Paladin79

The stench was almost more than Gabe could bear. With a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, he stumbled into the building and swatted at the flies.

Horses snorted toward the end of the stable, which signaled that at least some of them were still alive. One by one he checked the stalls, finding the first six empty. The seventh revealed an emaciated mare. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and her ears perked up.

Disheartened, he walked to the next stall where there was another mare, this one thin but in better condition than the first. She responded to his coaxing and curiously sniffed his hand.

"Good," he mumbled. "Better with food, eh?"

He hefted two buckets and brought them to the pump. Once he had the first two horses watered he grabbed a shovel and cleaned the stall floors before offering them food. Salt would have to wait until he could find the blocks. Most of the tack and saddles were missing, which led him to believe the groomsmen had stolen whatever they could sell, including some of the horses.

With two of the horses fed and watered, his hopes of finding all the animals alive were dashed the moment he found a black filly.

Laid out on her side, she made no reaction when he knelt beside her and ran his hand down her neck. Sores covered her belly, each one buzzing with flies. More dead than alive, he knew there was nothing he could do save put her out of her misery.

Only two more horses were still in the stable, and one of the two would need to be put down. The horse, which bore whip marks across its back and rear, was foundered and making a vain attempt to alleviate pressure on its front feet by leaning on its hind legs. Each time the animal moved, its front hooves bled and he whinnied, the pain undoubtedly magnified by waste. The hooves were so decayed that the animal practically stood on bone, which meant there was absolutely no chance of recovery. Poor nutrition and overwork were most likely to blame.

The animal's condition angered him as he knew nothing was more painful for a horse. He'd never seen an animal in such terrible condition, at least not in a stable he worked. No matter if his father viewed them as beasts, no one left the stable until the horses were fed, watered, cleaned, and brushed. If anything, Rene Monteclair was particular about the treatment and health of his stock.

The only consolation Gabe found was a half-empty jar of sugar cubes, which he fed to the miserable gelding. He couldn't bear to look the horse in the eye. He felt as though the beautiful gray already knew his fate.

Once the three surviving horses were moved into clean stalls, Gabe took a deep breath and gathered his wits. He returned to the tack room and found a wooden box of ammunition on a shelf, which did him little good without a firearm. There were a few knives among the farrier's tools, but he didn't want the horses to suffer any more than necessary, and allowing them to bleed out—especially while lying on their sides, would take longer than necessary. With other horses in the stable he wanted to avoid the smell of blood in the air.

At last he found a long gun buried under saddle blankets. The former employees must have overlooked the weapon as he couldn't understand why the Chassepot remained in the stable.

He'd only seen the rifle once, when two veterans from Mentana had passed through looking for employment two years ago. They'd stayed at the Manor for a week and told stories about Garibaldi when one of the carriage horses spooked and ran across the open yard. Its leg had caught in a rabbit hole and snapped, bringing the animal to the ground.

Gabe opened the bolt and was surprised to find it empty. His hands had started to tremble as he chambered the round. Despite its sore feet, the horse had stepped forward to search the trough for more sugar. In its desperation, it licked the sides and snorted until it found the last cube.

Long gun loaded, he waited until the gelding had finished its treat.

"You deserved better," he said under his breath.

-o-

Her face was still quite bruised but undeniably beautiful. With one hand over hers, Erik looked into Sophia's eyes and slowly nodded.

She wanted him, not a mask.

He wanted to remind himself that she'd seen his face already, but the words refused to connect in his mind. Images stretched through his thoughts, distorted with time.

Beaten, forced to reveal himself. Mocked by crowds. The gasps still echoed in his mind, how frightened, how alone he'd felt. How ashamed he'd been, how angry he still was after all these years.

Comfortable, accepted at last, then betrayed. Twice. He recalled Christine's gentle touch and the way she'd removed his mask the morning after he'd taken her from her room. Melding with his thoughts was that night on stage, when he thought he'd finally convinced her to love him. But he couldn't convince her, and another crowd shrieked in horror. He hadn't felt shame this time, only anger—and the need for revenge. She'd pacified him with her gentleness and mercy, then left him staggering…and alone.

