Disclaimer: Oh yes. I own it. Sure. Just like how La Carlotta can carry a tune.

Hi all. Everyone seemed to really like the last chapter, so here's another. This one is shorter, though. Sorry. At first it was just a little thing I wrote for myself, like a character exploration, but I felt like I had to post it in the end. It has too much important stuff in it not to. It's from Henri's point of view. It just talks about how he feels and the like.

This chapter is dedicated to our dear friends the Cook family, though they'll probably never read it.

Enjoy and review!

Chapter 6: A Child's Understanding

Henri and his daughter joined the usual crush of people as they exited the cathedral. They walked wordlessly onto the busy street. Henri felt strange and sad and had no idea why. He felt older. It was as if last night events had aged him for some reason. He had not done anything after Madeline pushed Erik down the stairs. She had stormed off to her room again. Henri and Genevieve had cleaned the table and put away the dishes as always and then went to bed as if nothing had happened.

But that night he had not slept at all. He realized that if Madeline's accusations were true, Erik was an insane murderer. An insane murderer was lying at the foot of their stairway, blocking their only way of getting out of the house safely. He had been so relieved when he saw that Erik had crawled back to the guest bedroom and appeared to be quite unconscious.

"Papa?" the child's voice interrupted Henri's thoughts. She had barely spoken at all that morning.

"What is it, mon ange?"

Genevieve sighed. "I feel dreadfully guilty. I left Erik without tending to him. Did you see all that blood on the floor?" Henri looked down at his little daughter and smiled. Though she could be very excitable at times, She had a kind heart and the right talents.

"Oh, Genny. Erik is a strong man, you know that. You saw how fast he recovered last time. Perhaps it's best if he sleeps for a while anyway. We're almost home. You can help him as soon as we get there."

Immediately after they walked up the stairs and into the kitchen, Erik appeared in the doorframe that led to the hallway. He was leaning against it for support. His mask was once again on his face, but it was sufficiently redder than before. Genevieve ran off to get her supplies as Henri helped the other man to a chair. When Genevieve returned, her father left the two alone and went to find Madeline.

She was lying on the bed in her room. She was clearly in a deep sleep. Her face bore a strange expression of bliss. That's odd, thought Henri she seemed so angry last night. Oh well, at least she hasn't gotten herself into anymore trouble.

He stared at his daughter and was once again blown away by her striking resemblance to his late wife. Her hair, her nose, her basic body shape . . . everything was the same . . . except for her eyes. Henri knew that under her closed lids she had stormy grey eyes. He could remember that Opale's eyes had been a deep blue, almost purple.

"Mon bijou . . ." he murmured to himself.

He turned quickly and left the room, not wanting to remember any more. Madeline reminder him of her so much.

Opale and Henri had been an unlikely couple at first. Him, with his calm and gentle personality, and her with her fiery temper and rebellious attitude. They both had little traits that were the same, though. A love of animals and children, for one. They were both hard workers, too. And of course, they both loved to love each other.

They had spent eight years of happiness together with their beautiful little daughter. Then they had discovered there was to be another child, and the excitement had mounted. Then he was happy for a few days, because there was another little one in his life. All the months of preparation had been rewarded with a healthy baby girl. Everything seemed good.

Then his world was shattered.

Henri had been so lost in thoughts as he walked down the hall he almost fell when he slipped on a piece of paper on the ground. He bent down and picked it up when he regained his balance. Curious, he flipped it over. It was a perfect sketch of a man (he guessed it was Erik) lying on a bed. He was not surprised. Madeline loved to draw. She drew everything. It was not the first time he had almost fell like that. A few years ago he had done the same thing and had hurt his tailbone. It was another thing Opale and Madeline had in common; they had both been artists, though Opale had preferred painting.

After he returned the drawing to the girls' bedroom, he once again made his way to the kitchen. And this time it was not anything on the floor that stopped him. He was halfway down the hall when he heard Erik and Genevieve talking.

"Erik, may I ask you a question."

"You just did. And nothing stopped you that time." There was a hesitant silence for a moment, and then Genevieve spoke again.

"Why did Papa have to pull you out of the rubble? Like, I mean, why didn't anyone else come looking for you, like what Armand did for my sister?"

"I've done some horrible things to people, Genevieve."

"So? I've done lots of bad things. I stole an apple once, and I broke a plate last month. Madeline's done stuff like that too. But Papa still loves both of us. Don't you have any family?"

"No Genevieve, you don't understand. Breaking dishes and stealing a snack aren't what I mean by horrible things. I mean terrible, terrible sins."

"Terrible sins? Like what?"

There was a hesitant silence, and Erik sighed. "I mean like murder, Genevieve." He said in a small voice. "I've killed people."

"Papa was really mad at me once a few years ago, I can't remember why. He yelled at me. He said it was my fault my mother was dead. He said I killed her."

Henri gasped. He had hoped she had forgotten about that. But she said it so casually . . . like she understood that it wasn't true. Like she knew he had been just angry for a day. He hadn't sold anything in his shop for two days, and that night he had come upstairs to find some drunkard had tossed a pebble at the window and shattered it. She had tried to clean up the glass with her bare hands; he had just begun to scream like a singing kettle.

"How old are you, Genevieve?"

"Nine, monsieur. Now, if you'll excuse me. I think I should go mop. Your puke is still sitting there on the floor. I can smell it from here."

As soon as she left the room, Erik began to limp back to his room. He stopped when he saw Henri staring at him with surprise.

"You heard?"

"Murder?" the father breathed. "You've got blood on your hands, Erik. Sweet mercy, I had no idea . . . you must go confess! It's still Sunday, someone will be there for sure. Oh Lord, Erik . . . murder!"

Erik snorted. "With my face, they won't even let me in the church. In their opinion, it's alright if I burn in Hell. They won't want something this ugly in paradise. Paradise has to be perfect and beautiful. It's no place for a disfigured murderer."

And then he went to bed.