Erik visited nearly everyday for a week before he thought to bring up her notebooks. He hesitated to speak of them, thinking she would be angry at him for intruding upon her writings. Finally, his curiosity overwhelmed him. One day when he was sitting with her, he worked up the courage to mention the writing. "Cecily, when you were first ill, I entered your room and couldn't help noticing your notebooks."
She quirked an eyebrow. She knew all too well where this was leading. "And?"
"And I was wondering where you acquired such a strange language."
"Persian? Out of all the people in this opera house, I wouldn't think that you would call Persian strange. I learned it from books of course."
"Why learn such a language? No one here speaks it, and those who do, well, you wouldn't want to speak to them."
"You speak it," she said softly. "It is the only place in your life you ever spoke of with emotion. I thought maybe if I learned it, even as badly as I have, I could understand that one little piece."
His voice was steeled by unwanted memories when he replied, "You don't want to understand."
She looked up at him, then sat up slowly so she was at eye level. "Don't tell me what I don't want to understand."
Anger boiled just under his skin. She was not the cause of it, but she would receive the brunt of the storm. "Very well. You want so much to understand, I will tell you. I was a murderer and assassin. I built torture devices for the entertainment of a wretched woman, and willingly killed innocent victims to please the court. I spied on those suspected of treason, and put to death a good number of those I thought unfit to live. I was well acquainted with poison, knife, and hangman's rope. I was death to them, and I was rewarded for it!" His voice was dangerous a weapon in and of itself, and his eyes shot fire at her and he fought to control the volume of his voice.
She stared at him blankly. He assumed that she had been overwhelmed by his list of crimes, so it surprised him when she spoke. "So I was mostly correct."
"What?"
"Your notebooks are filled with cryptic messages of the time. Books upon books about poison, sketches of painful looking devices, and a detailed drawing of a very interesting looking lasso put me on the trail. You just filled in the details."
He was deflated, and sat back down. His anger was swept away with the calmness of her words. She watched him sit heavily in his chair, and managed a weak laugh.
"You are tired, little cat. Sleep." She didn't argue when he walked to the door and put his hand to the lock. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." He moved to slip into a passageway, but was stopped by her voice. "Oh and Erik…"
"Yes?"
"Never read my notebooks again."