Paladin122

He stood alone in the bright sunlight and watched sparrows compete for bread crumbs Citrine had thrown out the kitchen door. After a lifetime spent in darkness, he realized he'd forgotten the splash of warmth a well-lit room provided. The sensuality of candlelight, the mystery of shadows…that had been his world, and he had thought it the most suitable surrounding for a ghost. But now he wanted the world belonging to men, a lifetime of watching trees flower and sprout bright green leaves, to sit in the shade because it was his choice, not a requirement, to walk through a sea of leaves.

And to walk toward Sophia.

He attempted to count the minutes that passed, though his every thought skittered through his mind faster than a rabbit. What he'd thought was a minute could have only been ten seconds. The anxiety burrowed deep in waiting threatened to break him. Every creak of the house, every hush of wind through an opening in the window startled him, made him want to turn and see if she stood there.

But still he stood alone, his hands in his pockets, his heart a heavy, constant thud of panic. Every attempt to remedy the situation had made it worse. He'd gone from mentioning Christine's name and his former life to getting rid of Sophia moments after she'd walked into the parlor.

He hadn't meant to release her from her duties in that manner. He'd hoped to sit her down and tell her he wished to move forward, to court her properly rather than keeping her as a convenience in his home, a servant by day and lover after hours.

Everything he'd wanted to say now lodged itself on the back of his tongue and waited to be used. Thick, dry words he'd speak on his knees if she asked him to beg. His eyes closed to the sunlight, to the unfamiliar home he'd inherited. No, he told himself, no he would not beg her to love him, to stay with him. He wanted her to come to him without resignation, to stay by his side because she wanted him as much as he wanted her. The possibilities frightened him, as he couldn't see a reason for her to stay here. He wasn't handsome and he hadn't been good to her. He was ugly and cruel.

He'd gotten rid of her, and now she was free to rid her life of him.

Suddenly his legs didn't seem strong enough to support his weight. He needed to sit down and wait. If she didn't return, he'd stay here for an eternity in this one sunlit room and wait for death. From a dark cave of coffin to a glass tomb.

-o-

"I'd kick him," Citrine suggested, her face red with emotion. She vibrated with energy, with the need to march into the solarium and wallop the man who'd hurt her dear, sweet Sophia.

"I can't kick him," Sophia replied.

"Then I'll kick him, right in the—"

"No, you're not going to kick him either." She laughed in spite of herself. "I should just…leave. Quietly."

Citrine rolled her eyes. "You're no good at this."

"I know," she said miserably. That's why she was here, in the kitchen of a home where she'd been dismissed from her duties. She didn't know how to do anything at all.

"You want to leave and mean it. If you just quietly slink away then he has no need to run after you."

Sophia's eyebrows shot up. "To run after me? Why would he do that?"

Citrine blew a raspberry. "Weren't you paying attention?" She made a face, an exaggerated frown, and dropped her shoulders. She walked around, dragging her feet as she made a circle around Sophia. "That's how he walked into the kitchen."

"I saw no such thing. He—"

"That's how he wanted to walk in. Didn't you see how he looked? He was sorry."

"He was?"

"But," Citrine raised her finger in the air and shook it. "Not sorry enough."

Sophia's heart sank. She wanted to believe he'd made a mistake, that she'd made a mistake as well, but she couldn't bear to face him. Confrontations frightened her, and after he'd barked at her and told her he no longer wished to employ her, she feared what Philippe would say when he discovered they were both cast onto the street. However, she had no idea if Erik had released both of them or just her. She didn't want to ask.

"Then what should I do?" she asked, though she didn't necessarily want to take Citrine's advice, which had thus far involved physical violence and a production fit for a Parisian stage.

Citrine shrugged. "I already suggested that you kick him. Right in the—"

Sophia cocked her head to the side. "I have half the mind to kick you."

"Me? What did I do?" She appeared shocked.

"For not telling me to go to the solarium and speak with him."

