Big hug to Lizzy for once again stepping in to be my beta. Love ya lots!
Paladin 37
Philippe sat at the end of his bed with his head in his hands. He lit no candles and left the lamp burning low, feeling no desire to bring light into his room. All he could think of was Sophia and the danger she had been put in because of him. He had never seen her more terrified than when they were riding away from Turro's estate.
"Where is Monsieur Belmont?" she had asked as they left the long driveway and entered the road. Her dark green eyes stared into his, her bleeding lip trembling.
"I have no idea."
"We can't leave him," Sophia had said, the fear in her eyes reflected in her voice. "We can't leave him behind, Philippe. We can't."
"You're my only responsibility," Philippe had told her. He wanted to tell her that he had failed once already and wouldn't allow her out of his sight again, but he couldn't bear to say the words. He didn't want to think about it a moment longer.
"Please, Philippe, please don't leave him," Sophia cried as she grasped his shirt sleeve. "It's not right of us."
Philippe couldn't refuse his sister. He gave her the horse and walked with her until he could see Monsieur Belmont.
With a heavy heart he allowed Sophia to meet with him, keeping his eyes on his sister while he remained a respectable distance away. He didn't know what was best for her and it aggravated him.
Before their mother died Philippe had promised her that he would take care of Sophia no matter what happened.
There were days when he had done more than just watch out for his sister. Philippe gave up his own meals so that she could eat. He worked odd jobs, sometimes going from one place during the day to another at night without food or rest so they could afford to live. Had it not been for their aunt in Paris they would have been living on the streets. She had arranged for their employment, writing to Philippe to tell him that she knew a very wealthy man in need of servants. Employed and able to put food on the table, Philippe knew the dangers they had faced should have been behind them. He also realized they would never regain the status they held before--their uncles had seen to that--but they would be comfortable.
"Not by my doing," he mumbled as he removed his shoes.
As much as he hated to admit it, Sophia was now safe because of their employer. Philippe wasn't angry because he had helped with her return home—he was grateful that Monsieur Belmont had saved Sophia and knew he would need to apologize for his brazen behavior. Regardless, Philippe was gravely disappointed in himself for not seeing Karl Turro's true nature.
-o-
Fidelio's tail drummed against the floor as Erik left his wet clothes in a pile on the floor. He was shivering as he shrugged into his robe and removed his mask for the night. His teeth were still chattering, but his face felt warm and he knew his fever had already started.
It made no difference whether he was ill or not. After all he had done he was alone again, facing the same mirror that reflected the same miserable man. Actions apparently could not change the face of the beast no matter how many mirrors he covered or shattered. Inside and out there would never be a difference that anyone could notice.
To prove him wrong, Fidelio whined and inched closer to his master, the bandage that was supposed to protect his injured paw dangling from his mouth. Erik sat on the edge of the bed and exhaled.
"Damn it, you stupid dog," he grumbled as he balled up the bandage and tossed it in the trash. It unraveled when he threw it, which only added to his anger. He glared at Fidelio, who bowed his head and slid down to lay on the floor.
Erik's hands were shaking, his legs wobbly as he stood. He stumbled when he reached his desk, suddenly much more exhausted than he first realized. With one hand on the desk he bent over and threw the bandage away, stars suddenly appearing before his eyes as he righted himself. Fidelio sat up, his ears raised and head turned to the side as he whined again, his tail still whipping back and forth.
"Die," Erik said under his breath as he returned to his bed and lay on top of the comforter. "No one will give a damn."
He closed his eyes, unsure of whether or not he was speaking to himself or to the dog that was resting his head close to Erik's face, licking away the tears that had escaped.
His ability to control his emotions had left him the moment he lay down and within heartbeats Erik was sobbing, one hand to his face while the other clung to the scruff of Fidelio's neck.
"How?" he asked, gasping for breath, his body feeling as though he were consumed in flames. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back, and though there was no fire in the hearth Erik felt as though he were sitting in a coal furnace.
How had he failed? How had he ended up alone again? Solitude made him angry—angrier than he had been in a very long time. It had been over two decades since he had attempted to be part of society, two decades since he had decided to live alone rather than continue to face the cruelties of the world.
At first it had been a relief to live alone, but after several months he was bored. His mind was both the bane of his existence and his saving grace. He taught himself to read both music and the written word. He could hear an entire symphony played once and play it back note for note. The opera house provided few challenges, and each year that passed brought nothing to quell his ever-growing cynicism. He was in limbo, dead but still breathing.
And then he saw Christine and his words faded from memory, replaced by his hopes that time had changed his fate.
Eyes growing heavy, Erik quit fighting his exhaustion and sighed, feeling Fidelio's warmth on the bed beside him. The dog's long nails scraped against his face but he made no attempt to push him away. Erik was almost asleep when he heard a door open and close on the main floor.
"Turro," he growled as he dragged himself from bed.
-o-
Sophia jumped at the sound of the door shutting behind her as she walked into the kitchen. She waited for her good eye to adjust to the darkness before she moved. Citrine had a habit of moving the kitchen chairs and tables when she cleaned but not necessarily returning them to their original spots. The last thing Sophia wanted to do was wake Monsieur Belmont if he were sleeping—and judging by how dark his home was and the late hour she had no doubt he had retired for the night.
Sleep would not come to her, Sophia knew. With every step through the snow she had glanced over her shoulder, fearing Karl had followed them back to the manor. Each time she closed her eyes she saw him in her mind, the way he grit his teeth and squinted at her. She wished she had done more to fight him, but she recalled one of her mother's maids telling another girl that if it came between pain and death to choose pain.
