SEPTEMBER 1907

ERIK

The carriage ride had been long, and while I had known it would be, being in a comfortable living space was my one desire—not even for myself, but for the sleeping boy leaning against my side. His eyes had fluttered shut fairly soon after I bestowed his new nickname upon him, and he had continued to sleep for almost two hours. Even I had found myself nodding off for a few moments every now and then, which was bizarre. I had been doing that quite a lot lately—sleeping. It was an activity that I had not often partaken in. For years, my mind had been plagued with the notes of Don Juan Triumphant, leaving me too awake to do anything but compose. More recently, however, Christine had been the only thing that filled my thoughts. For the past ten years, I had only dreamed of her. Although my age seemed to be catching up with me and my body demanded frequent rest, I could not make myself shut my eyes for very long. When I did, I saw her and it was like I was holding her body against mine once more, only for me to awaken and feel my loneliness flood over me when I found my arms to be empty. At that moment, however, I was so exhausted, both physically and emotionally, that the dreams were the least of my problems.

I had been resting my head against the window and trying to sleep when I felt the soft bumping of the carriage stop. I opened my eyes and looked to the driver, who had opened the door next to me and was staring up at my face.

"Is there a problem?" I inquired.

"We must stop for the night, Monsieur. We are no longer in the city, and these roads are dangerous at night. There is an inn here where we can rest before we leave in the morning."

I sighed, displeased with the truth. I had hoped to be on that night's journey to England, but deep down, I knew that a stop for the night was best for all parties, even if my tickets did go to waste. "Very well. Where are we, exactly?"

"Un petit ville, Monsieur," the driver replied, falling back on our native French language when his English vocabulary failed him. "Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville."

And with those four words, my heart was made to stop beating.

"Boscherville?" I repeated. "Are you quite sure?"

"Oui, Monsieur. It will not be too long of a ride to the pier from here in the morning."

The driver moved to collect our luggage from the back of the carriage, which left me to gather my thoughts. It had been years...

I shook my head and returned my focus to my life's new priority: "Gustave, my boy," I whispered as I gently rubbed the boy's shoulder. "We've stopped for the night, come along."

The boy's eyes slowly opened and he sat up, an exhausted groan escaping his lips. "Okay, Papa," he whispered as he rubbed his eyes.

I stepped out of the carriage and lifted him out and onto the ground, then grabbed our luggage from the driver. "The inn is just this way. Follow me."

Gustave nodded, and I felt his small hand wrap around my arm. "Papa, where are we?" he asked.

"A little village in northwest France called Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville." I took a breath as the memories that I had so long suppressed once more flooded back. "I was born here years ago."

༻🕯️༺

The two of us walked into the inn and I told Gustave to take a seat while I spoke to the innkeeper. While the building was small, it was beautiful, as much of Boscherville was. The town was once home to many brilliant architects—my father included—so the beauty was not shocking, although improvements could always be made, as was the case with just about any building.

"Bonsoir, Monsieur," I said as I approached the heavy-eyed innkeeper sitting at his desk. "I know it is quite late for you, but I need a room with two beds for me and my son."

The innkeeper sat straighter in his chair at that and hid a yawn behind his hand as he glanced at his record book.

"Well, Monsieur, you are in luck. We have one room with those criteria left vacant," he explained as he handed me the record book. I noticed that he failed miserably to hide his shock at seeing my mask, but kept any remarks to himself. "Record your full name and signature here, and it is yours for tonight."

Although putting my handwriting on display could hardly be counted as a favourite pastime of mine, I picked up the nearby fountain pen and scribed my signature and name: Erik Destler. Handwriting had never been my strength; while I could read the Bible by the time I was four years old, I struggled with writing. I had long since mastered the skill, but it still looked like just a collection of scratches to most.

"There you are," I said as I put the pen back in its jar of ink and pulled out the money that I had on me. "How much do I owe you, Monsieur?" When no response came, I looked at the man to find his gaze locked on the record book. "Monsieur? Is everything alright?"

"Destler...You are the son of Madeleine and Charles Destler, are you not?" he stuttered. "The boy the town cannot forget. The one his mother locked in the attic. Whose face is..."

"Yes. now keep your voice down, or I will make you regret it," I growled. I glanced over my shoulder at Gustave, who was seated just across the room, still half asleep and looked as though he could doze off where he was. "My son is with me and he knows nothing of the tortures and persecution that this godforsaken place put me through. If I hear any sort of evidence—even the slightest whisper of gossip—that you have announced my presence, you will not live to utter another word. Understood?"

The man nodded immediately, so I left my payment on the desk and took the key for our room. "Gustave," I called.

As the boy joined me, I shot the innkeeper one more threatening glance. "Bonne nuit, Monsieur," I spoke, anger lacing every word, as I walked down the hall behind Gustave.

༻🕯️༺

"Gustave, we have to go. The carriage will be waiting," I said as I slipped my cloak over my shoulders the next morning.

"Oh, but Papa, can't you give me a tour? I want to see more of your hometown," Gustave requested. The boy had slept soundly for a few nights in a row and he had a new energy about him, and I was starting to become aware of just how excitable a child could be. "I'm going to be stuck in a carriage and on a boat for hours. I have to get all my energy out."

"Well, one thing that you did inherit from me is my argumentative tendencies. I suppose we can take a quick walk before we start travelling," I replied, laughing quietly as I opened the door and followed him out into the hallway of the inn.

