I apologize if the story seemed slow over the last few chapters. I felt there was a lot which needed to be covered. The pace should quicken from this point on. Thanks for sticking with Belmont!

Paladin74

Gabe had already dug a shallow hole by the time Erik and Philippe joined him in the orchard.

"The overseer's house is down this hill. There is probably another shovel," Philippe said as he dismounted his horse and tied it next to Gabe's. The groomsman didn't lift his gaze or acknowledge either of them. He was far too concerned with digging a hole and ridding the world of Karl Turro's existence.

Erik was last to dismount. He sat with his toes pointed up in the stirrups and his gaze surveying their surroundings. The location felt peculiar though he didn't know why. It was as though he knew this place, which was impossible since he'd never traveled this far across the property.

"Monsieur?" Philippe prompted. He grabbed a second shovel. "Shall I retrieve rocks?"

"A pile of rocks makes for an easily distinguished grave. If there are shovels I imagine there is also an ax."

"The sooner we are finished the better for the girls."

Erik looked away. They both knew it no longer mattered what they said to Citrine and Sophia. Everyone aside from Rene Monteclaire was well aware of the death on the property and the only reason Monsieur Monteclaire didn't know was because he had not yet returned.

"Fell on his own knife," Gabe muttered. He dumped a pile of dirt into the snow and then thrust his shovel into the earth again. "He deserved a hell of a lot worse. By God, if I could resurrect the bastard I'd cut off his balls." He spit into the dirt and cursed under his breath.

Philippe nodded and set to working alongside Gabe, where they picked up a rhythm and continued in silence. Erik grabbed one corner of the blanket they had tightly wrapped around Turro's body and pulled it down from the horse. The thud it made upon impact with the ground made his stomach tighten and he wished there was a place far from his property where the body could be easily disposed of without raising anyone's suspicions.

Erik walked briskly down the hill to where the trees were leaning. Some appeared to have fallen during a storm, their trunks rotting, the process of death and decay stalled over the winter. Another steel trap matching the one that had ensnared Fidelio lay partially hidden by snow. He picked up a stick and triggered the trap before he continued, mentally reminding himself that once the snow completely melted and the grass started to grow he would take a walk through the orchard and find every damned trap.

Even though Philippe had told him where the overseer's house was located it still felt as though he'd accidentally stumbled upon it. Inhaling sharply he stood at the edge of the trees, stick still in hand, and stared at the quaint stone building.

He found himself unable to breathe as he stared at the structure. It was small, the moss no longer a verdant green, the ivy that crept over the outer walls and stretched over the windows dormant for winter. Yet still, even in its abandoned state, he recognized this place. His childhood home.

His hands began to tremble as he stepped forward, afraid of what he would discover. The main house where he now lived was erased from his mind but this…this would never leave.

Erik glanced back, grateful that the burial site was hidden from view by trees and distance. With the shovel and ax forgotten, he walked to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob, afraid to enter, but afraid to stay away.

-o-

There was nothing Citrine could do to convince Sophia to come away from the window. With her nose pressed to the glass, Sophia watched Philippe and Erik hoist Turro's corpse, hidden in blankets, onto the pack horse.

"You should rest."

Sophia ignored Citrine's suggestion until she felt her friend's hand on her shoulder.

"Sophia—"

"I'm not tired."

"I know, but still. You need to sleep and eat as much as possible. You will heal faster."

Once Philippe mounted his horse and Erik had joined him, she turned away from the window. "How did it happen?" she questioned.

"Excuse me?"

"Did they kill him?"

Citrine folded her hands. "You must ask your brother, Sophia."

It was hardly an answer but Sophia knew Citrine well enough to realize when she would receive answers and when her breath was better suited for speaking to the wall. With a sigh she returned to her chair. Fidelio, who had found a cozy place by the fire, made no attempt to greet her. He merely stared at her a moment before he sighed and closed his eyes again, with little more than the end of his tail thumping the ground.

"Would it upset you?" Citrine questioned suddenly.

"Pardon me?"

"Would it upset you if they killed him?"

"Never," she answered quickly. "I never want to see him again." She pursed her lips and realized that the question had little to do with Turro. "It doesn't make them murderers in my eyes," she replied softly.

Citrine placed her hands on Sophia's shoulders. "Mine either. Rest."

-o-

The overseer's house smelled musty and confined. Erik lingered on the threshold a moment as his gaze searched the darkened entrance. He longed for the scent of fresh baked breads or cinnamon heavy in the air, a reminder of the past. This place, which had only existed in the very back of his mind, was soft, gentle. A safe place, he thought as he closed the door, but one plagued with terror always looming on the horizon.

Wind howled through a distant window and drew Erik further into the cold house. He walked halfway down the hall and paused suddenly. With his hand stretched out he touched the wall and felt several marks, one nearly on top of the other.

"You've grown so tall!"

Her voice still echoed, still existed vaguely in his mind. He remembered her hand atop his head, the way she grasped his shoulder and told him to stand straighter. He ran his fingertips over the highest marker, which barely came to his hip. How proud he'd been each time she showed him he'd grown another quarter of an inch. She was always pleased with him, even when the man who lived in the Manor berated her, berated him.

"He's merely a child."

Erik found himself standing in a small, overcrowded office. Papers were scattered on the floor, which he assumed was from Philippe examining the old records. There had once been a bed in the corner, a child's bed,and matching dresser. He remembered the way the light came through the curtains, how he had lay at night and watched the moon travel through the night sky.

"Send him away."

"Never."

"For God's sake. You're my wife. We will have another son."

"No!"

"Why?"

They argued down the hall where they thought he couldn't hear them. With his ear pressed to the door he waited, held his breath, prayed through the night that she wouldn't send him away. He knew he was different, saw it in the mirror, in his watery reflection when he sat with his feet in the nearby stream.

"Why must you keep…him?"

"He's my son."

"And yours alone. I will never claim him, Angelina. You know this. It's a foolish endeavor, one which keeps us from being content. Is that what you want?"

"I have what I need."

Erik stayed only a moment longer, his mood turned sullen. He heard Philippe shouting in the distance and quickly gathered his wits. With one last look, he wondered what had become of the kind, loving woman with the delicate features. His mother. Angelina Belmont. He hadn't seen her since the fair passed through Paris. It was the day his nightmarish life had begun.