Oy vey, this one is already starting to mess with my head...and am I the only one who has no trouble picturing young Erik as an embittered hothead? Enjoy the chapter!

Several hours after making the decision to go, Ange arrived in Rouen, stepping off the train with a little fear as she absorbed the unfamiliar surroundings. She'd never left Paris in her life; she'd never had reason to. She'd never looked after her own needs; again, she'd never had reason to. This was all brand-new to her, and it was novel and exciting and unnerving. She felt as if her life was finally beginning.

She stood on the station platform with her things and wondered what she should possibly do next. She still had money left, and she needed a place to stay. She had no experience in making funds last as long as possible, and when she'd been raised to view cost as no obstacle, she couldn't help but wonder if she was in over her head. How could she take care of herself, never mind the baby when it came?

She gave herself a little shake and steeled her nerve. She hadn't endured four years of hell and put such a mark on her soul to be discouraged this easily. She would just go to the station master and ask him for directions to an inn.

She approached a man wearing an imposing-looking uniform and asked, "Excuse me, monsieur, but where might I find a place to eat and stay the night?"

He took in her stolen uniform, her short hair, and her luggage with some curiosity and a trace of disapproval before replying, "There's an inn a few streets over from the cathedral, the Lamb and Lion. The innkeeper's name is Trudeau."

Ange nodded in acknowledgment. "Thank you very much, monsieur." She left the station and set off though the streets, in search of the cathedral. After making a few more inquiries, she arrived outside the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Rouen, with its lightning-struck spire and its muddled yet lovely architecture. She stood staring thoughtfully at the stonework, absently admiring the structure. She hadn't set foot in a church in so long...Séraphin had been indifferent to spiritual matters and had only attended Christmas and Easter mass because it was the seemly thing to do. She'd always been astounded he never burst into flames during any of the services, heathen that he was. He's burning in Hell now, at least,she remembered with satisfaction, then she bowed her head somberly. She shouldn't rejoice in what she'd done; no matter what kind of monster her husband had been, she had still taken his life. No reasons and no excuses made it any less of a sin.

She paused, then climbed the steps to the cathedral. She would go to the inn later. Right now, she needed to seek forgiveness.

Erik could only explain his restlessness by his displeasure at being so close to the place he'd been born, a displeasure that hadn't abated in the fair's three weeks at Rouen. On the contrary, he'd only grown more agitated with every passing day. Genevieve had kept him company, if her meandering nonsense could be considered company, but he still felt on the verge of insanity. He'd confined himself to his own tent, taking Adrienne's advice and only venturing out in the twilit hours before nightfall. Who knew? Perhaps his parents would turn up and recognize him by his glowing eyes in the dark.

Oh, quit being stupid, he cursed himself. You've never been afraid to step out your own front door; you just never could be bothered to when it didn't suit you. And why shouldn't it suit you now? For once, you can't stand being cooped up!

He stopped, reflecting on that irony. Was he tired of being cooped up? Well, yes! He'd always resented being forced into confinement, and this self-enforced one was no better. He just might lose his mind if he didn't get out soon!

But where on God's green earth would he go, even if it was only to stretch his legs? There was still the simple problem of his...disfigurement. He wasn't about to stroll the streets without his mask, yet the mask itself attracted attention. He wanted to get out, not be hounded by curious, stupid bystanders. What kind of place existed where he wouldn't have to deal with the stares and the whispers?

A sound drifted in to meet him, a doleful, mellow chiming echoing across the countryside to whisper to him of a place he couldgo, after all...aren't churches places of shelter for those in search of it?

He rose, then strode from his tent, moving through the fair as fast as he could. His brisk pace earned him a few curious glances, but he would put those behind him soon enough. The city up ahead grew larger as he approached, and it crossed his mind that, though he might have been born there, he really didn't know that much about Rouen. He'd hardly been allowed to leave the house as a child, only ever to take in some air in the back garden away from the neighbor's prying eyes. He really was a stranger to this place, and wearing a mask that instantly identified him as one of the performers in the fair, he could pretend his past wasn't his past at all. What a refreshing idea...

He came to the city proper at last, looking around him at the streets he should have known all his life. The knowledge had been denied him, like so many other things; a happy childhood, a real home, and his parents' love. What if they were really alive? What if they really did have more children after him, good, normal children they could adore and be proud of? How would they feel if he just turned up out of the blue, the son they doubtlessly had done their best to forget had ever existed? Would they be shocked? Hurt? Angry?

Well, it would serve them right, he thought bitterly. They should have done better, tried harder to love me, something! They'd deserve a surprise like that, for their demon reject to swoop down and throw their fairy stories into a tailspin.

He really should go see if they were still in the old house with the trellises reaching up to touch the rooftop. If they were, maybe he should knock on the door, just to see how they would take it. Good day, monsieur and madame. Do you remember me? I'm the monster child you'd forgotten how much you hated. Care to see a magic trick?The thought almost brought a smile to his face. It was terribly tempting...