A tear slipped down her cheek as she wondered whether or not Karl would have killed her. She couldn't allow him to kill her because then he and Philippe would no longer work together and Philippe's desires to run the vineyard would be forfeit. But now none of that mattered. Philippe would have nothing to do with Karl and the vineyard would be out of their hands—the Duprees' hands—forever.
Exhaling, Sophia wiped her eyes and felt her way through the kitchen, deciding she would leave Monsieur Belmont's cape in the parlor before she found something to clean her cuts and scrapes. She lit a candle and walked into the hall, wondering if Philippe was angry at her for what had happened. He had said so little on the way home, but she reminded herself that Philippe was normally quiet. He was like their father, a man who allowed his anger to build and build until it came out in one terrifying gush, like water from a breaking dam.
Months before they found employment Sophia had seen the frustration in her brother's dark green eyes. He was angered that he and Sophia had been asked to leave their home mere days after their father was buried. He was livid when the funds set aside for him and his sister were squandered and that there was nothing either of them could do, as their parents had never changed their wills to have their estate and money inherited by their children.
Too prideful to beg, he had taken everything upon himself, and even though they had food and shelter, she knew Philippe was unsatisfied. He would never grow accustomed to serving someone else, but in time she hoped he would be happier. She hated seeing Philippe so miserable.
Sophia had just made up her mind that she would confront Philippe when she heard the floor creak above her head. She froze, holding her breath as she stood in the parlor and debated whether or not she wanted Erik to know she was in his home. She wasn't sure if he was angry with her or not, as he hadn't said a word to her once they reached the carriage.
Draping his cape over the piano, she turned to leave the parlor and heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs. Sophia knew he had heard her and smiled, hoping he would speak to her. She wanted to see him again, to thank him for coming after her.
"Monsieur…Erik," she corrected herself as she walked out the parlor door. She headed down the hall in time to hear a tremendous crash at the bottom of the stairs and Fidelio howling on the landing.
"Monsieur?" she called, her pace quickening. "Are you all right, Monsieur?"
Clinging to the railing, Erik continued down the stairs, holding his mask against his face. "Stay away from Sophia,"
he mumbled. He wore only trousers and a robe, which had slipped from his shoulder. "Don't you ever go near her again, do you hear me?"
"Monsieur, it's me," Sophia whispered as she warily approached.
His face glistened by the candlelight, his hair disheveled, plastered to his head. He didn't look at her, but she saw that his eyes were fever bright as he continued to mutter to himself.
"Monsieur?"
Erik looked at her suddenly and his rambling ceased. "I think he's in the house," he said, his breathing quick and shallow.
"It's only me, Monsieur," Sophia replied. She stopped several feet away from him and clasped her hands behind her back. "You look like you should return to bed."
The mask in his hand nearly slipped from his grasp and he turned away from her, his hands trembling, his teeth chattering. He rested his back against the wall and Fidelio began barking again, growling in his master's defense.
"Don't look at me," he whispered, shooing Sophia away.
"Let me help you upstairs," Sophia offered, reaching for his arm.
His eyes closed when she touched his bare arm and panic shot through her. He was hot to the touch, what she could see of his face beaded in sweat. Sophia had never seen someone come down ill so suddenly in her life. Her small hand squeezed his upper arm though she could do nothing to move him.
"You must lie down, Monsieur, you're very feverish. Come at once. Up the stairs."
"Return to your home," he said as he pressed his face against the wall. Sophia assumed the cool plaster felt good to his burning flesh. "Leave me."
"I won't leave you," she promised.
His eyes opened, red and weary. He swallowed hard before his eyes closed again. "Not yet," he said.
Sophia didn't know what to say, but she didn't want to argue with him.
"Return upstairs, Monsieur…Erik…and I promise I won't leave."
Erik didn't reply and Sophia wasn't sure if he had passed out or if he chose to ignore her offer. She shook him by the arm until his eyes opened.
"Why? Why do you offer such things?"
Sophia bit her lip. "Why did you come for me, Monsieur?" she whispered.
His eyes began to roll back in his head but he blinked, forcing himself to remain conscious. "I'm in love with you, I think."
Sophia remained silent, not knowing what to say as Erik began crawling up the stairs, using one hand to keep his mask in place.
"Your fever is speaking on your behalf, Monsieur," she mumbled at last as Fidelio limped out of the way.
Erik stumbled to his room, refusing what help she offered. He lay on his side with his back to her, the last of his strength used to keep his mask in place.
"It is best that you leave at once, Mademoiselle."
"You'll die unless someone stays with you," she said, removing his arm from his robe. She paused once she held the damp garment in her hands, seeing old scars overlapping across his back, most of them centered between his shoulder blades.
"Stay," he said, his voice so weak she could barely hear him. "Stay and the price increases with each day, with each kind word. Stay with me and you'll pay a very heavy price, Mademoiselle."
"There is no price to kindness," Sophia said. She knelt down and gathered the pile of wet clothes and prepared to take them downstairs. She would need to gather rags and a water basin to help bring down his fever. She looked at Erik writhing in bed, sucking in each breath he took and she didn't want to leave him alone.
"There is, Mademoiselle, there is a very heavy price involved when one befriends the devil."
"You're hardly a devil," she said. He was delirious. There was no reason to answer, yet Sophia felt compelled to speak with him. She gently touched his shoulder, wanting to let him know she was near him and that she had no intention of leaving.
"I am the devil's son," he said before he exhaled hard and said nothing more.