Paladin99

Philippe quietly shut the parlor door and stared at the rich oak wood briefly, attempting to comprehend what had happened.

"Did you find Madame Turro?" Monsieur Turro questioned.

"Yes." Philippe forced himself to turn and face the old man. "She is speaking with your guest."

Monsieur Turro chuckled, his milky white eyes blinking rapidly. "Ah, well, as long as they don't run away together." His shoulders and pot belly jiggled when he spoke.

"Shall I apply your eye drops while you wait, Monsieur?" Sabine offered.

"Oh, I'd rather not stand now, dearie. Later."

"But Madame said—"

"Oh, they are my eyes, dearie." He chuckled again, a nervous laugh that reminded Philippe of the way Antole acted when his son was near. He'd never realized before that Antole had been nervous around his only child. For years Philippe had believed it was due to his advanced age: Antole had not fathered a child until he was forty-five, and from what little Karl had said, his father was more concerned with his finances than with his family. Now he wasn't sure if he should have believed Karl, the man he'd foolishly entrusted with his sister's well-being.

"Ten more minutes," Sabine replied sternly.

Laure gave a wide-eyed gasp. "You had better listen, Monsieur Turro. She has the tone."

Sophia giggled to herself and met her brother's eyes. Philippe continued to stare at her, wishing to God he could ask her just what in the hell was going on in the hallway. If anyone knew, it was Sophia. He wasn't sure if he should reprimand her for keeping a secret or congratulate her for holding her tongue.

"It is very quiet. Is something amiss?"

"No, no." Sophia stepped forward. "Tell me, Monsieur, did you have a nice holiday?"

Philippe half-listened while Antole gave a long-winded account of their travels to London and the south of France, where they'd unexpectedly spent a week near the sea. Philippe thought about what Madame Turro had said, but was unable to grasp the concept. He'd never known she had a son—other than Karl, who was not hers by blood. He'd known she was married to Pierre Legasse Belmont, but Monsieur Belmont died without children and left his estate to his wife, who had been out of the country for several years. Or so his father had told him. Philippe had never really believed that a woman would leave her husband for seven years in order to care for orphans and feed the hungry. Perhaps it was all an elaborate tale devised to mask her infidelity.

He looked to Sophia again but she wouldn't meet his eye. The sooner they returned home, the better.

-o-

"I thought…" Erik paused, barely able to catch his breath. A lifetime of confusion and heartache rushed to the surface of his memory. It had been hell to wait until Monsieur Dupree left before he could speak freely.

"Yes?" Angelica pursed her lips and urged him to speak.

"I thought it was because I had disobeyed."

"Excuse me?"

"Three days before the faire you had told me to stay away from the Manor. I disobeyed."

Tears fell harder. "I was angry, but I would not have abandoned you." She forced a smile. "You did far worse. My good china was missing three bowls and a plate."

"They told me it was punishment," he said under his breath, attempting to sort fact from fiction.

He still recalled the smell of feces and damp straw as he was tossed into an animal cage.

He had no idea what had lived there before him, only that whatever it was had died or escaped. Still groggy, he realized he would face the same fate: Death or escape.

"I would have sent you to your room without supper." She sniffled. "My God, I would never have abandoned you. Never."

The first kick to the ribs left him longing for a swift, merciful end. No one had ever hit him, ever stood over him and screamed in his face. Before he'd become fully conscious he was pulled upright and stripped of his best clothing.

"The son of the devil would not wear Sunday's best," the toothless man had said. He smiled, grabbed Erik by the chin, and stared at the mask.

Erik had known what would happen next but he couldn't move. His body was no longer his own. The world moved, shimmered before his eyes like heat off a hot summer road. He braced himself for cold air against his cheek, but nothing prepared him for what had happened.

Rather than confiscate the mask, the man spit on him. At first Erik was so shocked he couldn't breathe. He merely blinked, felt hot breaths against his flesh, saw the cruel, satisfied smile. Heat burned his cheeks and ears, humiliation boiling in his blood. The man laughed, and when Erik didn't react, he shoved him hard against the steel bars and slapped him across the face.

Pain reverberated through his body, echoed through every nerve. Once the numbness subsided, it felt as though his cheek was on fire. Nine years of age and no one had ever raised a hand at him. He didn't know what to say or what to do.

"I want to return home," he'd whimpered.

"No one wants you."

"Please, please I want to return home."

"To who?"

"My mother."

The man's eyes had narrowed. "And who is she?"

"Madame Angelica Belmont."

"Angelica?" The man leaned down, grabbed a fistful of his hair. He pulled him forward, displaying him to a small band of carnival folk, and ripped the mask from Erik's face. "So an angel birthed the son of the devil?"

"I'm not the son of the devil." Those were the only words he managed to utter under his breath.

"Of course you are. By tomorrow, you'll have your own banner. In three weeks, when we enter London, you'll have your own act."

He put his hands to his face, wanting nothing more than to end the cruel laughter that surrounded him. Laughter he knew well, both in joy and in its cruelty. The boy at the faire had laughed at him, had made him feel smaller and more insignificant than he'd ever felt before. He didn't know the boy's name, didn't know where he came from, but it didn't matter. Only his reaction remained in Erik's mind, a plague of humiliation and fear.

He realized then that he had no idea how to survive, no idea how to live alone. And that was what he would be. Completely alone.

"They said…you gave them money and asked them to take me."

"No. No, that isn't true."

"They said you were ashamed of me."

"I was ashamed of myself." She didn't bother to wipe her eyes. "For letting you out of my sight."

"How hard did you search?" he asked bitterly.

"I searched for you for hours and then I contacted the constables and they searched for you as well, until every tent, wagon…"

"What about the cages?"

Her lips quivered. "Everywhere. I looked everywhere." She clutched his wrist, her eyes filled with desperation. "I don't know what to say to you, Erik." She looked past him at the parlor door. "But I cannot know my son in a hallway," she whispered.

His back stiffened, shoulders squared. Of all the emotions he harbored, anger was the first summoned. "Do you want to know me?"

She answered with her palm against his cheek. "If you would allow it." Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her. "I've waited twenty-eight years to find you, and I always expected to see a little boy return home. When you didn't…"

He wanted to ask if she'd given up, but he didn't want to hear her answer.

"I'm still surprised to see you as a man."

"Why?"

"Because I'm your mother, Erik. Every day of my life I have pictured you as you appeared that day. Your hair combed back, your best shirt and waistcoat…you were so handsome…such a gentleman."

A shiver ran down his spine and he clenched his fists. "Wednesday."

"Pardon me?"

"If you would care to visit, you may do so Wednesday." He hated himself. Years of waiting, wondering…needing to know he wasn't alone—and now he would hold it off for another two days. Nearly thirty years had passed and he wasn't prepared to see her again.

She grasped his hand, her fingers lacing with his. He wanted to jerk his hand away, but he couldn't. Memories flooded his mind, thoughts of rainy afternoons and warm summer days. He couldn't hate her. She had loved him. She was the only person who had ever loved him.

Suddenly he wanted to apologize, but she spoke first.

"I will accept whatever time you allow me."

He turned away from her and paused, his heart wrenching in his chest. "Did you honestly search for me?"

"Yes, of course. Until I made myself sick with worry."

He couldn't stop the words from leaving his mouth. He had to know the truth. "Why did you stop?"

"I never stopped."