Here Again
The newly reunited de Rouen family go say goodbye to Erik's mother.
A/N: the timeline for everyone's ages is different. Originally, Erik was born in 1831 in Kay!canon with his mother being 17-18. Meaning Madeleine was born in 1813, which would make her 87 in the year this fic is set (1900). However, my vision for Erik's age around the events of POTO is 39 (40 when his daughter was born). Meaning Erik was born in 1842, and Madeleine was born in 1824 and she is 74 here.
A/N 2: Erik's backstory is changing a little bit here. I am having him wind up in the freak show as an adult after the events of Persia, per the musical's version of his backstory.
The carriage stroll from Paris to Boscherville is nothing but complete silence. A long, legato silence. Mama breathes in staccato, the horses' hooves click-clack in a constant state of rhythm, and Pere is the only one of us in complete and utter silence.
I cannot imagine why he would want to speak. I know too well the shock that comes from learning about family history.
Grandmaman had come to our door with a note. Mama answered the door, puzzled as to why she had come but pleasantly surprised nonetheless. I just happened to pass by the door as she entered. Grandmaman looked as fierce as a seraph, with a serious expression on her face but a softness in her eyes.
"My dear," she addressed Mama, kissing her. Then, she pulled me into her arms. "Little dove," she greeted with an affectionate kiss to my cheek.
"Where is your father?"
"In his study," I answered. "Why? Is everything alright?"
"I have a note for him," she replied. So she is once again his secretary, I thought. Then she told Mama and I not to fret and went into the study. My father's later roar and refusal to do as asked greeted our ears about ten minutes later.
It took some prodding and persuasion, but eventually she got him to agree. When he discussed it with us later, Mama immediately told him to go. "We will come with you, Erik," she added.
So we completed a three-day long journey by sea and one day travel to get to St. Martin-de-Boscherville, to the place where my father was raised. We were going to meet a woman I'd only ever heard about, my namesake. My grandmother. She was dying, and wanted to make amends before departing this world. To prepare, I secretly wrote a requiem Mass and carried it with me, along with some other compositions of mine.
I wrote music, and now in this place there is utter silence. I should expect it. Paris was a wonderful underscore of noise and movement, gentle and yet dynamic. Boscherville is not. It is a still, small little village content to be in its own place, content to be unsung. All of the village moves past us slowly. I can just make out the spire of the grand church where Pere used to sneak off to play the organ. He told me of the kindly priest and his namesake, Fr. Erik Mansart. Could a relative of his still be there?
We continue to sit in silence. Mama gently places her hand over my father's gloved one. Her wedding ring, that old onyx and while gold band from before I was born, shines in the light. She gives him a watery, compassionate smile. You'll do fine, darling, she seems to say. Pere glances over at her, light shining in his eyes but pensiveness and gloom on the exposed part of his face. He looks like he wants to return the gesture but cannot. I do not blame him.
Pere rarely told me stories of the woman I should call grandmother. When he was only my Maestro, he told me a bit of her treatment of him in childhood and her name. I later learned it was not an "unfortunate coincidence" I shared her name. I was also named for her friend and one of the few people to ever show my father kindness. So I was born Madeleine Erika Marie de Rouen. He loved me with all his heart, however, as opposed to the first Madeleine.
The carriage stops, and dread sits over us like a toll of a bell. Out the window, a small cottage with a small walkway leading to an overgrown and dead harden greets us. The home is made of gray cobblestone, finely constructed, but so gloomy in comparison to its glory days. Like an old opera house condemned to dust.
"We are here," Pere growls. He opens the door, glides out, and leads Mama out, and then me. His arm stiffens, as though ready to catch me, ever mindful of my old foot injury. He thanks the driver and pays. I move in closer to Mama and a curtain rustles from inside the house.
They know we are here.
