To say I was disappointed in Monsieur Dubois would be a bit of an understatement. He arrived home without his daughter, grabbed one of his many "call bags" and turned his back to the door. "I'll be gone for a week, monsieur. Please take care of Aminta-Rose for my sake. Should anything happen to her, I would have to inform the authorities, and that would not work out well for either of us." He then turned and marched out the door once more. The roaring engine of an automobile faded away as he left.

When Aminta-Rose returned to the manor by herself, I found myself looking for her reaction to her father's disappearance. There was not much of a reaction until she looked at the message I had left her. She looked around, eyes shining with amusement. "Bravo, Dad." She called out. When Monsieur Dubois did not appear there, she shrugged and left for her room.

A call from Calais must have come in, I realized. Her father was a good man; he would not leave her alone with a monster for a week if he did not have to. I went to her room after a minute, having allowed her to change in privacy. Despite the horrendous deeds I had committed in the past, I refused to be like the peeking stage hands. I heard the sound of paper tearing, and I watched her write out something in a green pen. Once she was done, the message went under the door.

I slipped out of the walls into the hallway. The paper was quickly snatched up by my black gloved hand. As I read over it, I could not help but allow surprise to enter my mind. A note written to the obedient servant rather than by. None of the others had ever been so bold, and there had been plenty of others.

Elliana could attest to that.

I wrote her a note back and waited until she fell asleep. Once I was certain I would not be discovered, I stepped out from the wall and slid my reply under her pillow. Standing over her, I felt the rush that I used to get when I controlled the opera house.

Now that was ancient history.

I turned to leave the room, only to stop when I heard a peculiar noise. Looking at her once more, I found her face scrunched into an expression of resistance. She desperately kicked at the blankets. Her fists battered the pillows. For a moment, I felt deeply concerned about her wellbeing.

Stop. We have work to do. I reminded myself. Stepping into the hidden passages once more, I made my way to her room. The one Monsieur Dubois had been working on before my "interruption" stalled him.

The beige carpet was still singed, particularly in four precise points on the floor. I amazed myself sometimes. Burning the bed had sent a very clear message, which Monsieur Dubois received very clearly. Somewhere I still had the note he had written me in which he demanded I let him finish his daughter's room.

I responded with questions about the girl. Monsieur Dubois was vague when sharing about Aminta-Rose. He spoke very little about her then-current living conditions, electing to tell me only her name, age, and level of obedience. It was almost reminiscent of the time when the Thomas patriarch tried justifying the presence of a horrendous mutt in my home.

Watching her walk into the manor for the first time, it was like reading a page of a book. The wonder and awe that shown in her blue eyes was child-like. Pure and innocent. However, when she was shown to her temporary room, I was able to watch them harden, like a true soldier's when discussing the horrors of war.

We have work to do. Stop dawdling. My thoughts snapped, forcing me back on track.

During my time, I had been many things. One was an architect. This made fixing the damage that I had caused quite simple. Or at least, simpler than what Monsieur Dubois had suggested. Asking for assistance, as if we need it. I worked through the night, not needing to stop.

I had not had to sleep since before Germany invaded.

Light soon poured through the windows, and I heard the sound of Mademoiselle Dubois's voice. "Very funny." The words floated through the house, signaling that my work had to end. Lest she discover me.

The walls were no barrier to me, I could slip through hidden openings and travel through them wherever I would like to go. Where to was up to Mademoiselle Dubois, and it appeared as if she did not know where to go. She wandered through the majority of the manor, peeking into the rooms for no more than a second before closing the doors and moving on. I followed, curious as to what she was thinking.

She froze in the kitchen, reading over a note that Monsieur Dubois had laid out before leaving for Calais. It caused her to narrow her eyes, scrunch her forehead, and rub the corner.

That was when she met Elliana.

At first, their words were clipped and necessary. Then Mademoiselle Dubois asked a question. "Do you know someone named Madelaine, Madame?"

It could have been easily overlooked. A question of innocence, perhaps some sort of American joke. A stereotype based around that name would make sense given its popularity at one point. Her eyes gave away her meaning, however. Somehow she had heard of Madelaine and Elliana in the short amount of time that she had been in country. Had the circumstances been different, I would have forgiven and forgotten. But it was in the rules, which she had read over and agreed to. Elliana was smart enough to give a nonreactive answer, but it did not change the situation.

Curiosity must be controlled. Many lives were lost in times long past because they could not quench their need to know.

My plan to trap her in the performance hall worked well. She walked in with no resistance, and seemed quite frightened when she realized that escape was futile. I felt a touch of empathy for her, especially as she searched desperately for the mobile telephone that had fallen out of her pocket and into my hands. Hopefully this would be enough that she would think before asking more questions without my consideration. I was about to turn on the lights when a strange, revitalizing sound filled the air.

Music. Just the lyrics to a quiet song.

The words were strange, but not meaningless. In truth, they were not what I was paying attention to. Aminta-Rose Dubois's singing was not magnificent – only one person that I had ever met had a voice that left him speechless, but thinking about her was like picking at bloody stitches – but it was above the average singing that I had had to endure throughout my time. She sounded…sad. And scared.

I hurriedly scratched out a note on some spare parchment that I had carried with me and left it out on the center table, with the telephone of course. Flicking the switch meant fleeing the scene quickly, and I took no small amount of pleasure in watching her run from the hall. It was just like the old days.


I'm sorry that this wasn't out sooner. I've just gotten done with finals, and I have two weeks to keep working on this. I wish you all many happy holidays, and I will update as soon as I can.

Thank you to all the people who have followed, favorited, and commented. Comments encourage me.