"Thank you, Papa! Let me take your luggage." Gustave grabbed my suitcase from my hand, only for it to immediately hit the floor and only narrowly miss his foot. "Just...wait for me at the front! I'll be fine."

Having learned from the past couple of days, I walked to the front of the inn with him and watched him drag the suitcases to the carriage with no attempt to help him. He quickly explained the situation to the driver and ran back to my side.

"So, where should we go first?" he asked.

"The town is not all that big, Gustave," I pointed out as we started to walk down a little street just outside the inn. "But the town hall is just down the road—that was where any sort of decisions would be made. The general store is right here, and..." As I spoke, I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw the spire of Saint-Georges-de-Boscherville Abbey protruding into the sky. "And the church."

I picked up my pace to walk towards the building and was already admiring its architecture when Gustave caught up with me.

"Beautiful," I said. "I have never actually been in here. I wasn't..." I hesitated. I was not quite ready to burden the boy with the story of my mother's cruelty, so I was quick to rethink my words. "We weren't religious in my household, but I loved listening to the organ being played."

"Well, let's go inside," Gustave said as he pushed open the door.

"Gustave, wait—" I dashed after him, fearful that there would be a church service in progress, but that fear melted away when I set my sights on the towering pillar of quartz, vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows within the church. I leaned against one of the pews and ran my hand over its wood back as Gustave slowly walked up the aisle towards the organ and altar at the front of the Abbey.

"Bon matin, Monsieur," I heard someone—a man—say over to my left. I managed to peel my eyes away from the beauty around me to make eye contact with who seemed to be the resident priest making his way towards me. "You are an early visitor. Are you here for your morning prayers?"

"Oh, no. I...I used to live here as a boy but never got to visit the church. As an architect now, I could not help but come and admire its beauty." I extended my hand for him to shake; while not religious, my respect for the clergy had been repaired at that point in my life, even after being shunned for years by the church and told I was demon-possessed. "My name is Erik."

"A pleasure. I am Father Mansart."

My brow furrowed a bit at hearing that name. "The priest when I was a boy was Mansart as well. He trained me to sing. Are you..."

"My uncle," he replied. "He spoke much of you and your talents, Erik Destler. A favourite pupil of his. And now you return with a boy of your own."

I managed a small smile, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone had spoken so highly of me.

"Yes, Gustave is his name. You know, my mother hated the fact that your uncle encouraged my music," I said.

"Yes, he mentioned that when he talked about you. You should know that he was very upset to find out you had left. He seemed to have cared about you a great deal."

"Papa, may I...oh." I managed to break through my own shock from hearing about how fond of me the former priest had been to see Gustave as he ran over to me, but stopped when he saw the priest standing with me. "Excuse me, but Papa, may I play the organ?"

"I believe you should ask Father Mansart, mio soldatino." I gestured to the priest, who Gustave looked to with a smile.

"Of course you may, Gustave. The Lord gave you a gift; you must not hold it back. Go, play," Mansart answered.

Right away, Gustave took off for the organ. He sat on the bench and laid his fingers on the keys, then started to play the melody of the duet we sang when he visited my aerie in Phantasma.

Father Mansart watched him closely, a warm smile on his face. "He is truly gifted, Erik. I now see the talent that runs in your blood."

I nodded. "Yes, I am very proud. If you'll excuse me," I said. I stepped away from the priest once he had nodded to acknowledge me and headed out of the church, needing some air after all the talk of my past. As I rounded the corner, I found myself in its graveyard. I read the countless names, none of them resonating with me until I stumbled upon two headstones that made my breath hitch in my throat.

Madeleine Destler - Wife and mother. 1844-1871

Charles Destler - Husband and father. 1843-1861

My parents. A father I had never met and a mother that seemed to hate me. Something in me wanted to reduce the headstones to rubble for everything I had suffered, and yet...they were my parents. The ones who had given me life, as difficult as it had turned out to be. My heart was able to muster an ounce of love for them—my mother in particular—and that moved me to kneel and clean up their gravesites; I pulled the weeds that ran rampant and cleared the cobwebs from the letters engraved in the stone.

I found that was all I could handle; the emotions I had so long suppressed threatened to overflow, so I got to my feet and walked back into the church so as not to show my troubles to my entire village.

"Gustave, we must be going," I called, looking down the aisles at my son and the priest standing next to him at the organ. "We mustn't keep the driver waiting, and I am sure that Father Mansart is a very busy man."

The priest looked at me and smiled before he escorted Gustave back to my side. "It was a true pleasure to hear you play, young man. You have a God-given gift."

Gustave smiled and shuffled a bit closer to me. "Thank you," he said quietly, suddenly very bashful.

"I appreciate your generosity," I said as I shook Father Mansart's hand and gave him a nod.

"And I appreciate your visit. I am honoured to meet the pupil that my uncle so often spoke of. I wish you all the best," he replied.

I gave him a firm nod and ushered Gustave out the door, back towards the carriage that would take us towards London. As we walked, I saw the little dirt road that I knew led to my childhood home, but I avoided even allowing my gaze to linger on it. The entire time, I hoped that Gustave's curiosity wouldn't get the better of him and make him ask to journey that way. That house had been my haven and my prison all rolled into one with its small rooms and cold walls. I knew that it had become a home to a happier family than mine ever was, though. The parents would sit on the front stoop as the children ran after one another, playing a game born purely of their imagination with their dog barking at their heels. A loving mother would tuck her children into bed in the bedroom I was never allowed to sleep in. They would be allowed to venture to and from the attic, using it as the play area it was meant to be. Even though the father was at work often, he would come home and was always there for his family; my father never had the chance to do any of that.