Pere is stiff, eyes fixed on the house he grew up in, was tormented in. His nightmares and ghostly ways began here. The tragic course of his life began in this house. My heart almost breaks for him again. I cannot imagine having to face my own demons in the house I was born in. Though I have wanted to visit that chateau, that is for another time.
Behind me, Mama reaches for Pere's hand again. "Are you ready to do this, ange? We don't have to today if you're not ready."
I can tell he is looking at her out of the corner of his eye, then at his first prison. "No. I am ready to do this now. I have to." So we slowly walk forward. Pere gets in front of us both and knocks on the door. An older woman with white hair and wrinkles on her kind face greets us. Her eyes show kindness and sympathy. Is that her?
"...Erik?" she breathes. "Is that you, after all this time?"
He gives an imperceptible nod. The woman furrows her brow at him. "Do you remember me? I'm Mademoiselle Perrault—Marie."
"Mlle. Perrault," he says. "How lovely to see you again." His tone is genuine. Given the two things I know of Marie Perrault: her kindness and her being his nurse after the incident with the mirror, those words must be real. No wonder I was named for her.
"Come in, come in."
She ushers us all inside, revealing a neglected and old-fashioned parlor room. Two couches are there along with a china cabinet, a fireplace, an old portrait and, thank heaven, a piano. Mlle. Perrault turns back to us. "Is this your family?" she asks.
Pere visibly relaxes at the use of the word "family." "My wife, Christine, and our daughter." He extends his hand to both of us. Mama and I both smile at her and curtsy a greeting. I cannot help but notice the deliberate omission of my name.
"They're lovely, Erik. Truly wonderful. I'm glad you've done well for yourself."
My heart is warmed by the thought while my stomach turns at the other implications. Mlle. Perrault knows nothing of the unsavory parts of my father's history—the time travelling in freak shows, Persia, his manipulation of Mama. Yet she knows nothing of his redemption either: from a scared little boy to a damaged but living, loving man.
She offers to take our things upstairs. Pere flinches for a moment. "Just to the second level, if that is alright. We have a spare room if you need to stay," she reassures.
He nods and she goes. "It will be no more than one night," he says in a reassuring voice. More to himself than to us, I realize.
"Perhaps that is for the best," Mama agrees. "Will there be a hotel for us overnight?" she drops her voice low so no one else can hear.
"I will find one as soon as possible."
After a moment, I ask: "Ma pere, does Mlle. Perrault look like you remember?"
He sits down and thinks. "Older, but the same kind eyes she always had. Mlle. Perrault was almost the closest thing to a mother I had growing up. The trouble was her timid nature. The only time she ever stood up to my mother was—" he stops and looks around, as if on guard, "my birthday."
Mama and I exchange a glance. We need to help get him out of this mood. "But you said she encouraged you?" she asks.
"Yes. She was the one who encouraged my mother to get money to make a mirror. She was scared of my precocious mind, but wanted me to use it."
I nod. A lot like my relatives growing up. Only I was not ridiculed or hidden away because of my face. My own mama would never allow that. Poor Pere! Mlle. Perrault comes downstairs, waiting with folded hands in front of her at the bottom. "I will get some tea for us, if you wish. Please, feel free to make yourselves comfortable. I will just be a moment."
She goes off and prepares tea on an old samovar. While china tinkles and clicks in the kitchen, I try to take in the scenery in the parlor. The piano looks appealing, but must be out of tune.
I discreetly glide towards it and go to sit down when Pere's gloved hand catches my wrist. As if trying to distract me, he presses a tiny kiss to my fingers. "Later, my songbird." Then he lowers his voice using his projecting and ventriloquism. "We'll fix it together. That old piano is dreadfully out of tune."
I smile at that.
"Darling, is this place as you remember?" Mama asks.
He looks at the room with a sneer that only fades when his eyes land on Mama. "Yes. Every piece of old furniture is still here. I daresay my mother taught me how to best preserve old things."