Citrine smiled warmly. "That sounds perfectly reasonable to me. I'd never suggest anything of the sort."

-o-

A lifetime had passed, and he was alone. He couldn't remember when silence had filled him completely, when the tick of a clock seemed slow to his heart beat. The longer he waited, the more he resigned himself to fate. He'd been given two chances in life and proven beyond a doubt that he could not love and be loved in return, that romance was a coveted but distant joy he wouldn't know.

He watched the varying degrees of sunlight as clouds passed in the sky, and he wondered how men who'd lived their entire lives in the presence of proper women dealt with such devastating blows. For him it had always been difficult to accept loss. From the bird he'd found kicked prematurely from the nest only to have it die in his hand to what he'd thought was the betrayal of his own mother, he'd been unable to accept the emotional challenges.

Another fault, he thought, one which ran much deeper than a layer of skin, one that he didn't need a mirror to see because he felt it now more than ever.

"Shall I pack my belongings today or will you give me the opportunity to do so tomorrow?"

The sound of Sophia's voice paralyzed him with joy and complete trepidation. He waited until her words fully registered, until he'd replayed each syllable a dozen times and new for certain that he'd heard her voice.

"It's not necessary," he said as he turned to look at her.

"I will not accept charity," she snapped.

"I'm not offering charity." His voice came out a soft whisper despite every fiber of him wanting to yell to her.

"Then I'm afraid I don't understand you at all, Monsieur."

He took a breath, a spark of irritation threatening to consume him in flames of anger. "Sit," he said, gesturing toward a chair.

She hesitated, her brave front deteriorating as she glanced at the chair and then back at him. "I don't think it is for the best."

"Why not?" he questioned.

She frowned. "I think I should leave."

"Where will you go?"

"To stay with Citrine," she said firmly, though by her nervous expression she must have realized that her answer wasn't as threatening as he'd first expected.

"If you won't sit, then allow me to explain."

"About what?" she questioned. Her green eyes flashed with anger. "The woman you're in love with or why you decided I am no longer employed here."

From the moment she'd walked out of the parlor he'd known speaking to her would not be simple, but he hadn't anticipated it being this difficult, either. She folded her arms over her chest and hid the parts of herself that he'd touched. He looked away, his mind filled with the memory of her soft flesh, of the firmness of her breasts and the salty sweet flavor of her skin. Her warmth, now absent, had kept him content in the moments they lay together.

And now she stood across the room, her body closed off from his. It was as though they had never embraced, never shared intimacy. He would have wondered if it had all been a dream, but he could still replay her soft cries and the thump of her heart against his. He knew her in a way no man had ever known her and he didn't want to lose that.

"Both," he said. "But the woman I'm in love with…she's you, Sophia, I'm in love with you."

"That cannot be true."

"Why not?"

"Because," she replied.

He offered her a seat once more, which she declined. "Why don't you believe that I'm in love with you?"

Her eyes swam with tears. "Because you're a composer and a musician, you love your world of music, your piano, your talent…and because I cannot sing."

"What does that have to do with my feelings for you?"

"She was a singer, wasn't she?"

His jaw tensed. Without meeting her eye, he nodded. Telling her about Christine proved harder than he'd anticipated. Foolishly he'd expected to put that part of his life firmly behind him, create a distance in which he could freely speak without feeling as though his past life could interfere with the present. It would interfere, he realized, it would poke and prod at him no matter what he did.

She shifted uncomfortably, a strand of hair falling in her eyes, which he desperately wanted to pull away. Somehow he refrained from moving, from acting without a second thought. For once he held himself under firm control. You lead, he'd told her once before, and I'll follow.

"And what am I? I'm a servant in your home." Tears swam in her eyes, threatened to pour over her mottled cheeks and stain her oval face. It didn't make sense how such deep feelings of love could result in hurting her, but all the signs lay before him. "That is to say, I was your servant."