Paladin21

Once Erik returned to his room his heart was pounding. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, pulled his mask from his face, and wiped his forehead.

The moment had left him sweating and shaking but relieved. He had done it. He had requested her company and demanded that Monsieur Karl Turro leave his Manor at once, and no one had questioned him. He had acted as the master and he would be obeyed. Once again he had some semblance in his life, slight as it seemed.

Now all he needed was to have Monsieur Monteclare and Monsieur Dupree leave the parlor.

Satisfied with how everything had transpired thus far, Erik sighed and replaced his mask. He waited until his heart rate slowed before he looked to the mirror again.

Below the neck he was an ordinary man, taller than average, broad-shouldered, with a lean waist and long legs. He was not an extraordinary specimen, and he knew there were men far more physically imposing than he, but he could look in the mirror and be satisfied with his appearance.

Until he met his own gaze.

Over the years Erik had covered all the mirrors in his lakeside home so that he would not meet his own accusing eye. He refused to look at himself unless his mask and hairpiece were in place, but even then he was rarely comfortable. The mask only hid his flesh and the hairpiece only covered his uneven hairline.

He could live with looking at the deformity. Erik began to realize that it wasn't the uneven flesh that made him grimace. When he remained within his apartments he removed his mask and allowed his skin to breathe, as the leather covering made him sweat. It rubbed against his cheekbone, itched and irritated his flesh. If someone called he kept a mask by the cellar door. He mocked his own solitude by being prepared for visitors that would never come.

However, no mask hid his eyes.

Albino eyes, the dancers whispered, glowing, yellow, devil eyes peering in the darkness, searching each shadow for an unsuspecting child to whisk away. At one time the rumors amused Erik, but after years of hearing the same thing he tired of the stories and wanted to be left alone.

He received enough ridicule from himself each time he drew back the curtains and examined his eyes to be certain that they were still green gray rather than yellow. Sometimes he sighed in relief that he wasn't what they said, but many more times he was dissatisfied when he wasn't the legendary creature that frightened the world away. It would have been easier to be a heartless, unfeeling monster. Experiencing nothing at all would have been preferred to heartache and longing, to seeing but never having.

It would have been better than what he felt for Christine.

Erik wanted to see those eyes again, those eyes he was certain had turned bright yellow.

Those eyes that clung to a lifetime of loathing. Those eyes that hated the world that had feared him and banished him to a life of solitude. Those eyes that stared through the mirror at a world that rejected him.

He shook his head and took a deep breath. That was what he didn't want to see in the mirror. Not now, not ever. That was what he didn't want Sophia to see when she looked at him.

Erik closed his eyes and sighed, the initial rush of adrenaline he had felt fading fast as self-doubt plagued him once again.

If she could see past the right side of his face, if she could avoid looking him in the eye…

"I'd be a ghost again," he whispered morosely. He was tired of being a ghost. Though it hadn't gone well Erik knew that dinner with Citrine and Sophia could have been much different. In time, he thought, he could become more comfortable in their presences. If he listened to them more carefully when they were in the kitchen or working upstairs perhaps he could add to the conversation, become part of the company at the dinner table. Imitation, he knew, he was good at imitation. If he could feign being a gentleman then perhaps he could join them and they would not know what he was.

They would not see the fear behind the mask, within those eyes. Fear of being left behind a moment longer.

Erik's body suddenly felt heavier. For someone who could instill terror in others he was deeply afraid of being alone until death. Solitude had never been voluntary. It had been expected. But now he wanted his own expectations.

"I'm going to fail," he whispered, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm too old to attempt, too unlearned in the world."

He made himself increasingly miserable and his headache grew stronger.

A knock at his bedroom door startled him out of his self-deprecation. He cleared his throat and stood straighter, hoping it was a knock alerting him to his dinner.

"Monsieur Belmont, a word if you would be so kind," Philippe Dupree said.

Judging by Philippe's tone he was not pleased, but he was making every attempt to control his voice.

"Clear the parlor," Erik replied. "Then we may speak."

"There is no one in the parlor, Monsieur. Rene Monteclare is feeding the horses."

Erik studied the door, tongue rolling along the inside of his cheek. "And what are you doing, Monsieur Dupree?"

There was no immediate answer. For a moment Erik suspected Philippe had left, but then he heard breathing and knew his butler was still present and growing more agitated with each passing second.

"Tonight is very important for my sister," Philippe said, keeping his voice low and even. "Her duties in your home end at suppertime. Once the table is cleared and the dishes clean she returns to being nothing more than my sister."

Erik stood rigid, his nostrils flared as his gaze bore a hole through the door.

"There will be no lessons tonight, Monsieur, and I forbid you to teach her again. She has obligations following dinner, and I will see that she does as is needed. Please understand that I apologize, Monsieur Belmont. I had hoped we could conduct ourselves like reasonable gentleman, but since you do not wish to be seen this will have to be suitable. Good night, sir."

"Monsieur Dupree," Erik growled, his patience for the man waning. "From now on Sophia will take her lessons before supper. Inform Citrine that starting tonight I will take my dinner two hours later than normal."

"Monsieur," Philippe said, biting off his employer's title.

"Thank you, Monsieur Dupree. Good night, sir."

Erik waited, daring Philippe to say another word, but his butler went silent. The last thing Erik heard was Philippe stomping down the stairs, muttering something about resigning from his position in the morning.

So be it, Erik thought, and with that he decided to see if Monsieur Turro had his carriage prepared to return home. Alone.

-o-

Citrine placed the goose innards into a shallow bowl and tucked her cloak around her body. She glanced into the hall to make certain that no one was entering the kitchen and saw no one. Philippe slammed the front door and trudged into the snow, to which Citrine rolled her eyes.

With the rest of the house still she opened the back door and padded into the snow, braving a gust of wind and whistling twice as she squinted in the bright light.

For weeks she had seen a dog roaming the property. It was tall and shaggy but terribly thin. As far as she knew no one else had seen it, so she decided to give it scraps so that it wouldn't starve. The last thing she wanted was to find a frozen dog dead by the front porch.

The blood from the goose had been lapped up in the snow so she knew the animal couldn't be far. She whistled again and held her breath as she waited.

Soon enough something dark wriggled from beneath the smoke house and lumbered toward her with its pink tongue lolling from its maw.

"Still with us, I see," she said as he bounded up and sniffed around, his tail and rear wiggling with the scent of food.

"Here, take your scraps and disappear," she said as she slipped the food into his mouth. He licked her hand, which made her giggle before she turned away. "This all must stop soon, Dublin," she said, referring to the hound by his secret name. "If the master sees you there's no telling what he would do. Now go. Find yourself a new home, you hear, laddy?"

The dog turned and trotted away, his bony rear still wagging as he returned to his hole beneath the smoke house.

Citrine sighed and gathered up her cloak and skirts before returning inside, completely unaware of the eyes watching her from the second floor and felt a kinship to the unwanted animal slinking into a hole.