Minutes later, Mlle. Perrault comes in with a tray and saucers, the pot of tea in the center. The china is old but looks beautiful, with pink ornate designs against the white. She offers to turn on a gas lamp so we can see. The colors in the parlor are illumined to reveal dark green and yellow, and below our feet is an imitation Persian carpet. A side glance at my father reveals him looking down for a brief second in distaste, which he rapidly disguises.
The tea is poured and chatter begins. "Erik, how did you meet your wife?"
Pere looks surprised at her question and rubs his hand against his bony kneecap. "I met my Christine at the Opera Populaire in Paris. She was a chorus girl in the ballet at the time. I tutored her to sing and she later triumphed over Paris." He casts a loving glance her way, one that she looks away at but smiles. Then, her hand travels to his, her thumb creating small circles of affection.
Mlle. Perrault's eyes widen. "Ah, you are Christine Daae! La Daae! How did I not recognize you before? All of France seems to know of you, Madame!"
Mama laughs and smiles. "Thank you, Mlle. Perrault. I had a great teacher who ensured my success."
"Later on, I taught this little songbird how to sing, as well," he gestures to me and I blush. "Though by the time I taught her, she was already working as a pianist at my opera house in New York."
"You can sing as well?" I nod at her question. "Wonderful! It runs in the family, I suppose. Madeleine could sing as well and was very good at it."
"She could?" I ask.
Mlle. Perrault nods. "She wanted to sing on the stage before she met Charles."
"Charles was my grandfather?" Mama told me I would have been named Gustave Charles had I been a boy. Pere mentioned that he only kept his last name out of love for his late father.
"Yes. He was an architect and mason. He was working in Rouen when Madeleine's father met him. Madeleine met him and fell madly in love."
I glance up at the portrait, trying to focus on the man to the right. Charles de Rouen was young and handsome, with tanned skin and chiseled features—striking cheekbones, brown eyes, and dark hair. He was well-built, suited for his work in masonry. No wonder she fell in love with him.
"They met in the summer and were married the next year. I'd never seen Madeleine so happy."
"Hard to call a woman who disdained everyone happy," Papa remarks. Mama glances at him as if to scold him, but squeezes his hand.
I have to change the subject. "How did you meet Madeleine?" How odd it is to use my name to refer to someone else!
Mlle. Perrault explains that she and Madeleine both went to school in a convent, that Marie was quite unpopular and Madeleine saved her from harassment. Madeleine befriended her and Marie was grateful for the company. Their relationship spoke of a power imbalance—headstrong Madeleine being unafraid to speak her mind, and Marie passively accepting everything, one that clearly continued into my papa's childhood.
We continue to make some chit-chat, and Mlle. Perrault asks about my own childhood. Beads of sweat form on my head at her question. How was I to explain that the man sitting next to me did not raise me for the majority of my childhood? That I only reunited with him in New York a year ago? That my parents have only been (re)married for six months?
"I had a happy childhood, Mlle. Perrault. I was the only child of two loving parents, and from an early age I was in love with music. My father later trained me to become an opera singer myself." And my contract with the company in Italy is still holding until the next year, for I have to complete my turn as Susannah and give a proper violin performance.
"Erik and I traveled around to continue my career until I had Madeleine, and then we resumed it once she was about a year old." Surprise fills me—I didn't think Mama would mention her past as La Divina. "We toured many interesting places together, and our home was built outside Rouen. We now live in New York, of course."
"What is America like? I have never been and hear it is an…interesting place."
My parents tell her of the city while I study the other person in the portrait, trying to be discreet. Madeleine de Rouen. My beautiful namesake and my father's first abuser. It is almost hard to imagine such a striking woman being so cruel. She had thick, long brown curls and some finer features—a straighter nose, more impressive cheekbones—a thin build and those eyes. Those piercing, light blue eyes. Papa must hate looking at them in the mirror as well. Yet she wears an expression of disdain and haughtiness that matches one I've seen on upper-class faces when discussing people beneath their station. She was well-dressed, hinting at her status.