However, it was not the time for a movie inside of my mind, I reminded myself. I couldn't keep the carriage waiting forever, no matter how much extra I paid the driver. Everything that I had never had was what I hoped the family in that home had. And even that thought made my throat tight, so I trudged onwards, determined to leave Saint-Martin-de-Boscherville behind me.

༻🕯️༺

"Papa, let's go exploring!" Gustave exclaimed. The two of us had finally boarded a boat that would take us to England, but he was by no means ready to sit and stay in a cabin for the journey. "I want to look around the boat!"

He wrapped his hand around mine and pulled me out of the cabin and onto the ship's deck. Him being comfortable enough to hold my hand still surprised me every time; his gentle grip and soft hands were a stark contrast to my own harsh, rough ones. In more ways than one, we balanced one another out.

"Look at the water, Papa!" Gustave said excitedly as he ran over to the boat's railing and climbed up on the lowest rung, which moved me to rush over and stand beside him. "Do you think there are sharks in it?"

I smirked; the priorities of a child never failed to amuse me. "Sharks? In the English Channel? I'm sure there may be one or two species," I replied, my eyes on the murky waters below. "Although I'm sure many types of fish live..."

I looked to my side again, expecting to see the look of intrigue that the boy so often wore on his face, but found myself staring down at the floorboards of the ship instead. Immediately, my heart started to pound when I looked around at my surroundings and could not find him anywhere.

"Gustave," I said under my breath as I took off at a quick pace to look for the child. The only thought that ran through my mind was the last time he went missing, and I could not bear to relive even one event from that day.

Thankfully, the boat was on the smaller side, so the places where he could have been were limited. I had made a massive circle around the deck, speeding past blissful couples and apologizing to any woman whose dress I happened to step on before I made it back to the cabin area. As I passed several doors, I suddenly stopped and retraced my steps to look through the door to our cabin. I stood there, my hands on my hips, and stared at Gustave, who was sitting on the bed with a book in hand.

"What was that?" I demanded, trying to catch my breath.

Gustave looked up at me, a content smile on his face. "I saw everything that I wanted to see. The boat is quite small, after all, so I just came back," he replied.

"Without so much as one word to me about this plan of yours?"

The boy appeared to hesitate and a look of panic washed over his face. He had done the same thing in Phantasma a few times, but I hadn't minded so much because Christine had known where to find him; it was different when I was alone.

"Oh. I didn't mean to. Please don't be too mad, Papa "

I took a deep breath, any anger quickly replaced by relief that my boy was safe. "Please, just...let me know when you are planning on running off like that," I requested. I walked into the room and closed the door, then adjusted my suit jacket in the mirror. "I'm not mad, Gustave. I'm only a nervous new father, and I know you understand that."

"I know, but I'm sorry. This isn't the first time I've run off—I used to do that with Mother and the Vicomte as well. I need to stop doing that, I know."

"It's alright. Children are naturally inquisitive, and my, are you energetic," I remarked with a soft laugh. "I best get used to running after you, I suppose."

At that, the sound of the ship's foghorn echoed through the air, and I looked at Gustave. "Pack your things back in your luggage. London awaits, my boy."

༻🕯️༺

"Gustave, please try to relax. You're practically shaking the carriage with your bouncing," I remarked. The boy's sheer amount of energy exhausted me to watch, but I was unable to suppress a small smile as I watched him bounce up and down on the bench.

Giddy was the only word I could possibly use to describe his attitude as we drove through London into the small neighbourhood on its outskirts where we would be living. The hustle and bustle of the city held his attention easily—the foot traffic, the countless horse-drawn carriages. The vehicles had him over the moon; I recalled him patting my hand rapidly and pulling me down my carriage bench to the window to see a police car before he started to tell me how different the vehicle looked compared to those in France. Of course, it wasn't new information to me, but something about the expression of glee on his face when I showed my interest warmed my heart.

"But I'm excited, Papa! I've never been to London before, and we are moving into a house that you built yourself! I can't help but be excited!" Gustave exclaimed, his words escaping his lips at a rapid pace. "I'm sure it will be beautiful."

"So you're unfamiliar with England, are you?"

"I know of it; mostly London. I always thought I'd like it, but we never visited. I think it was a bit too busy for Mother."

I nodded, a small smile on my face. "She did enjoy peace and quiet now and then, certainly."

The carriage came to a slow stop as we spoke, and the door was opened by the driver so I could step down onto the gravel road. "Here you are, sir. I'll get your luggage for you," he said with a nod.

"Thank you," I replied as I stepped to the side so Gustave could jump down onto the road next to me. "So? What do you think?"

His eyes were wide with a mix of amazement and curiosity as he walked up the short driveway and stared up at the cobblestone exterior of the home, its dark support beams contrasting the lightness of the stone.

"You really built this?" he asked as he glanced over his shoulder to look at me.

"Well, I designed it, yes, then hired workmen to construct. It's exactly as my drafts outlined it. I was living in America when it was built, but I drafted it so I would have a place to rest and work if I ever returned to Europe. And look how easy that has made things for you and me."

