Paladin71

"Sit, please," Sophia said to Erik as she poured two creamy bowls of soup and placed them on a tray. Gritting her teeth, she prepared to grab the tray with one hand and balance the right side against her wrist, as her hand was too sore to grasp the handle.

She could feel Erik at her back, watching, waiting. It made her nervous to stand beneath his scrutinizing gaze, but she refused to ask for his help. She would do this, whether she succeeded or failed.

However, Erik seemed to have other plans. His silent presence suddenly became tangible as he stood to her side and swiftly reached for the tray. Unsure of what to do, she leaned first against the table and then into his chest.

"My apologies," she said under her breath, though she didn't move.

Erik didn't move either. His fingers were inches from the tray, and he breathed against the top of her head, which made her stomach flip over. "Where would you like to sit? At the table or by the fire?" he questioned.

His tone worsened her condition. Each word stopped her heart, sending an unexpected surge through her insides. His baritone voice coupled with his hot breaths left her disconcerted. All she wished to do was replay his words a thousand times in her mind, keeping them forever in her forethoughts.

"Sophia?" Erik pressed nearer, his chest against her back.

"It--it doesn't matter," she stuttered.

Sophia didn't dare face him. Her cheeks burned with a heat she wished would fade quickly only to have it appear again.

"Here," he said. One word along with his arms next to hers made her inhale sharply. He was suddenly too close.

Erik's hand swept up her arm to her shoulder, which he briefly squeezed before he stepped aside and allowed her to move away from the table. Head bowed, she turned away from him.

"The parlor?" he questioned.

Sophia saw him with the tray in hand and she turned to reach for it.

"Please, I'll—"

"You lead," he said, meeting her eye. "You lead, Sophia. I will follow."

All she could think of to say was, "I'm a terrible dancer." She turned to glance back at him. "Can't sing, can't dance. My only hope is to learn the piano."

"Perhaps you'd consider the violin."

Sophia shook her head as she walked into the dining room. "The piano is difficult enough."

"Difficult?" Erik set the tray down and pulled out Sophia's chair. He lingered a moment when she sat, his hands gripping the back of her seat.

"Yes, I find it quite challenging."

"The piano?" he asked incredulously.

Sophia pursed her lips and watched as he sat beside her. "You've clearly been born with enough musical talent for the two of us," she replied.

"I've had a lifetime to practice."

They discussed music while they ate, which seemed to animate Erik as the moments passed. He spoke with his hands, often placing his spoon down in order to gesture, which made Sophia smile. Philippe was often guilty of the same, although he reverted to wild motions when taxes or a newspaper article unnerved him.

For an hour they sat at the table, their bowls empty and bread consumed. Sophia wished she had eaten slower so that Erik would remain seated next to her, but her eyes grew heavy as the food settled in her stomach. In the back of her mind she heard Citrine and Philippe both telling her that she needed her rest. However, she didn't want to waste her day sleeping.

"When do you think Philippe will feel ready to return home?" Sophia asked as she helped Erik clear the table.

"Soon."

His vague reply did nothing to diminish her concern. She stared at Erik a moment with her lips pursed.

"Has he slept?"

"Yes."

"Did he eat?"

"Chicken liver in wine."

Sophia followed Erik into the kitchen. "He doesn't like chicken liver."

"No, he doesn't."

"I remember when he fell from a tree. He could not have been older than ten at the time, but he walked across a field on his own accord with a ripped section from his shirt binding his head. I walked behind him the entire way." She shook her head. "Mother was furious that I didn't help him."

Erik didn't turn to face her, but he paused at the sink and stared at the dirty dishes. "He cut his chin."

"Excuse me?"

He turned to face her, a bewildered expression on his face. "Mademoiselle Citrine is with him. He received a cut to the chin."

"H-how?"

"My foolishness."

"I don't understand."

Erik made no reply. He turned his head and stared at the kitchen door.

"Is it…bad?"

Before Erik answered, the front door opened and Sophia heard Citrine tell Philippe to be careful.

"Why must you stand directly behind me?" Philippe snapped.

"Because I want you to flatten me when you collapse."