At last, Marie glances up above us. "I suppose Madeleine is upstairs. If you are ready, I will help her downstairs."
"Marie?" Calls a weak voice, much closer than we anticipated.
I turn to look at the woman of flesh and blood. Madeleine de Rouen now bears little resemblance to the much younger version in the portrait. Her bony features are now there, but with her fragile skin they add to her frailty. She seems to shake where she stands due to old age. Her curls are looser, almost non-existent and her hair is completely white. The only thing that remains the same are her eyes. Papa's eyes. My eyes.
"Madeleine," calls Marie, going over to her friend's side. "You have visitors, darling."
She is completely focused on my papa, who is standing there and staring back at her. He is tall and imposing, something he is aware of, but he is vulnerable before her. He seems to shake in his shoes, a grown man becoming a little boy before my eyes. Then, he breathes in, regains some of his pride, and says: "Madame."
Madame, not even 'Mother.' Madame. He'd said the same to Mama the night they reunited, only here there was no hint of that warmth and repressed love in his voice. His voice is utterly cold. The voice of the Phantom.
Madeleine, for her part, stares back in shock. She gapes at him, mouths his name, and then says, "Erik?"
He does not nod, does not cross the room to hold her. The tension between them is palpable. No one moves as long-lost mother and son look at each other and wonder what the years apart have done. Papa didn't tell me how old he was when he left home, but I knew he was still a child. She must be shocked to see that boy now grown, a man, no longer afraid of her.
Finally, Madeleine glances at Mama and I. "Who are they?"
His voice returns to that normal tone. "My wife, Christine, and our daughter." Again, my name is omitted. Likely to not give her the satisfaction of knowing we share a name, so she will not think I was named for her. (To be fair, it was a coincidence—I was named for a church).
"Hello, Madame," Mama says. Years of being a Vicomtesse gave her the skill of sounding pleased to meet company. That, and Mama is a genuinely sweet woman who I suppose is trying to find something to like about this woman.
"Hello," I greet. Perhaps I can be like my mother. If I could forgive and love my father, a known murderer, I could find it in myself to forgive this woman, too.
"Madeleine, I'm going to help you sit down and pour you some tea, yes?"
Madeleine nods and Marie then hands her a cup with utmost care. I almost pity the frail woman sitting nearby. Papa moves on the other side of the couch. His message is clear. Yet she studies him with almost frightening intensity. I know where he got his stare from.
"Where did you go?" she asks. Not 'how are you' or 'I am proud of you' but 'where did you go?'
"I traveled. I supported myself through playing music on the streets and stealing to survive until I wound up in Italy, working as an apprentice for a master mason. After two years, I traveled once more, all over Europe. Eventually, I went to Russia, later Persia. Then to Paris, where I met Christine. We had our daughter in Rouen."
Madeleine blinks, as though taken aback. I know things he is omitting: his travels with the Tonkin Pirates. His time in Constantinople. His time in the fair. The events of the Populaire. His current successes as the owner of an opera house. His time as a contractor. His real doings in Persia. I've a feeling he will not be delving into any of these with her. "I didn't know you had your daughter so close by—what is her name?"
She studies me with weak, but curious eyes. Her look is still piercing.
"Her name is Madeleine—Christine named her, after the church where we got married," Pere says. Madeleine's eyes seem to brighten and then to dim in just-as-quick surprise. She would have no good reason to believe he named me in honor of her, if my father's stories were correct.
"How old is she—how old are you?"
Finally, the first real chance I am afforded to speak. "I am seventeen"-how do I address her? Madame seems too cold and informal, but Grandmother sounds too intimate for a woman I've only just met and heard not-so-flattering stories about— "Madame." I try to make my voice sound as pleasant as possible.