I waved him back over to the carriage to assist the driver and me in carrying our suitcases up to the small front step. I tipped our driver and waited for him to exit the driveway before pulling a small key out of the breast pocket of my coat.

"Care to do the honours?" I asked as I held the key out to him, and he smiled wide as he grabbed it and unlocked the front door, pushing it open to run inside.

The interior reveal was a surprise for both me and Gustave. I had designed it down to the smallest detail but had been clueless about its appearance until that moment, and I was thoroughly pleased with the handiwork of the men I had hired. It had a...cozy feel, if a word were to be chosen to describe it. The home had a much larger interior than the outside would lead one to believe. The floorboards were a deep brown oak, with the furniture made of lighter cherry wood. Much of the fabric was navy blue, the walls were a light grey, and the curtains were a darker cream colour; my aim had been to bring some colour to an otherwise dark home.

The front hallway was cut down the middle with a patterned navy rug, and two archways split off of it; one to the sitting room on the left, and the other to the kitchen and dining room on the right. Further down was the bathroom and a linen closet, with the stairs to the second floor at the end of the hallway.

"Wow," Gustave said as he slipped his shoes off and walked into the home.

"Indeed," I said in agreement, strolling down the hall and gazing into the sitting room. A solid cherry wood coffee table sat atop a navy blue and white carpet, with two large armchairs and a sofa around it. A fireplace adorned the far wall, and a grand piano sat just to the right of it. I noticed the walls were empty and reminded myself that it was intentional - I had told the workers that I would paint and sketch my own pieces for the walls. The next task was to find time for that.

I turned to my right to walk into the dining room and kitchen complex. The dinner table was a small rectangle with six chairs around it. I had considered an even smaller seating arrangement, as I had thought I would never share a meal with someone there, but my family had already grown by one by that point in time, so I failed to see the downsides to the larger table. The kitchen was more modern than most in the area with solid stone counters, a beautiful granite sink basin, and plenty of dark cabinets. I would have to get used to making multiple meals a day; even if I didn't always eat, I was responsible for making sure that Gustave did.

"You designed all of this, Papa?" Gustave queried. "It's beautiful."

"That I did," I said as I leaned up against the dining table. "Why don't you take your suitcase up to your room? It wasn't designed with a child in mind, but we can certainly fix that."

The boy's eyes suddenly lit up. "My room!" he exclaimed as he picked up his luggage and shuffled further down the hall towards the stairs. I laughed quietly and followed him up to the second floor, my curiosity about my study and master bedroom growing with my suggestion to him.

The door to my study was right at the top of the stairs, so I pushed it open and was greeted with deep red walls, the left of which was entirely covered by packed bookshelves. The wall directly in front of me had a large cherry wood desk against it, perfect for both composing and drafting architectural sketches. A keyboard was tucked in the corner of the room, and framed maps covered the wall space to the right of the door.

"This will be perfect," I said to myself. I already had a plan in place with regards to a steady income to support my new family. My pocket money would no longer do with a child to support, so I had resolved to open an architectural firm once more. When I had first arrived in Paris after my time in Persia, that had been my source of income; I drew the plans, simply signing them Erik, then commissioned construction workers to build it. It paid more than enough for me as a single man, so it would do well to support both myself and Gustave.

I stepped out of the study and walked past my son's room, catching him unpacking his suitcase and trying to organize things in his room. He seemed excited; he had certainly inherited his mother's optimism.

I walked through the open door next to his room, finding myself in my master bedroom. The bed was a queen size, much larger than I would ever need, and shared a wall with Gustave's bed. Those walls were a pale blue with an armoire and desk sharing one wall and bookshelves lining another. A keyboard sat in the far corner and the door to my ensuite was on the far-right wall. All of it matched my sketches perfectly...except for the mirror standing next to my desk. I sighed when I saw it and considered throwing a blanket over it. I had instructed that no mirror be included, but I suppose the workers could not fathom that. Not that I blamed them; any other human would want a mirror. However, none of my experiences with mirrors seemed to end well, and I found myself rubbing my wrists as the memory of the first time I saw my face ran through my mind, knowing the scars lay just beneath my shirt sleeves.

"Papa!" The voice of my son thankfully snapped me out of my thoughts, and I turned around to see Gustave standing in my doorway. "I love my room. We can decorate it, right?"

"Of course," I said. "Now, why don't I get you some money and you can run into town to get us something to eat?"

That seemed to baffle the boy, for his brows creased into a frown. "Out? Into the city? By myself?" he asked.

"Well, of course. Is there something wrong?"

"No, just...the Vicomte hardly let me go anywhere alone," he replied, his eyes dropping to his shoes in embarrassment.

I rolled my eyes. Of course he hadn't let the boy have any sort of independent spirit. That explained his tendency to run off; he was starving for sovereignty.

"I believe it is important for you to start cultivating independence as a young man. I'll go grab you some money—you choose what we eat tonight. Choose wisely," I told him as I ruffled his hair on my way out of the room.

༻🕯️༺

"Well, I think we have found a café that we can most certainly revisit," I said as I finished the sandwich that Gustave had returned home with. I stood up from my seat at the dining table and ruffled the boy's hair before collecting the paper that the food had come wrapped in.

"There weren't that many stores that I saw that was open, and even then I had no idea where to go," Gustave admitted as he got up out of his chair and leaned against the table, looking at me. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so I tried to keep it simple."

