Thank you so much, everyone, who's been reading and liking it, I'm always delighted and grateful to hear what you think. Hope you enjoy what happens next, and it doesn't disappoint! Much love!

*-* Christine IV – Looking for him

He had gone as suddenly as he'd appeared. And right after she'd told him her name. Why?

She got off the roof, her cheeks stiff from the tears. He had such an extraordinary voice. And the way he'd sung of his feelings, putting into music what his speech would not say… She had understood him, even if only for a moment. Had felt his soul, and the torment it bore.

It was obsessing her. Even as the night came back to life, with all its noises and whispers, the wind felt cold on her arms, her heart strangely empty. She returned inside, settling into bed after her quick night routine, but found sleep evaded her. She turned and turned, rolling back the covers, as his voice kept echoing in her mind, soft and soul-deep.

What a strange man, indeed.

And now what? Would she spend her nights singing to empty vineyards and forget about that voice?

Would he ever come back?

Despite his harsh words, and his disdain, he knew what he was speaking about. How come was he there, alone at night?

Stories and myths rose to the front of her mind, whispering of monsters and mysterious figures from a long-ago past, or beloved, frightening tales. There had been such characters, in them. But this was real. He'd been a real man, who talked and moved and handed her a real handkerchief. She still had it, a proof of what had happened.

She got up from the bed, and went to her living room, where she'd put it on the table after she'd come back down. With the light on, she could see how precious it was. Soft and exquisite, its feel ancient, small letters embroidered on it.

C. D

Had he known a Christine before? Had he suffered because of one, and was that why he had left?

She couldn't say she didn't understand. After her father's death, she'd stopped listening to violin solos, and could still hardly bear anything with one in it, five years afterwards. And the name of her ex-boyfriend was taboo, too, now. There was no use in bringing up unwanted memories.

She missed him already, wanted to know more. But how would she find him? He hadn't left any address on his letter, had only told her his first name.

No. Unless she was lucky, and he came back the next night to hear her sing again, she wouldn't see him again.

The thought was a cold hand crushing her heart.

She spent the whole week singing every night. He didn't return.

And so she went to bed every morning with a heavy heart, his song still on a loop in her mind.

It had been so long since she'd been obsessed by anything like this, she could hardly bear it. She looked for lyrics, trying to find where he found them, but they didn't exist. It was an original composition.

He'd written them, and their melody, too.

A composer, in addition to a talented, soul-wrenching singer.

So she took the next step. She went to every market, each day a new one, and discreetly asked about a wonderful singer, wandering the fields at night. She was met with indifference, ignorance and sometimes, something strange, akin to suspicion.

"Why are you asking this? It's none of your business. Better stay away from the hills at night, girl."

And she'd been dismissed.

She began to feel like there were no more trails to track, by the end of the week, but she finally got lucky.

There was an old woman, in her hundreds, who'd been living in the village her entire life, sitting at a traditional candle-making shop. She was half-blind, her skin brown with the sun, but her voice was clear and precise.

"I know of whom you speak, dear, but he doesn't like visitors. He stays to himself, and pays us handsomely to keep people away."

"You know him?"

"I have met him once. My mother used to bring him his shopping, once a week. Now my grand-daughter does that. He loves our candles."

"Would you tell me where he lives?"

"He's best left alone, child. We keep his existence a secret from the others, because he's asked us to."

"Please. I… I need to find him."

The old woman reached out, seizing Christine's hand.

"I can feel your intentions are pure. But remember my words: you may be regretting your decision."

She told her of the old manor on the top of the hills, hidden by the forest of pines and oaks and cypresses, and the small path that lead to it.

Christine thanked her profusely, and came back home. Her heart was beating hard. Now she had an address, and would go visit him tonight.

She would beg him if she had to, but she would hear him sing again.

*-* Christine V - Erik's Manor

Right before the sunset, she drove around dozens of curves, up the narrow paths leading to that old, beautiful manor lost in the middle of the forest, overlooking vineyards and fields alike.

Just like her house, it was made in the yellow, dry stones of the area, with red tiles to better blend in. All around the property, the soil was red and orange, ochre from the strange geological anomaly of this region. Until not that long ago, there had been miners to dig it and turn it into paint or dye. Now they had all gone, and the village not far from it had made it its trademark.

Here, it was especially dark: the soil was blood red, and the light from the fading sun didn't help keep that image away from her overreacting brain.

