You know about this work. Don't think too much, just jump in and do it.

What she hadn't expected was Mr. Bertrand. In her mind's eye, he was a cordial old gentleman, perhaps a widower, with a fondness for hunting and several pointers milling about his feet. She would make him his meals, dust the house a bit and tend to her son. They would have a roof over their heads and money enough for any provision they may need, and that was really all that she was concerned with.

But Mr. Bertrand was not, in fact, a kindly old man with dogs trying to trip him. He was a tall, dark presence, with a coldness surrounding him that was almost visible. He couldn't have been ten years older than she, yet he had the world-weary look of an old man. He was not well, of that she was certain. He had the thin appearance of many she had known who had taken to drink, nursing bottles of cheap gin at all hours, becoming skeletal and ill from lack of nourishment. She would have to take it upon herself to make sure he didn't fall into that particular fate; drunks were never reliable employers, and she didn't want Thomas exposed to it on a daily basis.

Then, of course, there was the mask. For the salary he was paying her, she was willing to accept it without question. She knew that, as time passed, her curiosity would be torturing her, but for now, the idea of five pounds a week was enough to keep her interest at bay.

Five pounds a week. She smiled to herself. It was more than she could have imagined earning. Daniel would be pleased, no doubt. Her head hung slightly at the thought of him. It had been far too long since she'd seen his face, heard his voice. Sometimes, when she lay in bed, if she was slipping into sleep slowly enough, she could almost feel his body next to hers.

Her head snapped up at the sound of Thomas' voice.

"Mama, I can't find my storybook! I can't leave without it!"

Isabel wrung her hands and turned, walking calmly into the next room to help her son.

"I found it!" he said, beaming as he held the worn book up. "I put under my bed so I wouldn't lose it." He turned back to his case, trying to fit the book in at an angle. "Do you think Mr. Bertrand has lots of books, Mama?"

"I would imagine so, dear. He seems the type."

"I hope he does. Maybe he'll let me borrow some. I hope they aren't boring books, about history or something. I can't bear boring books. Why would you write a boring book if you could help it?" And he prattled on absently, shoving more items into his case.

Isabel couldn't help but smile.


As always, biscuits and tea for Musique et Amour, my personal grammar slave and an all-around nice guy.