He directed his steps to a new destination, one that was still intensely familiar to him after all these years. It was tricky to find his way in the daylight when he'd only traveled that way in the dark, but he arrived soon enough. He stood on the opposite side of the road, gazing at the house with profound dislike.

How much of it had changed? He couldn't be sure, but that fence hadn't always been there, and the shutters had been repainted; he could remember when they were dark green, not that pale yellow. The trellises, however, remained as they'd always been, apart from the thorny roses now growing up them. No more little boys would be able to climb down them in the dead of night.

Was it still their house? He felt somehow that it must be, however irrational the feeling was. Should he knock on that front door after all? Honestly, why should he in the first place? To spite them? To see how they had carried on without him?

Well, how do you think they carried on? he asked himself. They dusted themselves off and moved on quite easily, no doubt. No one ever shed any tears for you.Still, he stood staring, almost hungrily, unable to look away—

The sound of brisk footsteps down the street finally made him turn his gaze. A young woman marched up the pavement, a cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a basket nestled in the crook of her arm. He continued to watch her, following her with his eyes as she reached the gate in the fence. Without a moment's hesitation, she lifted the latch, opened the gate, strode up the lawn, and entered the house.

Erik kept his eyes on that front door, his mind still processing what he'd seen. Could that perhaps have been his sister? If so, then she looked perfectly normal, her face flawless and unblemished. They'd gotten their perfect child after all.

With a sneer, he turned his back on the house, disgusted he'd come at all. What had he expected to see? Even after he'd surmised such a thing? It was foolish and stupid to feel so...dejected. He set off back up the road, bound once more for the cathedral.

The tolling of the bells drew him onward, calling him in away from the world to a hallowed place that welcomed troubled souls such as his. He entered, the heat and the sunlight left behind him, and gazed up the nave of the church. All was still and peaceful, the silence holding the presence of God in its fingertips. The sun broke in through the windows, some shafts bursting with color as they pierced the stained glass. The pews were almost entirely empty, and the few that occupied them kept to themselves, leaving their neighbors to their prayers. Yes, this was just the place for him. He took a seat a few rows behind a young woman with curiously short hair and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"What is it you seek in the house of God, young man?"

He was called back to alertness at the soft-spoken question, opening his eyes again to see a priest standing next to his pew, the query repeated in his gentle gaze.

He was caught off guard and left stammering for a reply. "I-I seek nothing."

The priest merely smiled and told him, "Not a soul that passes through those front doors does so for no reason. Tell me, my son, what is it you seek?"

"Do you really want to know," Erik shot back distrustfully, "or are you just asking because it's your sacred duty?"

Three rows away, Ange lifted her head at the sound of that voice. The magic, the velvet music woven into every sound, struck her like thunder. She turned around to see they young man sitting there, speaking to the priest and looking as out of place as she felt. Not only was he wearing a mask that concealed much of his face, the rest of his dress was showy and eye-catching. His jacket was black, but embroidered lavishly with gold and silver thread. His waistcoat was of a brocaded scarlet, and she could see a touch of lace at his collar. The cloak on the pew beside him was lined with emerald-green silk, and the hat he'd discarded upon entering the church was adorned with a large plumed feather. She shifted in her seat to get a better view, and saw a pair of long, slender legs, like those of a runner, in close-fitting black trousers and gleaming leather boots. In most men, she would have dismissed him as an attention-seeking peacock, but there was something in his self-containment and sobriety that made him elegant.

"Of course I want to know," the priest replied softly. He'd been the one to speak to Ange upon her arrival, and while she'd kept the circumstances of Séraphin's death to herself, she had poured out the story of her abuse and her escape after finding herself a widow. She had ended by confessing how glad she was to be free of him, and how guilty she felt at being so glad. He'd offered a few words of comfort and prayed at her side for several minutes, then left her in peace again. She hoped for this stranger's sake that he would accept what solace the priest could give him.

Erik stared at the man in a long moment's silence. He hated talking to people, especially people bent on making him talk back. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the church, or his pent-up frustration at being in Rouen, or his visit to his parents' house that prompted his candor and sincerity, but he finally replied, "Shelter."

The priest nodded and said, "Then here is where you'll find it."

Erik looked back at him doubtfully, but said nothing, and the priest moved on. He leaned back in the pew again and gazed around him before closing his eyes and shutting everything out.

"Hello, monsieur."

He only just held in a growl of irritation as he looked up a second time and saw the short-haired young woman. She had moved to sit in the pew directly in front of him, and was watching him with enormous brown eyes. He glared back at her and didn't respond.

She wouldn't be discouraged, though. She leaned closer and said, "I'm Ange."

He lifted his eyebrows in indifferent acknowledgement and still refused to speak. So it was an angel that had chosen to address him?

"What's your name?"

He sighed and said, "Whatever you want it to be."

"I want it to be what it is."