"I take it you are a musician as well? With a heavenly voice?" Her tone is testing, like she is trying to hide something unpleasant while also sounding genuine.
"Yes, I suppose," I breathe, attempting to sound like a laugh.
My father immediately takes a defensive mode. "I always encouraged my child's voice, Madame. Madeleine is becoming a renowned singer after a long time of training. Not to mention she is a skilled pianist and violinist."
Part of me feels defensive in his attack. As if to prove his humanity to his own mother, he has to prove that I am normal and an accomplished musician. The world loved some members of the de Rouen family.
It is Mlle. Perrault who speaks next. "I assume you taught her all you know, Erik?"
He relaxes a little, and I smile up at him. Playing the part of a girl utterly devoted to her father, perhaps to show his mother that someone can genuinely love him. He makes an observation, "This place has not changed since I've been here. I assumed you would have…moved away."
Madeleine stiffens at those last two words. "I sent Dr. Bayre away, Erik. He left Boscherville years ago and I haven't seen him since you left."
It is now his turn to stiffen. Who is Dr. Bayre? "I truly hope you are telling me the truth, Madame."
Once again, Mlle. Perrault nods. "That's true, Erik."
He takes in the news, ponders. "I've told you of what happened since I left this house. Perhaps now you can tell me what happened to you." He leans back, putting a long leg on top of another and bouncing the leg still on the floor. Like a king on his throne waiting for news from a sniveling subject.
Madeleine's voice is thick with tears when she speaks. "I woke up and you were gone. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was, how I wanted to be a better mother. I burned all of them, you know."
My papa's eyes light at the word, them, and Madeleine continues. "I put an ad in the paper to find you. There was no success. A few times I tried going around France to no avail. Some time ago, Marie heard of strange events at the Populaire. It did not take me long to realize it was you."
"Why didn't you reach out before?" he asks, his voice strained and broken. Almost as if he wanted to be found.
"I only heard of the events a few years ago."
Before she can ask about the unsavory doings of Le Fantome, he asks, "what else happened? What of Fr. Mansart?"
She swallows. "He died years ago, Erik. They still hold a Mass every year for the repose of his soul. He…counseled me from all my guilt after you left."
His mouth goes into a line, and I can see a line in his jaw. Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He is morphing into the Phantom before my eyes. "Guilt, Madame? Hard to imagine guilt over losing the child you thought was a monster."
"Erik–" comes Mama, trying to put a gentle hand on him to restrain him. He puts a hand up and stands, stalking towards Madeleine.
"Tell me, Madame, what did you feel guilt over? Hmm? Should we start with the beatings, where any one transgression I committed earned a hit? Or that you made me a mask as my first present? Or that I was hit for simply being left handed? Or that poor, dear Sasha was a better parent to me than you ever were?"
"Erik, please—"
He turns to Mama. I want to stop him from doing this any further, but part of me knows better. We are both hellions when enraged. "My dear Christine," he hisses the pet name like a snake, a hunter preparing a trap. I look at the poor old woman in front of me, backing into her chair like a frightened deer. If there is one thing my father is excellent at, it is inducing hurt in others, and using fear and intimidation to do it. The dark side of him that neither Mama nor I like to admit is there. "If my mother truly wishes to make an apology, perhaps she should own her sins. Maybe we should speak of the exorcism she and Fr. Mansart forced on me."
"Erik, stop!" cries Madeleine. I turn to look at her, her eyes wide and retreating back like she wants to hide from the world. She did not give that command as a mother, but as a victim. "I am sorry! I would take it all back if I could! I was just a child myself, I didn't know what to do!"
"You could've loved me!" he thunders, voice booming enough to shake the cottage. I jump at his loud volume; he pays me no heed. Once more he is that intimidating Angel of Music, that terrifying Opera Ghost. "All I wanted from you was one ounce of affection. One word of encouragement, one embrace, one little kiss. Yet you could not even give me that! I made you give all your love to that blasted shepherd boy and would dream, would dream, Madame, that it was me! No, you looked upon the monster you bore with nothing but hatred."
