As always, I am grateful for your lovely reviews! Keep them up! I have included a particular song in this section—it is Handel's "Silent Worship." You can find it on youtube if you type this in the search window: "Robin Hood 2006-Did You Not Hear My Lady." Have a listen to it—it's lovely, and it'll enhance the read. Enjoy!

VVVVVVVVVV

CHAPTER SEVEN

Peter and I swept out of the kitchen, his arm around my waist. The living room was cooler than the kitchen, and my head and sight cleared.

"I'm fine," I decided, my health improving with every step I took away from that kitchen. "It was just an overload. Really. I'm fine."

"Good," Peter replied, but he didn't let go of me. "Let's go upstairs."

"Why?" I asked, frowning. He sighed.

"If you're gonna say what I think you're gonna say…I don't want Gabriel to hear it."

My stomach twisted again.

"I wish you would stop calling him that," I gritted. "'Gabriel' is the name of an angel. Sylar is a sick, twisted freak who—"

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about," Peter interrupted. "Keep it to yourself for a sec, okay?"

Together, we climbed up the stairs to the level where Emma and I had slept, and then he turned and guided me up the stairs to a tower.

The tower.

"Wait—I don't want to go up where the guy—" I protested.

"It's fine," Peter said. "I went up there last night. No ghosts or blood or clanking chains."

I rolled my eyes, but went with him up the wooden steps to the landing, then into the circular bedroom.

"Here," Peter guided me to the wide bed. "Sit down."

"You know what, Peter? No." I jerked away from him and spun around, my voice rising. "I don't want to sit down. No, no, no."

"Okay," he put his hands up. "You don't have to."

I stared at him a moment, then barked out a laugh.

"You know what?" I jabbed a finger at him. "That is the first choice I've been allowed to make so far."

"Claire—"

"No!" I clenched my fists, my eyes flashing. "Listen to me, for once! You spun off into the deep end and somehow made friends with Sylar, the guy who would have killed me if not for my ability—and the guy who murdered my father and your brother, along with dozens of other people, and you two come back from who-knows-where having spent time in his brain or something ridiculous like that, and I'm supposed to believe his name change and his good manners and his praying? Come on, Peter!" My face felt hot, and new fury rushed through me. "You left me here alone this morning with him. Do you have any idea what he could have done to me? Again?"

"He wouldn't do anything to you," Peter replied, his voice calm. It drove me nuts.

"How do you know?" I shot back.

"I just do," Peter said simply.

I blinked, then took a step back from him, looking at him sideways.

"What does that mean?"

Peter sighed, stepped forward, took hold of my shoulders, and arrested my eyes with his brown ones.

"Look, Claire…I know it's weird and far-fetched, but our story's true. Sylar went to Parkman because he was convinced that, without his powers, he would be able to be human again. Parkman double-crossed him. He locked him in his own mind instead. I took Parkman's power and went in after Sylar. Now, I know in reality it was only about five hours, but Claire," Peter squeezed my shoulders, then gazed off, as if remembering. He let go of me, sighed, and shook his head. "It felt like years. Years. And all the time I was there, I was sure nothing could convince me that he could change from a murderer into a good man. I didn't believe he was stable enough, for one thing," he shrugged. "But all through hundreds of conversations and fistfights and arguments, and trying to get out of there day after day…" he met my eyes again. "Somehow it happened. Call it a miracle. I dunno. All I know is that Sylar died in that empty city. And Gabriel came out." He paused a moment, looking at me. "And I want you to know," He slid a hand up around the back of my head, and leaned close to me. "I would have died in there with him rather than let him within ten miles of you if I didn't trust him completely and totally. Okay?"

I bit my lip.

"Look," Peter said, his voice quiet. "I have absolutely no expectation that you're going to forgive him. Probably not for years, at least. I did my own fair share of freaking out and punching walls and screaming at him. And I even beat him up for you—does that make you feel better?"

I looked up at him.

"You did?"

He nodded.

"Broke his nose and everything."

A weak chuckle escaped me.

"I'm just saying," Peter went on. "That it's okay for you to work through this—to be insanely angry. I know I was. But I also want you to trust me. I want you to know that I would never put you in danger. And I know he's gonna work hard to make you feel less scared of him."

"That'll take a century," I muttered. Peter shrugged again.

"I think he's prepared for that."

I gritted my teeth.

"So am I."

"Just take it easy, okay?" Peter urged, backing toward the door. "And breathe once in a while. It's good for you."

I wanted to roll my eyes again, but I fought a smile.

"Come on down when you're ready. You ought to eat something." He turned and stepped through the door, then turned halfway back. The look he gave me was completely serious, but soft. "Oh, and there was something else I wanted to make sure I told you if I ever got out of that place."