What was that supposed to mean? He edged further down the pew away from her, but she followed him. She had at least stopped talking to him, but she was still staring at him. He didn't like it when people stared at him, even during his magic shows. He put up with it then because he had to; he was performing, after all; he had no such obligation now. He stood and collected his hat and cloak, nodded to Mademoiselle Angel, and left the cathedral.

Ange sat indecisively, watching him pass back down the nave of the church. It had been an impulsive act to speak to the man—one of the first impulsive acts she'd ever made—and she'd only done it because she felt so much like a stranger. Even knowing one person's name would have gone a long way to making her feel less awkward. She wasn't surprised at his aloofness, really, but she felt vaguely disappointed he'd brushed her off so quickly. Four years without a kind word from anyone...she couldn't hold back from speaking to him, not when he looked in need of kindness himself.

She gazed around the cathedral again, taking in the barren pews before turning her eyes up to the great crucifix that loomed behind the altar. The image of Christ, His arms spread wide, His sorrowful eyes lifted towards Heaven, a trickle of painted blood on His brow, held her attention for the longest time. His was the greatest sacrifice so all penitent sinners may be redeemed, but she still felt worthless as she sat there. Wasn't time supposed to heal the wounds she'd suffered? How long would she have to wait until that day came?

She sighed and crossed herself, then got to her feet. She was tired, and not just from the night's trials. It was time she went to that inn the station master had told her about.

Her carpetbag and cello case felt heavier than usual as she carried them through the doors of the cathedral into the bright sunlight. She blinked several times, waiting for her eyes to adjust again, and peered up the streets. There were people walking here and there, normal people with their own lives, too preoccupied with their own concerns to notice the strange young woman with her scandalous hair and broken instrument. Which direction was the inn? The station master had only said it was a few streets over, but where? She stood on her toes and gazed over the heads of the crowd in search of a sign. Nothing...but her attention was caught by that black hat with the feather. It was that young man in the church. He at least seems to know where he's going, she told herself as she watched him stride up the street, gliding effortlessly through the masses and heading for...it looked like...the edge of the city...
In a snap decision, she readjusted her grip on her things and hurried after him.

The sun beating down on his back was uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as being right in the middle of all those people. Had they been ogling him as he passed? They usually did; if his mask didn't draw attention, his clothes certainly did. The flashy garments weren't at all to his taste; they were far too loud and garish. They were necessary, though. They evoked interest and as a performer, he needed an audience.

Not here, though, he thought mutinously. There's nothing here to interest anyone out there. He quickened his pace.

"Please, monsieur, wait!"

A snarl of frustration burst from him. What now?He spun and saw that same woman from the cathedral rushing to catch up with him, struggling to hold onto a threadbare bag and a large case. For a second he had to give her credit for managing to haul it along after her in a hurry—it was nearly as big as she was. Then his original annoyance returned in full force. "What is it, mademoiselle?" he snapped. "Does it really mean that much to you to learn my name? What would you do with the knowledge anyway?"

She reached him and set the case on the ground, winded and panting for breath. "I'm sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I just—"

"What? You just what?"

She paused, looking for the right words. "It's just that I'm not from the area, and I don't know anyone. I thought maybe that you could...well, help me."

"You thought wrong," he replied flatly. He turned to go on his way again, but she grabbed his arm and held him in place. "Please, monsieur, I have nowhere and no one in the entire world."

He shook her off. "It's a harsh world, Mademoiselle Angel, and most of us are alone through it all. Sad, but true, I'm afraid."

"Can't you show any sympathy for a poor woman on her own?"

He didn't reply. Sympathy was beyond him, a foreign concept he'd never learned or witnessed. It's not that he couldn't feel it, but that he didn't know how. "I'm sorry, mademoiselle," he told her, "but there's nothing I can do for you. I'm...not from the area either." With that, he walked away and left her behind.

Ange stared at his retreating figure in disbelief. Sheltered she may have been once upon a time, but this seemed rude beyond ordinary standards, and she knew a thing or two about courtesy and decency. What made her so unapproachable? Did she perhaps still smell of smoke and kerosene? Was it her hair that was so off-putting? Well, he was one to judge, dressed like some kind of coxcomb!

She heaved a sigh. What should she do now?

He'd said he wasn't from the area, so where had he come from that he wasn't staying at the inn? She found it hard to believe a man dressed like that was given over to sleeping in barns and strolling aimlessly from place to place like a vagrant. A man dressed like that belonged in some sort of troupe, maybe actors or showmen of some kind of thing. She went after him again, a bit more cautiously this time, still holding tight to her luggage. There was an encampment of sorts up ahead; she could see tents and camp fires and people milling about. Some of them were simply dressed like she was, others wore more of that frippery the man had worn.

So he was in a troupe...no, not a troupe, this was a fair. There were acrobats and jugglers and fire-eaters and sword swallowers and tumblers and musicians and animal trainers and other fantastic performers out there, and they were giving a show for the people who'd come from Rouen.

She squared her shoulders and marched on. Surely there must be someone down there who would give her a helping hand.

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