Thanks to Doost for her editing on about 2/3 of everything I write. She's been busy in Hollywood but still manages to pencil in an Erik…and a Brendan…and a Birgir…and a Mat…and a Garic. Doost, queen of the virtual highlighter!

And special thanks to Jax and Pete ;) for inspiring me to go all the way and step it up a notch. For Pete's sake! Erik needed more angst! You were right on target. Thanks for slapping me around.

Paladin84

He'd barely sat down again and already a headache throbbed in his temples. Rotating his neck, he listened to Citrine ask if Madame needed anything else. When Madame said she was fine, Citrine reminded her to shut the door, unless she wanted a hundred pound dog on her bed.

"Dogs are filthy creatures," Madame grumbled. "They should be tied up outside, where they belong."

"Oh, dear," Sophia said to herself.

"Sometimes I'd rather tie up the men and allow the dogs to wander," Citrine replied.

Erik closed his eyes. He shouldn't have left his room for supper. When he'd walked downstairs, he'd expected light conversation, supplied mostly by Sophia and her aunt. He assumed they would discuss whatever women fancied—dresses, hats, shoes, perhaps. As the night wore on and the wine bottle emptied, he would question Madame Giry about the former owners of the Manor.

But then Madame had questioned Sophia's condition, and the uneasiness he saw in Sophia's gaze angered him. It was obvious she was embarrassed by her faltering vision, yet her aunt continued to question her. His protective nature flared to life and he mentally drew her nearer, shielding her.

"She's had a long journey from Paris to the Manor and I'm sure she's simply exhausted," Sophia said once the guest room door closed.

Erik knew she wasn't exhausted. She was angry that he'd claimed Sophia as his own…as his student. He'd realized too late that reminding Sophia of her lessons was a pompous and foolhardy move.

Sophia shook her head in disappointment. "I had hoped we would enjoy supper together, seeing as it's been so long since I've seen her…and, well, I had hoped you would be pleased by her visit."

Erik watched Sophia as she stood on the tips of her toes and craned her neck. Lips pursed, she lowered her head.

"Oh, I do apologize."

He exhaled hard. "You apologize for everything," he growled.

His tone caused her to step back. "Excuse me?"

"You have no ability to control her health."

"That's…true…I suppose."

"Don't apologize."

"I…I don't know what to say. I app—" She shook her head. "I will not do it again. I promise."

He glanced from her to her empty chair and she sat immediately.

"I didn't realize she preferred dancing to music. I would have assumed that they would go together. After all," she rambled, "who can dance without music? Well, I suppose some people can dance to whatever they hear in their heads, but I need music. Of course, Grace is not my middle name."

He narrowed his eyes. "It's…Patrice, isn't it?"

She chuckled nervously. "Well, yes, but, you see my mother used to tell me that my middle name wasn't Grace when I was younger because I was clumsy. It's…nonsense."

His jaw twitched and he grunted. He had no desire to hear that her mother had insulted her.

"I thought it was funny." She pursed her lips, her cheeks turning red. "You see, I am not a very good dancer. Per chance, do you also give dance lessons?"

He looked up from his food and blinked. With a shy smile, she tilted her head to the side and laughed.

"Once you've completed your piano lessons you may pursue dancing."

"Oh, good. Then I may be able to join the circus." She fumbled with her knife and excused herself again. "You look like a man who can dance wonderfully."

Her comment almost made him choke, but she didn't seem to notice. She'd found another thread of conversation and he knew she'd continue until it ran out completely.

"I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but you have…a certain…" She paused and gulped down half her wine. "You're quite elegant," she blurted out.

He blinked, unsure of whether or not he'd heard her correctly.

"Pardon me?" He'd been called a monster, a devil, and a ghost, but never elegant. Her unexpected compliment took the jagged edge off the evening and he sat back, feeling relaxed at last.

Sophia covered her mouth with her napkin. "Oh, I shouldn't have said anything." She paused, but he knew she'd continue. Her habits had never been more charming. "It's just…I suppose…well, I haven't given it much thought."

