Part Two

Chapter Seven

Benjamin Persson, respected wealthy merchant in a small sea town south of Kalmat, rose just as the sun began to peak over the horizon of the sea, as he did every morning. Making his way to the kitchen, he laid some bacon in a skillet and began to fry it before pouring himself a glass of the milk his stable boy, Karl, had procured just that morning. Karl tended to the cow, Mary Lou, and the horse, Lightening. Otherwise, Benjamin and his wife had no other help, though not because they did not have the monetary means; it was simply because the couple preferred doing things for themselves...preferred keeping to themselves in general, for that matter.

In the nine months since they'd settled into their small cottage, scarcely anyone had bothered them, save a few farmers and fellow merchants who were interested in a bit of trade with Benjamin. Oddly, however, each time the three different men attempted this, Karl answered and told them his master had nothing to trade at the time. The neighbors had no choice but to assume this Persson was simply antisocial...that, or a fraud. The goodnatured folk of the small town had the good grace to believe the former.

Benjamin could hardly be bothered with the antics of his neighbors, and had instructed Karl straightaway to always answer the door with the same response. He knew there must have been gossip spread about him, for after the first month, no one attempted to meet him. And he rather preferred it that way. This life of quiet solitude by the sea was precisely what he needed after such chaos in his life. Although he'd never experienced anything quite like it, he found he liked the simple life of living off what you needed alone, and enjoying pleasures with no complications; no problems.

That was, of course, except the issue of his wife...

Erik stared at him reflection in the mirror hanging across the room. For the better part of the past year and a half, he had been not Erik, but a stranger named Benjamin Persson, his alleged wife a Christine Persson. They'd lived peacefully, no more disturbances since they'd fled the bed and breakfast outside Stockholm, in fact. Yes, he'd watched the news carefully, but stories concerning himself, Christine, and Inspector Miford had slowly trickled away, until there were none to be found. He assumed Sweden could easily forget the two Parisian convicts, for they'd never surfaced, and never directly affected anyone they knew.

Erik could not help but notice with a gentle, indifferent eye how healthy Christine seemed within months of living by the sea. He could easily understand what returning to one's homeland can do for one's health, not to mention the sea itself. During the warmer months, Christine had swam, waded, or walked along the beach, her feet bare. As had been imprinted upon Erik at a young age in the gypsy camps, the sea had mystical, marvelous healing properties, which humans were not meant to understand, only appreciate. He'd never really understood until he'd seen the effect the ocean had made on Christine.

Underneath it all, however, he had to admit to detecting a layer of unease...it was an odd thing; he couldn't be sure of what it was composed of. Grief, of course, and anger likely, as well, but there was more to it than that. She was almost wandering, searching, but for what, he did not know.

In any case, the seclusion had given her time to think, which he knew was imperative to mental health in general, but especially when one was grieving. He knew she had not entirely come to terms with Raoul's death, nor could he expect her to. He had no doubt that her healing would have came at a much quicker pace if it had not been he who'd stripped the life from her lover. But that was not for him to know of. What he'd done was done.

But as Christine pondered the death of her lover and how her life had changed, Erik had had time of his own to think of his own sins, his own past, and loves, and losses, and he'd begun to forgive both himself and others. Perhaps he'd even begun to forgive whatever hand had forged his demonic face, after so many years.

He thought of the lives he had ended and ruined, and repented each a million times over. For the first time, he felt true guilt over his time in Persia; sometimes it was so crippling that he simply lay in bed during the day and accepted it. It was his punishment, his penance.

More, even, than his time in Persia, Erik thought of when he'd killed the vicomte, the most painful memory of all. He remembered the expression on Christine's face; the look in the boy's eyes as he drew his final breath; how helpless and overpowered he'd felt as he did it, how out of control of his own actions and thoughts; how his madness and emotions had overcome him in the ugliest way possible, at long last. He'd sensed it coming for some while, he only didn't know how it would.

Before, when he imagined killing the boy, he never imagined he'd feel anything beyond victory. He know saw how wrong he was about himself. In a way he was grateful that he had been, for through his incorrectness, he was coming to learn that he did indeed have a heart; though it had been long stagnant, it now felt and pulsed with life, and he would never trade it for his former coldness, though at some times, feeling was even more painful to bear.

Once, late in the night he'd been tossing and turning in his bed, fully awake though he knew he should sleep. The guilt of the boy's death had seized his mind and body in a relentless grip. In desperation, he remembered prayer from his childhood, the verses branded into his mind still, just as strongly as how to read music or which catacombs led to where. In his mind, he recited the Act of Contrition. It did not help.