I smiled. Acute attention to detail; certainly my son. "It was perfect, so you needn't worry. Perhaps next time, I can go to a different restaurant and attempt to figure out what you would like. We can make a game of it."

"And what happens if one of us picks something the other doesn't like?" Gustave had a smug smile on his face, almost as if he was eager for there to be a consequence for a loss.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it," I replied, a chuckle escaping me when I saw the boy's visible disappointment. "Why don't you get into your pyjamas while I clean up? I'll be up shortly."

"Alright," he said as he turned to leave, only to stop and look back at me. "Are you sure you don't want any help?"

"It's only a few wrappers. I think I'll be alright."

Gustave nodded and took off down the hall, leaving me to toss the waste into the small garbage bin, washed the cups we had used, then switched off the electric lights and walked to the front door to lock it. Though odd to do so, as no one in the world ever seemed to fear thieves or kidnappers, I had always been nervous about being found or captured. With a new child to protect, I knew that the doors would never be unlocked while we slept.

I moved around the first floor, turning off lights and drawing the curtains, and I soon noticed that the sound of soft footprints padding around upstairs that I had been hearing had stopped, so I made my way up the stairs to check on Gustave. I came to his bedroom and leaned against the doorframe as I looked at him where he sat on the edge of his bed, clearly awaiting my arrival.

"So shall I just say goodnight from here and be on my way? I am quite tired, you know," I stated as I crossed my arms. However, my teasing had clearly gone over his head, as he simply stared back at me with an expression of confusion painted on his face. "Oh, I'm only joking." I couldn't help but laugh as I walked over to him when I saw the widest smile imaginable spread across his face.

"So, you've changed," I remarked as I glanced at the light blue pyjama set that he had changed into. "Have you brushed your teeth? Washed your face?" Gustave gave me a firm nod and I returned the gesture. "Good. See? There's the independent spirit that I'm looking for. Doing things without being asked," I said as I gave his hair another quick ruffle.

And then we fell into silence. We simply looked at one another, analyzing every facial feature as we searched for something to say. Eventually, though, I found my voice: "Well, I cannot tuck you in if you're just sitting here. Lay down, for goodness' sake."

He giggled, and I immediately knew what he had been up to; in order to toy with me, he had turned the entire concept of doing things without being asked onto its head and had seemed quite content to just sit and wait as well! I simply rolled my eyes as I sat on the edge of the bed to wait for Gustave to find a comfortable position on his mattress.

"Sleep well," I said as I tucked the bedsheets and duvet around him before I leaned over him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. "My room is just next door if you ever need anything. You could even knock on the wall and I'll hear it." I tapped my knuckles lightly on the wall to demonstrate. "Good night, Gustave."

"I love you, Papa," I heard him say as I walked to the door.

I stopped and turned back to him, a warm smile on my face illustrating the warmth in my heart. "I love you too, Gustave," I replied as I switched the light off, then walked out into the hallway and towards my study.

I strolled into the room and turned one of the two lamps on, filling the room with a warm yellow light, then made my way to the small liquor cabinet and pulled out a glass and a bottle of whiskey to pour myself a drink As I sipped it, I walked to the window that overlooked the large yard on our property...

And then everything hit me as if I had just been punched in the stomach.

I had just tucked my son into bed in our family home. I was responsible for that child that day, the next, and every day until I died. The realization of being a father had occurred to me once or twice in the past few days, but it seemed heftier since we had moved into our own home, officially making me the head of the family.

It was then that I realized that I was far outside of my area of expertise. I was skilled in music, art, and architecture, but raising a child was an ability that everyone had the capacity to learn, but not all could master. I, for one, seemed like the last man on Earth who would be able to get a grasp on parenthood, never mind single parenthood. What examples had I had over the course of my life? My mother was so absent and cold it was as if she did not exist at all, my father had died before we had even met, and Giovanni tried in Italy, only to betray me for his headstrong, childish daughter, Luciana...a girl I found myself unable to forget.

The two positive role models that I could think of were Marie Perrault, an old friend of my mother's who had more maternal instinct than my mother could ever dream of, and Nadir, the Daroga of Persia and my good, dare I say, best friend. With only two examples of good parenting, neither of which I had spent a lengthy period of time with, my references were slim. Christine had known what to do, and it was then that I realized all over again just how much I still needed her.

I put the glass down on the windowsill, my hand shaking, then wrapped my arms around myself. At that moment, her words were the only ones that came to mind, so it was those words that I sang in a quiet plea: "Wishing you were somehow here again. Wishing you were somehow near. Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed, somehow you would be here."

I inhaled a deep, shaky breath and lifted my glass to my lips, then downed the drink, hardly feeling it burn as it slipped down my throat. I knew that I had to sleep; I could feel my legs starting to ache and a headache beginning to build at the base of my skull. If I were to keep up with the seemingly increasing store of energy that my son had built up within him, sleep would become a necessity.

With that knowledge in mind, I walked from my study to my bedroom. I kicked off my dress shoes, slipped off my mask, and fell onto the bed, too tired to even bother with my sleepwear.

༻🕯️༺

"Papa!"

The outcry from my son jolted me from my slumber, and I barely had time to grab my mask and slip it over my face before he was at my side.

"What's wrong, Gustave?" I asked, my voice gravelly with sleep.

"Papa, please...I'm scared! Th-there's a storm a-and I had a nightmare! I heard th-the gunshot and Mother screaming!" he managed to say, his words deteriorating into sobs as he wrapped his arms tightly around me.

