The scene as I approached the decrepit cottage on the edge of Boscherville was uncomfortably similar to my first encounter with Erik.

This time instead of causing me to hesitate, the shouting and ring of shattered glass hurried my pace. I let myself inside without bothering to knock, alarmed by the scene within.

I recognized Marie Perrault from church, every bit the shrinking violet she had been a year ago when she first showed up at my doorstep asking for my husband. She was pressed as a far against a wall as she could manage to be without being absorbed into the house, trying to keep away from the unfolding scene. Erik was unmasked, already scarred face bleeding and bruised and contorted in rage.

As horrible as Erik's face was, the rage that marred Madeleine's face was terrifying. She lunged at the boy viciously and I yelped involuntarily, afraid for his safety.

Erik glanced over at me and ran into my arms as I dropped the gifts I had brought for him and crouched to be level with him. Erik buried his bloody, haggard face into my bosom and I glared at Madeleine as she stalked towards us. "What in God's name is wrong with you?"

She seemed torn between continuing her rampage and stopping in utter confusion. "How can you let him touch you like that?"

"How can I comfort a little boy who's just been beaten by his mother?" I retorted.

"You've seen his face before," Madeleine concluded with rage. "You little shit, what did I tell you –"

When Madeleine reached down and tangled her fingers in Erik's hair to pull him out of my arms, the madwoman my husband saw in me came out fighting.

Even with two older and two younger siblings, I had never once struck another human being until that day. I hit Madeleine so hard across the face my hand stung and she released Erik to rub at her jaw. When the woman didn't retaliate, I turned my attention back to Erik. "Let's get you cleaned up. Where is the washroom?"

With considerable trepidation Erik pulled himself out of my grasp only enough to lead me to the wash room. I sat him on the vanity, pointedly ignoring the large sheet covering the mirror. It didn't take long to fill the washbowl and find a clean cloth to wipe Erik's face clean of tears and blood. "What happened?" I asked as Erik calmed himself.

"I was thinking about infinity last night. It kept me up all night trying to picture it. So I drew it. Four parabolas," he explained as though his logic were obvious. When he saw my confusion, his ruin of a brow furrowed in thought. "They're U-shapes, where the tips stretch out forever. If you draw four perpendicular to each other, they stretch out every direction forever. Infinitely. Mama saw my drawings and thought I was drawing spiders."

I frowned. "Why would it bother her that you were drawing spiders?"

"Spiders are ugly," he said quietly. "It doesn't matter that they eat worse insects; she thinks they're evil. That I'm evil too," Erik added with old understanding.

"So she tried to beat the evil out of you?" I asked, baffled by the logic.

"Yes… she means well," he said staring beyond me as I pressed a dry cloth on his cheek to dry it. "She doesn't want me to go to hell."

"Erik, you're only a child. A sheltered child at that. Nothing you've done in six short years could possibly warrant you going to hell," I explained, directing his gaze towards mine. "I don't care if you write with your left hand and start speaking in tongues, you are not evil."

"I do write with my left hand," Erik replied, uncomfortably. "Mama hates it when I do. She makes me use my right hand and then gets angry because my writing is ugly."

"With practice you'll get better," I promised, squeezing his shoulders comfortingly and deciding to change the subject. "I brought you presents."

"…more than one?" Erik asked hopefully, and I smiled.

"Two."

When we emerged from the washroom and made our way back to the sitting room, Madeleine sat up quickly from one of the sofas. "How is he?"

"Ask him yourself, he's right here," I replied, put off by the way the woman addressed me instead of her own son.

She shifted uncomfortably, wringing her hands. "Are you well?"

Erik merely nodded, squeezing my hand tightly. Madeleine relaxed some and regained her former posture, arrogant and in control while I watched utterly baffled by her reaction. "Let's eat. I've been cooking all day."

When she spoke she held out that ugly black mask, forcing Erik to release his grip on me to fetch it and slip it on with heartbreaking ease.

Birthday dinners as I was familiar with them involved recalling the story of the birth, reminiscing on the person's life. Birthdays were occasions for smile and laughter, all around loving occasions to be surrounded by friends and family. Erik's birthday was a silent affair, with no other children present. Only myself, Marie, and the hard-as-stone Madeleine Renard.

"The lamb is wonderful Madeleine," Marie praised suddenly, desperate to break the silence.

"Collette makes better," Erik remarked quietly. Instantly Madeleine glared at him and Marie turned to me with a desperate look.

I intervened. "My father was a chef and my husband likes to eat," I explained. "I get plenty of practice."

"Your pregnancy seems to be going well," Madeleine said suddenly, changing the subject. "You must be excited."

My smile was pure and involuntary, although I was surprised by her choice of topic. "Yes, I am. It will be our first."

"And how long have you and your husband been married?"

"Oh, about four and a half years."

"Interesting. I got pregnant right after my husband and I were married. Why did it take you so long?"

I glared at her long and hard from across the table. "It didn't. I miscarried."

"I should have been so lucky," Madeleine murmured.

Before I could object, Marie spoke and stood to gather up our dishes. "Let's let Erik have his gifts, shall we?"

Erik sat near me, inspecting the two wrapped parcels I had brought with me. "What are they?" He asked, and for the first time since arriving I laughed.

"I can't tell you. It will ruin the surprise."

"I hope you didn't spend too much money on my son," Madeleine remarked.

