Paladin41

Patience.

Erik watched as Sophia walked through the front door and returned to her home. She had a small bag under her arm filled with medical remedies from Citrine. Before the cook brought him his breakfast Citrine had told Sophia what to do with all the ingredients from the kitchen.

"You sound like a witch doctor," Sophia commented when she was in the hall.

Erik stood by his door and smiled, thinking her humor was a good indication of her recovery.

"You won't think so when your face is healed and you're more beautiful than you were before."

Sophia hurried out of the house. She was worried that her brother would suspect something—or worse: wake up and find her missing.

She allowed Erik a kiss to her cheek before she thanked him for his understanding. When he saw how grateful she was he found it ironic and wondered how she would feel if she knew how much he feared her leaving him forever. Merely thinking of her brought about a surge of emotion unlike anything he had felt before. It seemed odd to him that with Christine he felt mostly anger and grieving, but with Sophia he felt much different.

He felt hopeful. He could think of few people who saw his face and didn't recoil or shriek in horror.

Now that Sophia was gone, Erik wondered where he would find this elusive concoction of hidden patience, this elixir to his loneliness. He didn't regret his promise, but he knew it would be difficult to keep.

"It's worth it," he said to himself as he turned away and walked to his serving table.

He felt almost sick from hunger, a feeling that hadn't plagued him since he was a child. The moment he sat down Fidelio whimpered, reminding his master that he was present and equally ravenous.

The big chestnut eyes could not be denied a moment longer.

"From one lucky dog to another," Erik murmured, cutting up his fried egg and giving part to his hound.

-o-

Philippe was nearly ready to tear apart Sophia's mattress when he heard her walk through the front door and call his name.

"Sophia!" he shouted as he ran into the hall.

"I'm here," she answered.

He nearly knocked her over when he hugged her, thanking God that she was safe. Just as swiftly as he was overwhelmed with gratitude he became irate.

"Foolish girl!"

Sophia bowed her head. "I apologize, Philippe."

"You nearly gave me a heart attack! After everything that happened last night, why didn't you tell me you were leaving? You had me worried to death."

"It was only supposed to be for a moment."

"A moment is all it takes for that…man to do you harm. I don't want you out of my sight from this moment on. When you're in this house I am with you. When you leave this house I will be behind you."

"Philippe, please, that would never work."

"It can and it will. Either I will be with you or Citrine…or possibly Gabe,if I have a long talk with him. I trusted that…that animal for too long. I will not be fooled again."

Sophia shifted her weight, and by the anxious expression on her face Philippe knew what she was thinking.

"Sophia, I have no doubt that Monsieur Belmont has your best interest at heart. I'm sure he's a gentleman, but at this time it is best if you are only in my company or Citrine's. You understand why I do these things for you, don't you?" Philippe sighed and took her by the arm, gazing down at her with sympathy. "You're the only person I have left."

"You're the only person I have left," Sophia said as she threw her arms around his neck. "And I am grateful, Philippe, but—"

"Then you will not stray."

"Philippe—"

"I've made up my mind."

She shook her head. "But,what about my lessons?"

"What lessons?"

"My piano lessons."

Philippe had serious reservations concerning how much of her time spent in the parlor was truly learning to play the piano and how much was reserved for romantic pursuit. Either way, she obviously looked forward to it.

"You may resume," he said. Sophia squeezed him tighter. "But only if I may attend."

Sophia drew back and looked Philippe in the eye. "Why, of course you may attend, my dearest brother."

At first Philippe thought she was jesting, but her smile never faded. She hugged him again and pulled away, telling him she needed to wash her cuts and scrapes.

"When are your lessons?" Philippe asked.

"Erik said I may have my lesson after dinner. I told him you were quite the warbler," Sophia smiled.

"Oh, Sophia, you know how frivolous I think these things are. Acting, singing…it's such a waste of energy."

"Then you shall waste your energy around the piano tonight at ten."

-o-

It was obvious to Citrine that Monsieur Belmont was not himself. When she served his breakfast in the morning he looked dreadfully pale, his face haggard from lack of sleep.

"He had such a fever that I thought he would die," Sophia had confided to Citrine.

"You should have told Philippe—or me. I would have helped you care for him."

"I know," Sophia replied. "But his mask…he would have been quite cross if he knew that I had removed it before others."

"Why does he wear it?" Citrine asked, despite guessing the reason. "Is he badly scarred?"

Sophia didn't readily answer. She daydreamed for several moments before she turned her attention back to her friend.

"Yes," she answered. "He's terribly scarred. His nose, his eye, his cheek, his brow…it looks as though perhaps when he was very young the bones were broken and never healed correctly…or he was in a terrible accident sometime in his life."

"You don't know what happened?"

Sophia shook her head. "He was quite delirious given his fever. He babbled throughout the night, and I didn't question him. His business is his own."

"You're not curious?"

Sophia shrugged. "I'm more curious about the man behind the scars than the reason he bears them."

To that Citrine grinned. "How long have you been in love with Monsieur Belmont?"

"Ooh! You're a nosy thing today," Sophia said.

Citrine handed her a cloth bag. "Mushrooms, honey, wine, some garlic and a little bit of Irish mud will see you to health once more."

"You sound like a witch doctor."

Sophia's comment made Citrine smile. She was once again going to play witch doctor she thought as she climbed the stairs and discovered Monsieur Belmont had left his bedroom door ajar.

Fidelio was sitting by his side, propped up on his hind legs as he waited for scraps.

"Whoever abandoned you was a fool," Erik said as he patted the dog on the head. "A rare animal like you, so loyal and handsome, eh, Fidelio?"

The dog responded with a high-pitched bark, his tail thrashing back and forth in excitement.

"Quiet down now, Fidelio. A few more weeks of the little mademoiselle's cooking and she'll have you pot-bellied. Your legs better grow longer so your belly won't drag on the ground."

Citrine ducked down so that Erik couldn't see her. In all her weeks of working in his household she hadn't heard him say more than a handful of words. Apparently he saved them all for Sophia and Fidelio.

"You mind Mademoiselle Citrine. I've letters to write and work to be done," Erik said as he rose to his feet.

Citrine popped back up before Erik turned and saw her eavesdropping. Her sudden appearance on the stairs startled him, and he came to the door looking nervous.

"No more coffee," he said. "You make take the tray."

"I came to see how you were feeling, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Dupree tells me you were running quite a fever last night."

He turned away and nodded. "It has passed."

Citrine glanced at Fidelio, thinking the hound had swallowed her master's tongue. This would not do at all. Citrine had it in her mind that she would not have the dog in better graces than she.

Monsieur Belmont was proving a greater challenge than she first anticipated, though she would have him warmed up to her soon enough, even if meant to stooping as low as to using the ingredients in her kitchen. All men, as her mother once said, can be conquered through their stomachs.

"Good, because I have made chicken soup, Monsieur, and you know what they say about fevers?"

"No." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and elaborated. "I apologize, Mademoiselle, what do they say?"

"Starve a fever. But now that you are feeling better I will bring you the best chicken soup you have ever tasted. It has carrots, celery, tomatoes, potatoes, leeks and chunks of chicken and a little pat of butter in the saltiest chicken broth you have ever tasted."

Watching Monsieur Belmont was like witnessing an iceberg melting. She had him in her hand—clutching him by his palate.

"Is it done?"

Citrine smiled. "You just finished breakfast. Certainly you wish to wait a few hours before lunch?"

"A mere taste," he responded. "Before I start my work."

"As you wish," she curtsied before she bounded down the stairs, grinning to herself.