A/N: That last chapter was a bit short so here, have another. Besides, I can't leave you with a chapter of angst on a normal Friday, let alone Christmas day!

Chapter 9

Damn the Persian for occasionally being right.

Erik went to Christine that night and begged her forgiveness. They had been so comfortable in their little dark cave, safe and happy, that Erik had all but forgotten that a cruel outside world existed. But Christine loved the sunlight, loved the world above. She gladly sacrificed it for his darkness, but asked often for a visit of a few hours. Her child would need the same.

They started off with nights, the darkness soothing to Émilie's weak eyes and Erik's fragile security. Eventually, over months, they progressed to twilight evenings and then cloudy afternoons in empty allies and the corners of parks. The little girl's eyes remained unaccustomed to light and her skin burned easily, so Erik was careful to tie a bonnet firmly on her head. Still, these daily walks always tired them both out with the sun and the people and they fell into a habit of napping on the sofa before dinner, which Émilie now ate on her own and in her own chair.

It was one night when they sat around the dinner table that Erik counted the months and realized Émilie was almost a year old. And that he had done nothing for the past months but care for her. No reading, no architecture, no drawing.

"Christine, my angel," he said, looking at the empty chair opposite him, "your daughter takes up far too much of Erik's time."

If he thought she had been a handful early on, it was nothing to when she learned to crawl a few months ago. He dreaded her learning to walk. Already she would try to follow him from room to room, using walls and tables for support. Soon he had begun following her in turn, reaching out to pick her up whenever her legs gave way. She fell often and while Erik had nearly collapsed into tears himself the first time, he soon found soothing the slight injuries a most wonderful torment. He both hated that she was hurt and was elated that she came to him for comforting.

However, she was growing stronger every day and would soon walk without stumbling, which meant she might find her way into bigger hurts that could not be fixed with a kiss and some distraction. He had to keep her safe.

That night, as he lay in their bed, he expressed these reasonable fears aloud to Christine. By the time he woke in the morning, he had come to the conclusion that he need not spend every moment of his considerable waking hours with their daughter. If he placed his dangerous inventions on the very top shelves, locked away the deadlier poisons in the little cabinet in his study, and – in general, if he just locked up everything – he needn't worry about her so much. It took him an entire day and a good deal of grumbling to hide everything away.

Since he could not bring Émilie into his study – even with the obviously dangerous things locked up, a walking toddler with curious hands could still find too much to hurt herself in there – he moved his drafting table to the doorway. That way, he could draw and watch her while she amused herself on her collection of blankets on the floor. There was no end to her focus, and thus no end to Erik's fascination in watching her, even while he was working on other things. She was a wonderfully cognizant child, seeming to understand her father and herself far better than her age should allow.

But then, she was Erik's child.

No longer did she cry over anything other than injuries. Instead she quietly insisted, "Papa" or "Erik" whenever she needed something. And now that those few words had come to her, she seemed ever anxious for more. Though she could not yet form them herself, she took great delight in placing her fingers at his throat and feeling the words vibrate beneath. The first time she had done it, Erik had leapt from beneath her and sent her crashing to the ground. Even after he had become comfortable with Christine's caresses everywhere else on his body, years of killing with the Punjab lasso had given him a protective reflex when it came to his throat. Now he put up with it quite happily, watching her mouth try to copy the nonsense he said to her and Christine. Later, when he ran out of his own words, she tried to mimic those from the books he read aloud. It was a shame she could not understand what her read to her, or she would have had a thorough knowledge of medicine, philosophy, architecture, and at least five languages before her third birthday.

Even now, however, Erik could see her frustration. She knew there was meaning behind his voice, behind the words he underlined with a finger, but her child's mind could not puzzle it out. This, Erik could recognize. How often had he felt just that way as a child? Too weak, too dumb. He had worked constantly to improve himself. Mostly it was out of need. He needed stealth to gain the attention of his mother. Needed strength to escape the gypsy camp. Needed to keep busy a mind that moved too quickly to retain a firm grip on sanity. He swore Émilie would never face the hardships he had. She would never need to prove herself. Erik already loved her with a bond he could not explain. But he recognized a mind like his own. Calmer, with Christine's sweetness and stable temper, yet still desperate for knowledge.

So he taught her and spoke to her with nearly unfailing patience. And soon she spoke back, but she had not inherited Christine's voice.

She had inherited his.

His wife's voice was beautiful, pure and raw, clear like a snow-melt lake after he had trained her. His voice had never needed training. It was rich and full and entrancing without his even trying. It was impossible, or it should have been. Émilie's had the same qualities. It was quiet and unsure, still that of a little girl, but it was unmistakably the same voice. He found it unsettling to hear his unearthly tones spoken from a mouth other than his own, and discovered that she could affect him just as much as he could affect others.

Briefly, he wondered how she would sing. With the same sensual, hypnotic musicality as him? With perfect notes and passion? But she did not know what singing was. She had never heard it.

xxx

He taught her please and thank you after having heard a mother reprimand her insolent son while they were out for a walk. Then he took great pleasure in all his daughter's little requests.

"Papa, apples, please."

"Yes, mon cœur."

"Papa, the red crayon, please."

"But I am using the red crayon, you spoiled child."

"Papa, the red crayon now, please."

Every moment, it was "Up, please" and "Read, please" and "Cake, please."

"Mama says no cake, mon cœur."

"I hate mama!" grumbled Émilie.

"How dare you!" he shouted at her. Her eyes had gone wide in shock, but true to form, she did not cry or cower. "Apologize to your mother," Erik roared.

"Sorry, mama," Émilie mumbled. "Please."

Erik's favorite, however, was "Papa, kiss, please."

He'd gone still when she'd first said it. She wanted a kiss from him? She asked to have his monstrous lips against her perfect forehead? No one had ever asked him for a kiss before. Christine and Émilie had both allowed it certainly, but never asked. For a long time, he had only sat staring blankly at her. There was no deceit in her expectant eyes. Rather there was impatience and, with a frustrated noise, Émilie placed her own hand against her mouth, kissed it wetly, and then blew on her open palm, just as Nadir had shown her.

"Like that, papa," she instructed.

He mimicked the gesture obediently.

"Now here, please," she said, touching her hair.

He bowed over her and placed the gentle kiss at the roots of her curls. Never again did he hesitate when she asked, and she asked often. He was sure to oblige this request every time, no matter how inconvenient.