I ignored her and handed Erik the first package. He took it curiously, inspecting the paper wrapping carefully before peeling it away without tearing a single corner.

The leather envelope inside contained fine parchment, already lined and awaiting some artful composer to fill it with music. Erik's eyes widened beneath the mask. "It's blank!"

"You can practice copying scores onto it, or even write your own compositions," I suggested.

"You may copy hymns and psalms, but nothing secular," Madeleine said firmly. If I didn't think Erik would find a way to work around her order, I would have protested.

Instead, I handed Erik his next gift. "To compliment the parchment," I explained as he opened the smaller package.

In his hands he held a thin wooden box, elaborately engraved on the lid. Opening the box revealed vial of fine black ink, red wax, a seal, and a quill with several fine silver nibs.

"Wow," he breathed, running his fingers over the feather of the quill. "It's perfect."

"What do we say, Erik?" Madeleine prompted.

"Thank you," Erik said, throwing his arms around my neck. I hugged him tightly in turn.

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

I was used to rumors. Living in a big city like Paris meant there was always someone, somewhere who disliked you enough to spurn your name. Living in a village like Boscherville meant that someone was very close to home and likely knew everyone you were acquainted with. Even knowing this, I was horrified at how quickly I found myself the victim of a malicious rumor.

It started after mass the Sunday following Erik's birthday. Andre was back from Paris, less talkative than usual but I was grateful he had come home after so little time. At four months pregnant I was just beginning to show under my dresses and was all but glowing I was so thrilled. But even on Andre's arm and happy as I'd ever been, the whispers nearly froze me in my tracks.

"I hear Renard's demon is the father."

"My husband saw the boy leaving her house in the middle of the night while her husband was away –"

"Do you think she knows?"

"Even if she was raped she'd know. Not that I think she was raped; I hear he can seduce anyone with his voice."

My grip on Andre's arm tightened. "Andre…"

"I hear them," he said tightly, quickening his pace. I couldn't tell whether it was for my sake or his.

I was crying by the time we arrived home. Andre sat me down, but did not join me. "Where are you going?"

"To give those harpies a piece of my mind."

When my husband returned, I had regained my composure. It was warm outside, but his demeanor chilled me to the bone. I said nothing as he sat by my side. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke. "Before I say anything else, is there even the remotest possibility it could be true?"

My jaw just about fell to the floor. "Excuse me?"

Andre held up his hands defensively. "That's all I needed to know, I believe you. I just needed to hear it," he promised, and my temper cooled. "I have some… bad news," he added, carefully.

My heart sank. "…What did she do to him?"

"There was an exorcism last night, into this morning. Apparently after you left the supper the boy went completely mad. He started after his mother, speaking in tongues, throwing his voice. He had been drawing monsters for weeks, stealing clocks and watches to make mechanical monstrosities. Mademoiselle Perrault fetched Father Mansart from the abbey when the boy threatened to burn the house to the ground with everyone inside if Madame Renard touched him again."

A hand flew to my mouth. "Oh God. Oh my God, are they all right?"

"They're all alive, at least. Erik suffered the worst of it, as these things often go. Collette, the holy water burned his skin. So did the cross. It took Father Mansart and another priest to keep the boy pinned to the bed. I don't think – Collette, stop!"

I was on my feet and moving towards the door before Andre could stop me. I knew he wouldn't follow – our bond was not as strong as that, not anymore. He would let me go, allow me to dig my own grave.

And by God, would I dig it.

I didn't bother to knock on the door of the Renard cottage, though even if I had there would have been no answer; Madeleine was not at home. My heart filled with dread as the possibilities began to flood my mind – the supposed exorcism had killed him. It was not unheard of for the victim of a possession to die during the cleansing, especially the young and weak.

Having no idea where Erik's bedroom was I began to check ever room, becoming increasingly frantic. At the very end of the hall at the top of the stairs I spotted Sasha looking morose against the door and I knew I had found the right room. I stepped over her and all but ran up the second set of stairs into the attic.

Erik's room was every bit as wretched as I imagined it would be. The only furnishing was a chest I assumed held a sparse wardrobe. There was no bed, no toys, no mirror, only drab curtains covering the one window in the room and a pile of blankets on the floor.

There was no sign of the boy. I leaned against the door, holding my head in my hands in despair. I should have known it would end like this. I should have known he would not live to old age, but I still was not prepared for the sinking feeling of loss.

Fortunately, the feeling was quickly replaced by one of relief. "Mama?"

Something moved under the pile of blankets and my heart leapt in my chest. "Erik!"

I was at his side in an instant, sitting him up to look him over. Erik was thinner than ever, taller even than the last time I had seen him only days before, and completely, utterly broken. "Erik, it's going to be okay. I'm here now sweetheart, it's going to be all right."

Erik shook his head. "It's never going to be okay. I'm a monster."

"You're not –"

"I am!" He sobbed. "It burned, Mama. The water and the cross burned."

As he spoke, he pulled up his sleeves to show me the still raw marks on his arms. "They think I was speaking in tongues. They wouldn't listen to me in French, so I tried Latin. Father Mansart has been teaching me Latin since I can remember," he offered as I gathered him into my arms.

"I don't know why the water and cross burned," I admitted quietly, rocking him. "Or why Father Mansart forgot you know Latin. But I know you are not a monster as surely as I know the sky is blue."

Author's Note: Only a handful of chapters left! I am strongly considering a sequel though...