"Alright, you're okay," I said. My heart was still pounding from the fright he'd given me, but just holding him close seemed to be enough to slow it down. "Let's go back to your room, okay? I'll sit with you and tell you a quick story. Come along."

I gently lifted him off of me and peeled back the covers that I had managed to crawl beneath during the night. I escorted the boy back to his room and waited for him to get into bed before I sat next to him, my back against the headboard.

"Now, a story," I said as I took Gustave's hand and stroked his knuckles with my thumb as I searched my memory for a tale to tell. "Well, I go back to Sasha, my dog, once more. My first word was Sasha, as a matter of fact."

"Really?" Gustave asked with a sniffle. "Mine was Mama, I think."

"Yes, that is the first word for many. I soon learned Mama as well, but Sasha came first," I replied. "Come to think of it, I crawled and spoke for the first time that day. I was six months old, or so I was told by a friend of my mother. It was a night like this. Sasha had walked into my room and knocked over my cradle. My mother arrived quickly and called the dog to her side, but I crawled...well, half-shuffled, half-crawled over to her." I smiled when I heard Gustave's little laugh. No doubt the simple mental image of me as an infant crawling across the floor of my so-called nursery was enough to generate amusement.

"I then sat up and patted her nose, simply saying 'Sasha' over and over, seemingly quite content with my little accomplishment. I mean, Sasha knocked me over and I bumped my head on the floor, but otherwise, it was a successful evening."

Another quiet laugh escaped Gustave, so I smiled, pleased with the fact that I had seemingly helped him through his fear, and got up off of the bed. "Now, don't you seem to be feeling a bit better. Try and get some sleep, alright? I'm just next door." I gave his forehead a kiss and walked back towards my room, hoping that he would fall back to sleep relatively quickly.

I covered my mouth as I yawned and climbed into bed, only to lock eyes with Gustave, who had appeared once more in my doorway. Tears were fresh in his eyes and I could tell that he had no plans to sleep alone that night. I sighed, only to jump when a loud thunderclap rattled the house. I heard Gustave squeak and I was quick to pat the empty space to my right on the bed. His words from the funeral about hiding under the covers with Christine during storms rang through my head, and I knew I couldn't deny him that feeling of security.

"It's alright, Gustave," I said as he cuddled close to me and pulled the sheets up to his chin. "Remember, it's only the thunder and lightning laughing and telling jokes. Nothing to fear."

I bent over and gave him a kiss on the forehead before I lay down and tried to settle in to get back to sleep. My mask stayed on my face; although I knew it would irritate me while I slept, the boy was frightened enough. He didn't need to fall asleep again, only to wake up with a fright.

As I started to doze off myself, though, I felt the mask shift on my face and opened my eyes to see Gustave slowly pulling his hand away.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I was just going to take your mask off because you forgot. It doesn't seem comfortable to sleep with," he said sheepishly.

"No, just...just leave it alone, please," I requested.

"But why, Papa? You should be comfortable when you're sleeping."

"Gustave..." I sighed and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't want to frighten you, that's all. I never want to do that."

The child was silent, but his next actions spoke volumes; he sat up and reached over, then slipped my mask off of my face without any hesitation. "I'm not afraid, Papa. Please don't worry."

With that, he dropped the mask on my bedside table, gave me a hug, and laid his head on his pillow, quickly nodding off.

And at that moment, my son's love for me was confirmed—and mine for him.

༻🕯️༺

We had been in our new house for a few days, and both Gustave and I had started to settle in. I was preparing to start my contracting business and had submitted the necessary paperwork, which had included forging a birth certificate to confirm my citizenship. My mother had never passed my original one on to me, but I got the proper documents and managed to forge her signature. No one would know the difference, what with my forgery skills and her having passed away already. Whatever had to be done to support my family would be done.

On top of that, I was getting things organized to begin homeschooling Gustave. I planned to keep him out of public school for a time so he could properly mourn his mother and get used to the new home and country. Not to mention the news reporters would be quick to swarm the son of the murdered soprano and bombard him with questions. I wanted everything to settle down before I sent him off to school.

One morning, I was making breakfast for the two of us, as I wanted both me and Gustave to be fed and awake for our first day of homeschooling. As I moved from the stove to the cupboard to grab two plates, I noticed him walk into the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. He was still in his pyjamas, I observed. A tad out of the ordinary for him, but I thought nothing of it at first.

"Good morning, Gustave. Did you sleep well?" I asked.

"Yes, Papa," he answered. The roughness of his voice made me turn to him immediately, and it took me no time at all to realize that something was wrong. His face was pale, his cheeks missing their usual light pink hue. His shoulders were hunched forward, and his voice made it sound as if he had been screaming all night.

"Gustave, cough for me please," I requested.

His brow furrowed. "What? But why?" he asked.

"Just do it," I insisted.

Gustave still looked confused, but he followed through with my request, and the noise that came with the cough was enough to make me wince. It was such a deep, rough sound that almost sounded like the bark of a dog.

"No, you are going right back to bed." I turned him around and led him back down the main hall, then up the stairs to his room.

"But Papa, what about breakfast?" Gustave asked, only for his speech to send him into a coughing fit.

"I will bring it to you in bed. Now stop talking or you'll only make your cough worse, if that's possible."

