"Help yourself to tea and whatever you like from the tray. I had the housekeeper prepare a selection of food – bread and cheese along with some sweets," Pere Charles tells them. "Then feel free to make yourselves at home." The priest himself sits down in a leather armchair next to the fireplace of the sitting room.

Christine catches her breath – the décor is so similar to that of Erik's…their little house. Of course the walls are not covered with tapestries. The walls are papered in a pale green floral print. One particularly large landscape hangs above the fireplace. Heavy green brocade hang from the tall windows in the bay where a beige sofa sits and on the French doors. There is more light thanks to the windows although night is falling and the room is darkening despite all the lamps being lit. Even so, the rooms are the same in so many ways.

"Thank you, Father," she says, moving toward the table he indicated. Indeed, a generous assortment of croissants, a hard-crusted loaf cut in slices along with a variety of cheeses, some sardines, hard-boiled eggs and a selection of eclairs, macaroons and sugar cookies sit on a number of silver trays and ceramic platters. The teapot is covered in a knit cozy, much like the one she knitted for their pot at home. The cups and saucers are fine China…again, very similar to those she and Erik use.

Glancing over her shoulder, she finds Erik standing in the doorway, still as a statue. The only thing about him moving are his eyes – surveying the room, taking it all in. What must he be thinking? If she is struck by the room, he must be even more surprised.

"Please, young man. Join your lady. Take some nourishment and rest."

"We had a meal in Rouen," Erik replies, "but if Christine wishes to eat, I encourage her to do so."

"At least have some dessert, Erik, the macarons look delicious," she implores, taking a small bite from a piece of cheese. "This cheese is quite tasty…or at least have a cup of tea."

Taking a deep breath, he joins her at the table, pouring a cup of tea for himself along with a slice of bread, a piece of the cheese she suggested, and a single cookie. "I shall leave all the macarons for you."

"Is that all?" Charles asks. "I would be famished if only from bouncing around in a carriage. Rouen is a three hour trip; a rough ride however fine the coach."

"I have a small appetite – as Christine is well aware." Turning from the table he moves to the beige sofa, placing his dishes on the coffee table.

"Well, I am famished," she replies, taking another bite of cheese and filling a larger plate with some of everything offered, before joining Erik on the couch. Unable to resist, she bites into a macaron.

"Your journey must have you exhausted."

"And yet we had to visit the chapel before being invited into the house."

"Erik!" Christine exclaims. "Pere Charles explained."

"We both know very well my feelings about God."

"I am sorry, my son, I only hoped the prayer and peace of the chapel would make conversation easier…for all of us."

"Well, you were wrong and I am not your son," Erik says, getting to his feet.

Christine reaches for him. Squeezing her hand before pulling away "I am sorry, my dear, but I am not certain I can continue with this folly. Coming here was a mistake." He strides to the French doors, opening them and exits into the garden.

"You cannot blame him," Christine calls out. Shivering slightly at the gust of cold air released into the room, she takes several steps to follow before stopping at the doorway. Instead of following, she hugs herself, turning a sorrowful face to the priest who has not moved.

"He has suffered much," Pere Charles says, his eyes full of sorrow and understanding. "I am so sorry."

Christine nods, sitting back down.

"The mask?"

"His face and parts of his head are deformed."

"Mmm…that would explain why his mother told us he died. Foolish woman."

"She was a horrible person." Tears flood her eyes and her nostrils flare with the declaration.

"I was away at my parish when Edward brought Madeleine home from Paris. I only came to meet her after the accident. I believed her deep unhappiness was related to Edward's death…which was natural. She was still with child, so that added to her lack of sociability, shall we call it?"

Christine shakes her head. "Erik was born two days before your brother…before Edward died. I saw the documents."

"Indeed? I wonder why she lied," he murmurs, his brow furrowing. "I am aware women do maintain the look of being pregnant after giving birth." Brightening. "That means Edward did see his son."

"I often think Erik blames himself for his father's death…seeing his deformity. Perhaps not concentrating at the construction site…losing his balance."

"I seriously doubt that, Mademoiselle," Charles lifts himself from his chair and walks over to an oak credenza. Opening a drawer, he removes a square wooden box and brings it back to his chair. "Sit down, please." He nods to the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace.

Christine follows his direction, watching him expectantly.

After placing the box on the small gaming table between the chairs, he says, "Look inside."

There are a number of daguerreotypes and several sketches. Christine lifts one of the charcoals. "Oh." Her voice catches in her throat.

"Emilie would never pose for a photograph, but Edward was quite a wonderful artist. One day when she was napping under one of the trees in the copse you likely saw when you drove up, he drew that portrait of her. He was a wonderful artist."

"Erik must see this."

"What must Erik see?" he says from the doorway. Entering the room, he closes the doors behind him.

Jumping up, she runs to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I am so happy you came back."

"The harsh reality for me once I got outside was there was nowhere to go – besides which, I felt the chill in the air without my cloak," he says with a harsh laugh. "More importantly, you were here inside. Now. What must I see?"

Rushing back to the table, Christine picks up the drawing. "This."

Pere Charles stands up, placing himself between them, he holds out a hand out to stop Erik. "Before you look at the drawing, I want you to touch my head."