She is sobbing now, shoulders shaking and breath hitching. He does not relent. "So I was determined I would never end up like you. I would love my child, even if she inherited my curse. To show you that even a monster could give love and affection." His last sentence comes out as a cold, heartless whisper: "it is too late for your pleas, Madame."
With that, he stalks out of the house before either of us can stop him. No doubt to go look for a hotel and get us out of here for the night.
Poor Madeleine is shrinking into herself, crying ugly tears now. Her voice is strangled. "It's no use, Marie. I thought, I thought I could—" She puts her head into her hands and weeps. Pity makes me want to reach out to this broken woman, and tell her that no, he is merely being difficult, I understand, it is not her fault, etc.
But I cannot console her with lies.
While I hate it when my father calls himself a monster, I cannot deny that he has been one. He acted cruelly towards an old woman, his mother, with no care for how he was treating her. No regard for her cries of mercy. He acted cruelly towards the entire world, devoid of empathy or even compassion for the rest of the human race. His time as a killer, as the Opera Ghost, all prove such.
And yet…if this woman had shown him compassion, he would not be that kind of man. He would not have killed or manipulated to try and force some love his way. The entire course of his life would have been different. Yet still, even after learning how to love a woman and even care for a child, he still uses his anger to get what he wants. On some level, it is simply wrong.
Marie consoles my grandmother and pats her back like how one does a child. "There, there, Madeleine."
Mama is the first to speak. "I am so sorry, Madame. I don't know—know how to make it better." I almost want to laugh. It is as though she is apologizing for a rabid dog or her own child and not a grown man.
"It is not your fault, Madame," Marie replies.
"Christine, please." I wonder if Mama simply wants to avoid going by Madame de Rouen for now, if only to preserve Madeleine's feelings.
Madeleine sniffles and looks up at us. "I just wish he would understand…I was a bad mother…but now I…before I die…but I regret it all. I regret everything…"
Marie turns compassionate eyes on Madeleine. "Why don't we show Christine and…Madeleine where they are staying?"
She sniffles once again. "Yes."
They lead us upstairs, and we say nothing. I want to ask about the music notes scribbled haphazardly onto the wallpaper, but know better than to say anything. I try to make a note to copy down the music and play it later.
"Here is the guest room," Marie says. The room is old and a little dusty, but usable. There is a wardrobe, chest of drawers, faded royal blue carpet, and a bed. A bowl for water, and pitcher are also there. "I will let you get settled in while I prepare supper."
Mama and I thank them both. Marie walks away calmly whilst Madeleine hobbles. A stab of pity goes through me. I begin to unpack.
It is strange to reflect on. I have been in my father's place, years ago. He let us—no, abandoned, both of us and rightly earned my ire. It took me some time to forgive him fully. I have been the child abandoned and given back a parent who wanted to make things right—even if he never wanted to tell me the truth. Our anger does not help. If he wishes to rebuild his relationship with his mother, he will have to try and forgive her.
Mama and I unpack in silence. Her movements are graceful, but punctuated. She must be angry with him as well for the terrible position he has placed us in. Or angry at Madeleine for how she treated him. Or both.
I break the awful silence first. "Where do you think he went?"
"Maybe to the church, to play on that organ and let off some of his anger." She exhales a sigh and fixes her dress. Her ring catches the light. As if to remind us both of that promise to stay with him for better or worse.
"Will he be back?"
"He should be. But just leave him be, love."
"Perhaps he should've—"
She gives me that look. "Gossiping over it will not help, darling. He is angry and has a lot to work through, and that's something you or I will not be able to imagine."
I nod in agreement. I want to know more about this. I need to learn of it not from my grandmother, but from my other namesake. Marie Perrault. The poor woman who has been caught in this conflict for years.