I walked Gustave into his room and got him into bed, then grabbed an extra pillow to prop him up. I bent over him and pressed my lips to his forehead, then pulled away with a scowl on my face. "You're running a fever as well. I'm going to get your breakfast before I head down to the store to fetch what I need to get you better," I said with a nod.

"Why not call a doctor?"

"This is a simple cold, my boy. As a teenager, I learned much of herbal remedies and could deal with an illness of this nature or worse all on my own. When I get home, I'll give you something to help your cough and throat, as well as your fever. We'll postpone the lessons until you're well again. Now, sit tight. I won't be but a moment."

I tried to keep my word to not take too long, but the pharmaceutical shop was not quite as organized as I would have liked. Even still, I made it home with my supplies and set to work. Within no time, I had brewed an elderflower tea to help him sweat out the fever, along with some warm lemon juice and honey to clear his congestion.

"Alright, Gustave. Here you are," I said. I put the mug down on his bedside table, then helped him with the honey-lemon mix. "I tried to make it sweet for you, but no medication tastes phenomenal, I'm afraid."

The honey and lemon went down easily, though the same could not be said for the tea. The grimace Gustave made with the first sip was enough to force me to stifle a laugh.

"I don't like it, Papa," he said.

"I know, mio soldatino. Nobody really does, but it is going to help with your fever faster than trying to break it all on your own. Just...plug your nose and drink as much of it as you can. I'll be in my study, so call me if you need anything," I instructed.

I walked out of the room and sat at my desk, pulling out a drafting sheet to start work on a house design that had been in my head for a few days now. As I worked, the phone rang and I answered it to hear the voice of the official that I had been in touch with recently about my business.

"Yes, this is Erik Destler," I said into the receiver. "Yes, sir, I have been waiting for your call. We are ready to proceed, I take it?"

Our conversation did not last long, however, as I soon heard a quiet call from Gustave's room: "Papa, come here."

I sighed but knew I couldn't leave the child on his own. "Sir, I am terribly sorry, but my son is quite ill and needs my attention. Can I return your call at a later time? Thank you. Have a good evening," I said as I hung up the receiver, then bounced up out of my chair and walked to Gustave's room, where I found him with all of his sheets cast to the side.

"Papa, I'm hot," he said, practically whining.

"I understand, but that means the tea is working. It's meant to help you sweat out the fever," I said. I hated to see him uncomfortable, but I reminded myself that he would only end up feeling better sooner. "Why don't you unbutton your shirt a bit? I'll run a cool bath for you shortly to help you, but the tea has to keep working. I'm sorry."

"Okay. Thank you, Papa," Gustave said as he took a deep breath, which was only followed by coughing.

"Of course. Try and rest, Gustave. I'll bring you dinner when it's ready."

༻🕯️༺

The rest of the evening had been relatively quiet, besides Gustave stopping me every time I walked in the room to give him a hug, check his fever, or something along those lines. Not that I had anything against giving him a hug; it made me happy to do it every time.

Late that night, I was settling Gustave into bed when he made a request: "Papa, will you read me a book?"

I looked at him and was quiet for the moment, processing the question that had never been asked of me before.

"Yes, of course," I finally said as I walked to the nearby bookshelf. "Which book shall we read? I see King Arthur, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Peter Rabbit..."

"Wizard of Oz, please."

I nodded and grabbed the book, then returned to Gustave's bedside and sat on the bed next to him. "Oz it is."

The book was relatively simple, particularly considering my tastes were typically much more complicated and classical, but Gustave was enjoying himself, which was the priority. Eventually, though, I began to realize exactly what it was that I was getting myself into.

"Hold on. The tornado lifted the entire house and took her away to a magical land called Oz, where she conveniently killed a witch. Now how does that make any sense whatsoever? It's physically impossible!" I exclaimed.

Gustave, who was leaning up against my shoulder, seemed to have no time for my confusion. "Keep reading, Papa," he said as he reached over and turned the page for me.

"You truly want me to keep going?"

"Please? Mother started it when we were in Paris. I would like to know how it ends."

I took a deep breath, already deciding to continue no matter what I thought of the story. I knew that once Christine had entered the equation, the request could not be denied. If he caught on that I could never deny him anything, I would be in trouble.

"Alright, well, let's get through it then. Where did she leave off?"

"Go from the beginning. I wouldn't want you to be confused, Papa," Gustave said.

"Oh, I'm already confused, my boy. The house flew and killed a witch," I replied with a laugh.

"It's a fantasy. Fantastical things are bound to happen."

"Fantastical?" I repeated with a smirk. "I am impressed by your word choice. Let's continue our fantastical story, then, shall we?"

"Good. It's really fun," Gustave said, a smile on his face.

The evening seemed to speed by, what with my commentary about how ridiculous the concept of a lion with no courage was, followed by Gustave laughing and trying to justify it. Eventually, the end of the book arrived, and I was less than pleased with it: "They melted her? You're telling me that she was so evil that simply dousing her with water melted her? As if this book couldn't get more ridiculous. Gustave, can you-"

I paused when I looked down at him and found him fast asleep, still leaning up against me. I smiled warmly and slowly got to my feet before I lowered him down onto the bed.

"Good night, my fantastical little boy."

༻🕯️༺

One thing that I took away from being a father is that when your child falls ill, you too, inevitably, fall ill.

A couple of days after Gustave had gotten sick, he seemed to be recovering quickly while I had been dealing with a scratchy throat over the same period of time. One morning, however, everything took a turn for the worse.