"I've had many decisions made on my behalf and I've also dictated them to others," he said under his breath.

She exhaled. "I'm making you uncomfortable."

"No."

Her eyes widened. "Then I'm making myself uncomfortable because I can't seem to keep myself from...rambling."

Their eyes locked, understanding mutual. For a brief moment he considered kissing her again, but she looked away and coyly smiled. Her cheeks reddened again and she blew air past her lips.

"We should, um, let the fire die. It's quite warm in here, don't you think? Or am I talking too much again?"

"I don't think you talk too much."

"I talk enough for both of us."

He swallowed and released her hand, bracing himself. She did something to him each time she looked him in the eye or spoke to him. It was as though she saw through him, discovering pieces of himself he thought had died. No one had ever made him nervous like this, which he considered almost enjoyable. Normally his anxiety swiftly led to anger. But with Sophia, it led to intrigue.

"Sophia, your decision," he said, meeting her eye, "is mine as well."

Turning away, he brought his hand to his face and removed the mask.

-o-

Neither of them spoke as Erik held his mask several inches from his face. He stared at it a moment, his expression unreadable.

Sophia held her breath as she waited for him to turn toward her. She wondered if she had made an unreasonable request, if perhaps it was too soon. Her lips parted and she nervously tucked her hair behind her ear.

"I—" She lowered her hand and accidentally struck her fingers on the piano, which made her jump out of her seat.

Startled, Erik turned toward her and then quickly looked away.

"I think the piano would like to be played again," she said, hoping to God her laugh disguised her mortification.

"Excuse me?"

"It…oh…would you play the song again? I think I would like to hear it one more time. If, of course, you wouldn't mind playing. Unless you're very tired." She purposely folded her hands and kept them in her lap, thinking it was best if she didn't move. If only she could control her tongue.

"A request," he said under his breath. He searched for a moment before he finally set his mask on his knee. "No composer denies a request."

She felt herself blush as she watched him flex his hands.

"You're just like Philippe," she commented. "Your knuckles crack constantly."

He nodded. "It's bad for the joints. When you practice, you should never crack your knuckles."

Her brow furrowed. "But…you did earlier."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did. Before you played for me."

"It wasn't intentional."

Her mouth dropped open. She knew what she'd seen and he wasn't about to tell her she was mistaken. "Perhaps it's a bad habit you're not aware of?"

Before she finished speaking, he twisted his thumb and it cracked. "Perhaps."

She smiled triumphantly and sat up straighter. "My song, then, Monsieur."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, his lips fighting to contain a smile. "If you are correct then perhaps you should be the one playing."

She giggled, which caught her by surprise. "Is that my punishment?"

"Punishment?"

"I'm afraid I've misspoken. Is that your punishment? To listen to me butcher your perfectly beautiful song?"

He shook his head. "You will play," he said sternly. "Tomorrow. I'll find something suitable for a beginner."

She nodded once and waited for him to play, barely able to contain herself. The static she felt buzzing through her nerves was magnified the moment his fingers touched the keys. In a heartbeat she was mesmerized, her mind blissfully separated from her body. Never in a million years, no matter how much she practiced, would she ever be able to do his music justice. Even if she memorized each note, she was certain she'd never capture the emotion he put into his compositions.

Once the song ended, she sighed and he turned to face her.

"Next time—"

With one hand on his shoulder, she kissed him softly on the lips. His arm wrapped around her waist, gentle yet claiming and safe. He drew her nearer, breathed against her face as he returned the kiss.

Just as she'd felt his emotion in song she now felt it in his embrace. She snuggled in closer and smiled against his lips. "We should never move from here."

"Excuse me?"

"Good things," she whispered, "happen on this piano bench."

He kissed her again.