He lay in agony a few moments more, before of its own accord, his mind began a conversation with the boy himself, begging him to forgive, telling him Christine was safe in his house, and all other manner of things he'd wanted to assure the boy for some time, though he never would have admitted it to anyone, not even himself. He did not speak to him through God, nor in any structured verse, and he knew neither his mother nor Father Mansart would approve, but he did not care. It was was felt right, even if the boy never really would hear his words.

Erik would like to say he was a changed man, yet...he wasn't. He really was the same person: same caustic attitude when he wanted it, same brilliance, same craft. The only difference was he now felt. He could call it all Fate. In a strange, celestial way, it seemed as if Christine and the boy had helped him along this path. It was a notion he'd grasp fully one instant, then the next, not understand at all, like someone abruptly blowing out a luminously burning candle. After his comprehension was stolen, Erik would simply brush the hunch off as momentary foolishness.

In any case, he'd come to terms with who he was, at long last, and accepted that he could never be loved in the way he loved Christine. Of course, this was no easy fact to face, but he faced it nonetheless and grew used to it. Once it was dealt with, he was free to face the fresh possibilities of this new life. Christine was obviously flourishing in this environment, even despite her grief, which pleased him. He dared to hope that perhaps they could lead a life of quiet companionship, at least until he passed on, when she'd be free to do as she wished. That might even be necessary, in fact, to maintain their cover and safety. However, such a friendship could be difficult to achieve when Christine barely spoke to him in any manner beside cool politeness.

Starting only in the last month, they'd begun to take meals together, though largely in silence. Even so, Erik felt blessed to be in her company, to be allowed to gaze upon her newfound health across the small dining table and smile softly to himself, for he'd at least been able to nurse her somewhat back to decency after shattering her world to pieces.

As the aroma of cooking meat wafted throughout the kitchen, Erik heard the patter of Christine's slippered feet upon the stairs, followed by the soft hush of her dressing gown which just grazed the floor. Odd, that she was up so early, let alone that she was coming downstairs when she knew full well he was there. Just as Erik usually rose early, Christine made a habit of rising late after performing a full toilet.

Her form materialized in the entranceway. He gazed wordlessly at the soft curve of her belly through the material of her nightgown, her pale hands hanging limply at her sides, her golden curls cascading down her shoulders, unbound. She was beautiful. But when he met her cerulean eyes, he knew something was amiss. Beneath them were light pouches of charcoal, and he knew she'd not slept.

"Up so early?" he breathed into the crisp morning air.

"Yes," she said hoarsely, not moving to take a seat.

"Not much sleep last night, I assume," he ventured, to his horror, a bit patronizingly.

She hadn't missed that. "No," she snapped. "I couldn't sleep, so many thoughts were in my mind...so many questions." She softened ever so slightly, to a degree so small that anyone else would have missed it. "Erik, I have so many questions to ask you."

This took him a bit aback, as he'd assumed the last thing she'd wanted to do was spend any time discussing any matter with him.

"Ask away," he said after a moment. "It's the least I can offer."

She hesitated, then continued on. "Why have you stayed with me?"

He tensed, and turned from her to tend to the bacon without responding.

"I mean it not as anything but general curiosity."

He considered a moment. "You wouldn't have been safe on your own, Christine."

"What do you mean?"

"Alone, in a new town where no one knows you, and meanwhile in France you are wanted by the police? You'd never know what to do if someone caught scent of your whereabouts...I've been through this before...I know."

"I suppose so. But Erik, do you really suppose we can carry on as if nothing's happened?" She was incredulous.

He said nothing.

"Too much has transpired between us to simply ignore it all. We cannot pretend to be perfectly civil, or even polite, when there are so many things unsaid."

"Neither can we simply begin to discuss these things when we've barely spoken since that night," he finally replied sharply.

"But Erik, we must someday," she cried. "Someday soon. I've thought of Raoul these past months...I've thought of how he died...I've mourned him, and the life we could have had." She paused for a moment, and it was clear to Erik that she still missed the poor boy terribly. It made his heart ache for her. "But there is a whole other piece to the puzzle which I cannot work out on my own, which involves you. I can never be content again until this is all worked out and behind me."

"That can never happen," he said flatly.

"Of course it can!"

"Of all the horrors I've encountered, none have ever ceased to haunt me."

"Don't speak to me of horrors," she said icily.

Coming from anyone else, these words would have enraged him. But coming from Christine, the woman he loved, yet the woman to whom he'd handed sorrow upon sorrow with no thought of it, how could he say anything? How could he argue?

"Soon, Erik," she continued after a moment of weighted silence. "Today. Please. Put my mind to rest."

Finally, he nodded.