"What?" I asked. He gave a small smile.

"I love you." He turned and left, trotting down the stairs. "See you in a bit."

I listened to his footsteps as he descended, then turned my face to the sunlight coming in through the window. I couldn't return to that kitchen. Not yet. Not until I had considered everything Peter had told me, and I had decided for myself if any of it could be true.

VVVVV

I managed to evade all of them—not sure how—and stepped out the creaking back door. I peered into the rear garden.

Sunlight streamed down into the yard, which was surrounded by a ten foot stone wall and old, gnarled trees. Shrubberies that hadn't been trimmed in a while lined twisting pathways that circled the flower beds. I stepped out, glad that the air wasn't too cold. It smelled fresh this morning, for the dew had not dried yet. Slight, but crisp wind tossed my loose hair. My shoes scraping on the gravel path, my arms wrapped around me, I wandered out into the bright air, knowing that no one could see me because of the wall.

I was glad I could get out of that house—especially that creepy tower. And after Peter's speech, my mind was so full that the walls felt confining.

My eyes wandered over the flower beds, trying to catch sight of a bit of green poking out of the black soil. Perhaps it was too early. Perhaps the flowers were still too afraid of one last freeze…

My eyes darted to a shred of emerald, and I knelt down, brushing the dirt and dead leaves away from it. It looked like a tulip, maybe. I fingered its delicate leaf. Birds chirped in the bare branches of the trees above me. The wind whispered, but otherwise, the morning was still.

I sat down in the pathway, feeling the warm sun rest on my head and shoulders. I closed my eyes, and hugged my knees to my chest.

For several minutes I just sat there, grateful for the silence and solitude, running Peter's words through my head. Then, a small sound caught the edge of my hearing. It was a little wind chime. It must have been hanging on the front porch. It jingled, just barely, as if it was made by magic.

As I leaned my head back, letting the sun warm my face, a song drifted into my mind—a song my mom used to sing when I was little. And for just a moment, it was as if a soft blanket had wrapped around my shoulders. I closed my eyes and sang the song aloud—not very loudly, but enough so it echoed in the silence.

"White coral bells upon a slender stalk

Lilies of the valley line my garden walk

Oh, don't you wish that you could hear them ring?

That will happen only when the fairies sing…"

My voice trailed off. The back of my neck tingled. Someone was watching me. I twisted and studied the dark, quiet house. I couldn't see anything stirring in any of the windows. I frowned. It could easily be Peter or Emma, just checking on me.

"Right," I muttered. But I turned back to the tulip leaf, forced myself to smile, and repeated the song, a little louder this time.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Gabriel stood in the bare attic, gazing out the tall window into the back garden. His arms were folded across his chest. The window hung open, and the morning air was chilly. And his heart rate had not calmed for several minutes.

Claire's voice, soft and pure, rang through the garden below like distant bells. His eyes caressed her form—he could only see her back as she sat on the path, but the wind toyed with her hair, which looked like ribbons of gold in the sunlight. Gabriel pressed a hand to his heart as his breath constricted again, and a strange, tightening sensation passed through his ribs. He winced, but did not look away from her.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Gabriel slightly lifted one eyebrow and did not turn.

"I found her," he said.

Behind him, Peter sighed.

"Is she outside?"

Gabriel just lifted his chin. Peter came closer and stood at his shoulder.

"Well, okay, as long as she doesn't go anywhere," Peter said. Gabriel said nothing. He felt Peter's frown.

"Hey, are you okay?" Peter wondered.

"Is she?" Gabriel asked instead.

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. Just freaked out a little, that's all. I can't blame her." Peter crossed his arms too. "I thought if I just encouraged everyone to go with the flow, it would be easier. And she did good for a while. But I guess your whole milk carton stunt sent her over the edge."

Gabriel ducked his head.

"I didn't mean to scare her."

"Dude, I know," Peter insisted. "She's just generally scared right now. But she'll work this out."

"If you say so," Gabriel murmured.

"My gosh, now who's the impatient one?" Peter growled. "You're actually doing spectacularly, you know. Hiro's convinced, Ando's coming around, and Emma actually likes you."

Gabriel smiled crookedly.

"She only likes me because you want her to."

Peter raised his eyebrows.

"So? What, you're being picky, now?"

Gabriel chuckled. Peter turned and looked out the window at Claire's resting figure. Gabriel lifted his eyes to her again.

"You know me, Peter," Gabriel said quietly. "I can fix anything. But…I've seen her eyes, and felt what's in her voice." He shook his head once. "I'm not sure I can fix this."

Peter turned back around.

"Well, you sure as heck won't if you keep talking like that," Peter said. "I thought you'd already decided this. I mean, how badly do you want to make things right with her?"