"Let's go back downstairs and be hospitable, yes?" Mama says. I can tell part of it is to save our pride. Showing Madeleine we are civilized people. Hating that line of thought but following after Mama, I trail behind her.
Pere does return later, when Mama and I are going upstairs for the night. We both stare at him. Nothing looks disheveled or dirty, and he is standing by the window. Perhaps he got in that way. It doesn't matter. He's back and safe. "Thank God you're alright," I breathe, resisting the urge to go over to him and hold him.
Mama takes another approach, taking a small step inside the room. I am still on the threshold. "We need to talk, Erik."
Her tone makes me wary. My papa is the first to speak, looking at me. "Get out your violin, sweet. And play it." The unspoken reason is clear. Though I do not want to be excluded from this discussion.
"All three of us need to speak. Erik, I understand that you are in a lot of pain being back here. I understand that you are angry and hurting. But you cannot just leave her like that."
He raises a brow her way. Mama ushers me further inside and shuts the door.
"So then you are taking her side, my bride?" Not Christine. My bride. The object of his obsession and therefore expected to agree with him. He looks ever the imposing one in his suit, standing at his full, skeletal height.
Now he is being cruel. Mama does not react. "Erik. I know you are upset. I am angry at her, too, for how horribly she treated you, but you cannot simply hurt people like that."
"Hurt her? I hurt her? No, my heart, I am simply showing her what she wants to see. That I am a monster and her efforts for pity are meaningless. She chose to treat me as one when I was a child—why should I be any different as a man?"
He is toying with us. "Because you are no monster!" I insist, passion imbuing my own voice with anger. Why is he being so stubborn? Mama puts a restraining hand on my wrist.
"Our daughter is right," she whispers. Pere sits on the bed, looking up at Mama with angered eyes. "You are not a monster," she says, "and I wish you would show her that."
His expression softens, likely since he realizes Mama is upset. "Christine, you would like to forget that I have done brutish things. Believe me, I would, too—but I was shaped by a past that started here, in this house. I did horrible things to people whom I thought weren't worth living simply because they had whole faces. And if she showed me any dignity at all, I would not have done those things. So yes, forgive me for lashing out at the only parent I had, but I cannot forget the things I have done and ones she unwittingly started. I am to blame for my actions, but my life would have been different if she thought to love me instead of hate me."
He sighs and stands up, turning away to look out the window. Was he deprived of even that as a child? "It was why I was overprotective of you, Madeleine, when you were little. All the affection I never got, I was keen to give you."
Even now, his affection can be almost cloying. He sees me as both an adult, a musician and able to defend myself, and a little girl still in need of him. I merely nod at his assertion. "You would never grow up as I did," he confirms.
"See? You are a good father," I point out, trying to keep my voice soothing. If I inherited anything from him, it is the skill to hypnotize with my voice. (Though I tried on him, and it did not work). "She will see that in time. She will."
"But still, you do not know the things she would do to me. My horrid temper, that came from her. She would hide me away in the attic above our heads. I grew smart and learned to sneak out. She lost patience trying to teach me to write and beat me. I was forbidden from singing, as she thought my voice was of the devil. I was well-educated, and that was about the only good she did for me. She told me when I was eight or nine that she hated me. She hated me, her own child." His voice catches, but he swallows the lump in his throat. "Then the mob came. Those boys killed Sasha. She took a liking to the town doctor, and he had to come to the house and heal me. He wanted to put me into an insane asylum. While everyone was asleep, I left." He looks at us with tears in his eyes. "So forgive me, Christine, for not welcoming her with open arms."
I am near tears, too, and so is Mama. "I know. Erik, I know."
He crosses the room to go into her waiting arms. Mama pulls his head to her shoulder and strokes his wig with her fingers, her nail dancing on the shining black hair. "I am sorry for embarrassing you, my angel."
"Erik," Mama whispers. "My poor Erik. Min angelmusiken."