Erik cringes, drawing back. "Why would I want to do that?"

"Please, it will help you understand some things about you and your family."

Bending over, the priest takes Erik's hand and runs it through his thick hair at the base of his skull.

"There are ridges of heavy flesh, I feel two…no, three ridges." Erik pulls back his hand, lifting it to his mask.

"What is it, what did you feel?" Christine asks moving around to see what is happening.

"This," Pere Charles replies, removing his Roman collar revealing an additional three ridges on his neck.

"Oh, my." Pressing close to Erik, she looks up at him. "Just like your cheek and neck."

"I am fortunate…as was your father and my mother…our thick hair and the location of the deformity was hidden." To Christine, he says, "Now you may show him the drawing of Emilie."

Taking the rough piece of sketching paper from her hand, he says, "Emilie?"

"My sister…your aunt," Pere Charles explains. "The right side of her face was made up of the same hardened, wrinkled skin I have on my head and neck. It affected her vision and hearing as well. Why you should both have the condition on your faces, I cannot say. Maman told us her father and brother also had these ridges on their heads."

Erik examines the drawing, touching it gently with his fingers. "Her mouth is normal. Yours is fine. The photograph of my father shows no deformity."

"Notice the small bump next to her right eye, it is much like the one on our father's lip. Although not so severe as yours appears to be, even with your mask, he was able to hide his lips with a very bushy mustache." Nodding toward the box, you will find sketches of him…of all of us in the box I gave Mlle. Daae."

"How did my mother react when she saw Emilie?" Erik asks, taking the box over to the sofa, sifting through the daguerreotypes and sketches.

"They never met."

"Why, Father?" Christine asks. "Did she not attend the burial?"

"Emilie became a nun – a Poor Clare. Living in the world was too difficult for her. As you likely understand, meeting with anyone outside the family was never easy. So she offered her life to God. She still lives at the monastery in Troyes…I visited her not long ago."

"So we can meet her as well?" Christine says excitedly.

"Wait. Wait," Erik says, holding up a hand. "Let us get through this visit first."

"I understand your confusion," Pere Charles says. "This is quite a lot to take in. What you must know is your father loved you – that Edward named you for his beloved sister is proof of that." Pere Charles returns to his chair. "You will forgive me if I must sit – my age is catching up with me."

"I do not understand why Erik's mother did not embrace your family," Christine says, taking Erik's hand, leading him back to the sofa. "From all appearances, she had no family of her own. Is that not so, Erik?"

Erik closes his eyes, pausing a moment. "There was a cousin or aunt, I am not certain – she might have simply been a friend of my mother. Marie. She came to visit quite often. Was most kind to me. A saving grace, you might call her." Shaking off the memory and the emotion of his words, he says, "Otherwise, I knew of no other family."

"When Edward died, Maman insisted she would stay with Madeleine until she was stronger, helping with the baby and the house…that sort of thing."

"But then my mother told you I was dead."

The priest nods. "The brief letter said the baby did not survive the birth and was buried in the garden. My mother's presence was not needed. No mention of baptism or even if you were a girl or boy. After that, despite our efforts to contact her, she might have died herself."

"But the house is not that far from here," Erik says. "Only a few kilometers…on the other side of the village. A short carriage ride or brisk walk if one was so inclined."

"Much as I hate to admit this, we were relieved…your mother was not very…shall we say… personable. In the short time I spent with her at Edward's burial, she was quite cold…as I told Mlle. Daae, I passed it off as grief over his death…and, of course, the discomfort of her being with child. Later, my mother would tell me upon their first meeting she was rude and complaining. However, my brother adored her so Maman held her tongue. She was quite beautiful as I recall."

Picking out a daguerreotype from the box, Erik holds it up. "Yes, she was. This drawing is similar to one I have. Quite beautiful."

"Knowing what I know now, I am filled with regret I did not act with more mercy," the older man says. "My petty feelings got in the way of my compassion. However badly I believe she behaved, she was no doubt suffering and she was family. It was easier to return to my parish. I am so very sorry, Erik, for abandoning your mother…and you. I beg your forgiveness."

"Erik?" Christine presses a hand on his knee.

"I must think on it," Erik says.

"Of course," the priest says. "I appreciate that."

"Yes, I will think on it." Picking up the sandwich he made for himself, he takes a small bite. "Good cheese."

"Munster. My favorite."

"Mine, as well."

Note: Years ago I came across a drawing of the ALW Erik on Discord. The artist was a med student and noted some of the deformities. It was a wonderful drawing, but he did not want it circulated. I researched two of them further and saved a few photos I found on the internet to use for mood boards – and, in that way, I was able to remember the names for this story. While doing some other research for hair clippers for my dog (of all things) I came across a photo of a man with a skin condition creating hard folds in the skin of his scalp.

NOTE: "Cutis Verticis Gyrata" is the possible skin condition Erik had – it may or may not be congental. "Hemangioma" may have caused the issue with Erik's mouth shared with his grandfather and aunt. This is not an uncommon in babies and young children varying in severity. Less severe tumors often disappear on their own. "Aplasia cutis congenita" could explain the open membrane in Erik's skull. Besides possibly being congenital, this condition may be caused by some sort of uterine trauma or possible drug use during pregnancy.