He held his wineglass in one hand but didn't take a sip. With no desire to move, he waited, completely intrigued by her words—despite the fact that she hadn't said anything quite yet.

"The way you walk. You have a certain…gait? As I have said, I haven't given it much thought." She immediately filled her mouth with food and concentrated on chewing. When she finally swallowed she looked at him and half-smiled. "Honestly, you should tell me when to stop speaking. I must be driving you absolutely mad."

"I've grown accustomed to you," he said under his breath.

"Your tolerance has grown."

"That sounds like something your brother would say."

"Yes, and I would tell him he walks like a troll."

He paused, his fork inches from his lips. "A rather unexpected comparison," he said.

"Now, Philippe is a good dancer and he has a marvelous voice. I think I've told you before how he can sing. He would have been a wonderful performer but he never enjoyed arts. He prefers his hands in the soil and his face in the sun. To each their own, I suppose."

"He should return soon."

"Gabe said he'd return tomorrow evening. Citrine told me this morning that she's turned away three men already."

"Excuse me?"

"Workers. Didn't she tell you?"

He shook his head and stabbed a spear of asparagus with his fork.

"She probably decided not to bother you. You'll see them eventually."

"For the orchards?"

Sophia nodded. "Seasonal workers will be coming to the door every day for the next month or two, hoping for employment. Philippe's very good at choosing workers. Ever since he was thirteen or fourteen he could look at a dozen people and pick the best two. You'd see a scrawny young girl and a bigger, burly man and he'd take the girl. I used to think he just wanted to have a handful of women at his disposal, but he's not one to fool around when it comes to business."

"Sharing the profits should offer him quite an incentive."

"True, but he values proving himself far beyond how much money he has in his hand." She twirled her glass in her hand, her gaze trained on the wine. "My father's land never brought in much money. Kept us from starving, made my mother comfortable, but it wasn't much—not like horses or textiles. If you allow Philippe control of the orchards he'll do whatever it takes to make it successful, not because he wants his share but because he can do it."

"I've already promised him control," Erik replied.

"I know. It just seems so distant now." She inhaled deeply and released a ragged sigh. "Everything seems so far away."

Erik gripped the table's edge. Sophia felt far away, more distant than he wished to tolerate. He opened his mouth, but she continued to speak.

"I had hoped you and Aunt Anne would start where you left off."

We have, he thought bitterly. That was the problem. The years had passed, their friendship grown dormant. He never thanked her for giving him a home, she never thanked him for guarding her apartments at night. Christine had been a long-awaited breaking point. There was no turning back now, he thought morosely. What was done was done.

He wanted it undone.

"It's been a long time since we've seen each other."

"But…but you lived within the same building, worked in the same opera house…how can this be?"

Her ignorance only frustrated him. For the first time he realized that he'd had a clean slate with her. She was too innocent, too naïve to have known his past.

"Different interests," he muttered.

Sophia heaved a sigh. "This is giving me a terrible headache. Would you care to tell me more about your opera?" She frowned when she looked him in the eye. "Or would you rather discuss politics? I know nothing about either subject."

He lifted his wine glass and watched the contents swirl. He'd felt like this for years: Constantly moving, yet constantly contained. With a sigh, he brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. From over the rim he watched Sophia as she studied him. Always pleasant, always willing to speak to him.

Because she didn't know to whom she offered her affection.

He could tell her, or her aunt would inform her later in the evening, possibly the next morning…soon.

What would be the expression on Sophia's face as Madame Giry sat her down and took her by the hand? She'd never nod silently and wait for her aunt to explain. She'd question every word, request every gory detail. Unintentionally she'd pick his life apart and know everything he wanted to forget, to bury along with the opera house rubble.

She'd resurrect his darker side, the cold, tremulous past he wished to shed. But why should it leave him alone? It was a part of him, each dreadful, lonely moment. Misery was what he'd known for years. It wasn't his past and it wasn't a memory. It was him, inside and out, present and future.

And he could either show her or allow someone else to bring her into his life. Either way she would know, but at least he had a choice. For once he had a choice.

He set his wine glass down and pushed away from the dining room table.

"It was called Don Juan Triumphant."