She left her car outside the gates, on a small pier overlooking the valley. There was no name, no address, only a small letterbox.

Perhaps she should have left something there?

But no. The road had been long to come up here, and she wouldn't go back to her house, a full hour from there, without having seen him.

She was mad, to come up here, unannounced, when he had made it clear he didn't want to see or hear her again. Who knew what could happen here, all alone with a man she'd only met once?

She shook her head. Now was not the time to doubt herself: she hadn't done all this in vain.

She pushed open the gates. She had expected a noise, some creaking, perhaps, but they opened easily, showing they were often used and well-cared for. The paint was fresh, too, and the forest, while overgrown and wild, was well-looked after.

Here, just as when he'd been near the previous week, the hill was silent and still, the noises of the forest and fields gone. She felt like she had stepped into a faery space: out of time, ethereal and unearthly.

She made her way down the alley to the small steps of the front door, made of beautiful, old oak. Her own door was just like it, dark, with faded markings and iron forgings.

There was no ringing button, but a heavy, strange-shaped knocker, in black iron too. Taking a deep breath, she knocked three times and waited.

And waited.

She could hear no noise, no signs of movements, or even feel a presence hiding inside its walls. Yet she knew he must have been there. The certainty of it filled her very bones.

She knocked again.

"Erik? It's me. Please let me in. I want to talk to you."

The air vibrated around her, charged with warm heaviness, as the sky turned a deeper purple.

There.

Barely there small footsteps on a tiled floor.

"Why have you come?"

She shuddered again. His voice hadn't been a dream, or her wild imagination. It was as silky as she remembered, even while tinted with quiet despair.

"I just want to talk to you."

"You have. Now go."

Why was he pushing her away?

"Please, Erik…," she pleaded.

He fell silent, behind the door, and she felt sure he was going to let her there, and wait for her to leave.

Until the door slowly opened.

She peeked inside, greeted with the glow of a thousand candles and candelabra, and a light perfume of… Lavender? And… Lemon?

"Come in."

She stepped into the hall while he closed the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the low light and she looked at him. As before, he was tall and thin, with black hair and… His face… She couldn't shake away the off-feeling she had with his handsome face. But she was too polite to say something, and instead remained smiling and silent.

"Follow me," he said after a minute, as he began striding towards a door at the back of the hall. "Forgive me, I wasn't expecting guests."

He led her to another candle lit room, its only window covered with heavy drapes. The fireplace was huge, and mercifully cold. Still, the air felt a bit too warm for her taste. There were bookcases on the wall, a grand piano in a corner and a harp.

He gestured for her to sit in the leather sofa, while he took the armchair by her side. His movements were elegant and efficient, almost feline in nature. Just as listening to his voice, watching his body moving was fascinating.

"So here we are, my dear mademoiselle. You wanted to talk, now we can."

"Do you play these instruments, as well as you sing?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, from the way he hesitated, but his face didn't move. There no emotions from it.

He was wearing a mask.

"I do."

That was why it felt off. It was beautifully and cleverly done, and up until close you wouldn't see the difference, but here, reflecting the low light, she could notice it.

"Erik, you sang beautifully, the other night. I… I wanted to hear you again, if… If you'd like to indulge me."

He didn't know what to do. He stayed away, wallowing in his misery, not even going out to feed himself, and ignoring the strange impulse to go back to hear her sing. Her name had been a sign not to return. He would ruin her life, the way he'd almost done a hundred years ago to a woman who had borne that accursed and yet most revered name.

And then she found him. Looked for him, turned up out here in his retreat. She was curious and wanting for more of his voice. He knew he shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have sung and ensnared her like that. But it hadn't been his intent! His song was powerful whether he actually tried or not.

Now what?

Would it hurt to pretend a bit more? To feel like she asked to hear him because she wanted to and not because she needed to?

"If you wish it, then I shall sing," he carefully replied.

She settled in the sofa, not caring how strange it was, that she'd stalked a stranger back to his home and asked for another song. Her life had been full of wonders and tales, and she didn't care what others might think should they see her. The only person whose opinion had ever truly mattered was dead. And the other one had left her. And as much as it had hurt, she couldn't resent him for his choice. He had always loved freedom, just as she did, and the sea had called for him. Had their places been reversed, she would have answered that call as well, the stirring in her soul too great to resist.

And now that voice called back to her, as he started to sing. He beckoned to her, now, whispering under her skin, inside her veins, wrapping his melody around her heart.

Sing. Join me.