Philippe scoffed.

"You are far too pleasant, Monsieur," Citrine replied sardonically.

Sophia glanced at Erik, who stared at the floor. "Phillippe is home," she said before she trotted down the hall to greet her brother. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Philippe with a bandage wrapped around his head.

"My God…"

Philippe waved off her concern and gave Citrine a menacing look. "She's made it look much worse than it is," he explained.

Citrine shrugged as Fidelio trotted up to greet her. "I needed to bandage you well so you wouldn't lick yourself raw, Monsieur Dupree," she replied with a devilish grin.

"Irritating girl," Philippe grumbled to himself before he collapsed into a chair.

Sophia rushed to his side. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Philippe," she scolded.

Philippe exhaled. "I'm fine."

-o-

"No, you're not," Sophia said as she sat on the arm of the chair. "What happened?"

Philippe exhaled. He rested his head on the high back of the chair and caught sight of his employer standing in the middle of the hall.

"An accident, Sophia," Philippe sighed. "And foolishness on my part. It's really little more than a cut…which Citrine bandaged the hell out of for dramatic effect."

Citrine snorted before she walked into the kitchen.

Sophia remained unconvinced. "Why won't you tell me?"

Philippe kept his gaze trained on Monsieur Belmont, who seemed to find his own feet of great interest. A peculiar gentleman, Philippe thought to himself, one who was apt to act in a time of chaos and disappear with the calm.

"Everything is fine," Philippe answered. "I was fortunate that Monsieur Belmont was near."

At his name, Belmont lifted his head and stared at Philippe, who met his gaze before he turned to his sister.

"Will you allow a guest in your home to wander the halls or will you seat him?" Philippe chided.

Sophia immediately stood, evidently embarrassed by her brother's words. She smoothed her skirt before she hurried to hallway and asked Erik if he'd care to join them. He hesitated a moment before he nodded and followed Sophia into the room. Once he was seated, he clasped his hands and averted his eyes.

Philippe turned his attention to the fire. He suspected that this man who masqueraded as a ghost had little experience in socializing with others. Fortunately, Sophia could talk enough for more than two people, he thought as he watched her from the corner of his eye. It wasn't in her nature to sit in silence, and by the expression on her face, she couldn't bear both her brother and their guest comfortably enjoying the fireplace.

Sophia sighed, her shoulders sagging. Philippe looked to Monsieur Belmont and noticed that he, too, watched Sophia from the corner of his eye. He sat rigid, but he didn't appear uncomfortable. It appeared as though he were accustomed to sitting up straight with his hands on either arm rest and his feet flat on the floor. Philippe, on the other hand, slouched, his legs spread wide and his head tilted.

Philippe cleared his throat. "Have you eaten?" he asked, looking from Monsieur Belmont to Sophia.

"Yes," came the answer from Belmont.

"I made soup and there was bread, but I don't think we have much butter left."

Monsieur Belmont seemed to take great interest in listening to Sophia answered. He turned his head to watch her, his hardened, hopeless expression softening. She noticed him staring and turned to smile before she gazed at the kitchen door.

"Citrine, do you need my help?" she asked as she started to stand.

"You sit and rest." Citrine walked in and served tea and cookies. She made Philippe tilt his chin up so that she could examine the stitches before she promised she'd heat him a bowl of soup.

Philippe turned to Sophia. "See to it that Citrine adds more onions to my soup."

She stared at him a moment, uncertain. "I didn't think you liked onions."

"Better than all the salt she's added lately," he replied as he stretched out his legs.

He waited until Sophia rose and walked into the kitchen before he spoke. Once his sister was gone, he noticed Monsieur Belmont's attention had returned to the fireplace.

"What else needs to be done at the smokehouse?" he asked quietly.

"For your part? Nothing."

Philippe's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Because the more opportunities one allows death the sooner death succeeds." He paused but didn't look at Philippe. "No one will find him."

The remorse in Belmont's voice caught Philippe by surprise. He studied his employer a moment before he sat up and inhaled. His face had started to throb each time he spoke, which made him pause far longer than he had intended.

"And then it will be over?"

Belmont made no reply.