"More than anything," Gabriel murmured.

"Then do it," Peter ordered. "And remember what you told me over and over when we were working on the clocks."

Gabriel frowned at him.

"What did I tell you?"

Peter gave him a pointed look.

"Don't try to fix a pocket watch with a sledgehammer." Peter slapped his arm. "Come down soon, okay? Hiro and Ando are getting ready to leave."

VVVV

Hiro and Ando had left at mid afternoon. Just poof, and they were gone. I had closed my eyes and silently cried out for my dad—hoping down to my bones that he was still okay.

Now, after evening fell and we had eaten supper, I sat curled up in the cushions of the window seat, withdrawn into the shadows of the sitting room. It was cold here, but Emma had brought one of the quilts down from the bedroom and I had wrapped myself in it. Now, the room was only lit by a few golden kerosene lamps and candles. Yes, we had electricity—but we still didn't want to draw attention to ourselves.

Emma and Peter sat at the piano, playing slow chords and individual notes that went together smoothly, but did not form a melody. Occasionally, their gazes would drift through the empty air, and reflexive smiles darted across their faces. Apparently, Emma's power enabled her to see sound, especially music, and Peter had replicated it for now. The notes felt warm, and I could sense them reaching out to me like invisible fingers, trying to soothe my tense muscles. But that wasn't possible. Not when Sylar was so close.

He sat in one of the arm chairs near the mantle, reading a book. Lamplight illuminated half his features, and the spine of the book he was reading. If I squinted and tilted my head, I could make out the words The Princess Bride. Pondering all the reasons he might have picked that book kept me still and silent in my spot, trying to stay invisible, as the notes washed over me.

"I want to see you sing something," Emma said.

"What?" Peter stopped playing. So did she. I glanced up at them. Emma cocked her head at Peter.

"Sing something. I want to see what it looks like."

Peter cleared his throat.

"Emma, I can't…I mean, I don't…"

"Sing something easy," she urged. "Like…Greensleeves, or something."

Peter looked cornered. He cleared his throat again, then glanced down at the keys, as if he expected them to help him out.

"Um…" His voice cracked. "Okay…" He took a deep breath, chose a note at random, and then started to sing—thinly and hesitantly. He changed keys twice before he was done with the second phrase.

"Alas, my love, you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously

For I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

Green—"

"Oh, Peter, please stop," Sylar grimaced, lowering his book. "You're killing me." He looked over at Emma, then pointed at her. "Look—you're killing her, too. Look at her face."

"It's not my fault!" Peter protested. "She asked me to—Hey, I'd like to see you do better."

"Okay, fine," Sylar said, shutting his book and setting it on the coffee table. "I need the piano, though." He got up and crossed to the piano. Giving a sheepish smile to Peter, Emma slid off the bench, and Peter did the same. I sat up a little, closing my fingers around the quilt, watching him.

I expected Sylar to stand in front of the instrument and command it telekinetically again, which would have sent me running from the room—but he didn't.

He sat down, and slowly ran his gaze over the keys, then stroked his fingers up and down all of them as well. Peter, Emma and I went still. Sylar rested his hands in the middle of the keyboard, and, closing his eyes, began to play.

I sat up further. It sounded like an old song—like Handel or Bach—pleasant and quiet. And then, after a short introduction, he started to sing. His voice was untrained, simple, but soft and deep.

"Did you not hear my lady

Go down the garden singing?

Blackbird and thrush were silent

To hear the alleys ringing

O, saw you not my lady

Out in the garden there?

Shaming the rose and lily

For she is twice as fair."

His music hesitated a little, and it lifted me up and suspended my breathing.

"Though I am nothing to her

Though she must rarely look at me

And though I could never woo her

I love her till I die!"

My throat closed. But I kept listening. The song grew sweeter—sadder.

"Surely you heard my lady

Go down the garden singing

Silencing all the songbirds

And setting the alleys ringing

But surely you see my lady

Out in the garden there…

Rivaling the glittering sunshine

With a glory of golden hair!"

Silence fell. Then, Emma covered her beaming mouth with her hands.

"That was beautiful," she praised. "It made gold and deep red colors—did you see, Peter?"

"Yeah. Pretty cool."

Emma kept praising him. Peter just smiled down at the piano. I got up, my heart hammering. The quilt fell to the floor. I headed for the stairs. And for just an instant, I glanced back and met Sylar's black eyes.

Electricity went straight through me.

Gritting my teeth, I broke away, but made my steps even and calm. I went straight upstairs, into my room, shut the door and leaned back against it, trying to catch my breath, and wondering with a shiver if it was still fear that made my heart race like that.

TO BE CONTINUED