I opened my eyes and rolled onto my back, only to groan when an ache ran through my entire body. "What..." I said, but the deep pitch and roughness of my voice caught me off guard. I sighed before I followed my own advice: I coughed and winced as the roughness of the action only made the pain in my throat more substantial.

"Fantastic," I mumbled before I reached my arm up and knocked on the wall behind me, which successfully got Gustave's attention as I had hoped. The boy appeared in my doorway with a smile, a new spring in his step compared to the last few days.

"Papa?" he said as he cast me a very concerned glance. "You don't look very good."

"I don't feel very good either," I replied as I slowly sat up in bed. "I believe you passed your cold on to me."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Papa. I can go get your breakfast!" Gustave's face lit up at the prospect of doing me even the small favour of bringing breakfast up. "Just wait here, I'll go get it ready."

"Gustave, hold on," I said as I got to my feet, only for the room to start spinning, which made me stumble back onto the bed. "Just...don't do anything too complicated, alright?"

"Yes, Papa! I'll just make some toast and tea. Stay in bed." With that, he ran down the stairs and left me to lay on the bed to let the room come into focus again.

As I lay there, I heard a crash from downstairs followed by a squeal from Gustave. I frowned as I slowly sat up and got to my feet, then slipped my mask on and stumbled down the stairs.

"Gustave, what is going on in here?" I asked as I walked into the kitchen. Right away, I lifted my foot off the floor, which I had quickly discovered was wet with water.

"I dropped the kettle, but I'll clean it up!" Gustave cried. He dried my foot and dropped the towel onto the water, then laid his little hands on my chest and tried to push me backwards. "I can take care of it, I promise!"

"Alright, alright. I'll be upstairs. Just be careful," I cautioned, laughing as Gustave continued to push me down the hall towards the stairwell.

"I will, I will! Go get in bed and wait!" And then, he was gone, having run back to the kitchen while I made my way back to bed.

I hadn't been waiting long in my room when I heard a gentle knock on my door. "Are you in bed? Under the covers?" I heard my son ask.

"Yes," I replied with a quiet laugh, only to wince at the burning in my throat. As I sipped the water that I had poured for myself, my door swung open and Gustave walked in with a tray in his hands.

"Toast and tea. Just like I promised," he said. He slowly walked to my bedside and placed the tray on my lap, being almost overly cautious to not spill anything. "Try it! I want to be sure you like it."

I followed through with his request, tasting both before I shot him a smile.

"You did very well, Gustave. Thank you," I replied.

The boy looked so proud of his accomplishment and the smile on his face proved it. Even still, he was onto the next topic within seconds: "Oh, Papa! I've been practising my sight reading with Ode to Joy. Can I show you?"

I simply gestured to the keyboard across the room, not wanting to damage my voice more than I had already risked doing. Gustave ran out of the room momentarily, but soon returned with a sheet of music in hand, then sat at the keyboard and began to play the composition that any good musician could recognize. Although it had been overly simple for me for years, it was the perfect pairing of complexity and ease for him to play.

When he finished the piece, he immediately looked at me for some sort of response, so I held the piece of toast between my teeth and applauded.

"Bravo, bravo. Bravissimo," I said, my voice muffled by the bread in my mouth.

"Thank you, Papa," Gustave said as he walked over and gave me a quick hug. "I want to be as good as you one day."

"I'm sure you'll be even better, mio soldatino."

Our embrace was shortly interrupted when the telephone in my study rang and Gustave ran out of the room to pick it up.

"Hello? Yes, hang on," I heard him say a few seconds before he reappeared in my doorway. "Papa, it's someone who wants to talk to you about house designs."

"Oh, let me-" I tried to say, but my voice came out as no more than a whisper before it sent me into a coughing fit.

That incident alone seemed to be enough for Gustave, as he ran back to the study and I heard him start talking to the client once more: "My Papa isn't feeling very well today, but I can write down your message and have him call you back."

I smiled to myself as I listened to their short chat, and he ran in a few moments later with a slip of paper in hand.

"That was Mister Thomas. He says he has a few houses for you to design for him," he reported.

"You are an architect in the making, Gustave," I said with a smile.

"You really think so, Papa?" he asked as a grin formed on his face.

"I know so, my boy."

༻🕯️༺

"I really like this book, Papa. I wish I'd read it sooner," Gustave said, his excitement audible in his voice. He had decided to reciprocate my favour of reading to him when he was ill, so he had picked up the copy of Oliver Twist on my bookshelf and started to read it.

I simply hummed in response as I fought to stay awake until he had finished reading. Even still, I was beginning to consider kindly asking him to stop so I could sleep; my eyes were already closed and I was resting my head on his shoulder, already having nodded off once or twice.

"'In which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the ines...inestim'...hmm."

I opened his eyes and glanced in his direction, finding him frowning down at the book, clearly puzzled by a word.

"Let me see," I said. He turned the book towards me and pointed out the word in question. "Ah. Inestimable. I understand how that could be difficult."

"Inestimable?" Gustave repeated with an uncertain glance in my direction.

"Very good," I replied as I stuck a bookmark in the book and closed it. "I'm sorry, Gustave, but I am rather exhausted. We can keep reading tomorrow."

Gustave nodded, tucking me in before he got to his feet. "That's okay, Papa. You should sleep," he said as he gave my forehead a kiss. "No fever! Good thing, too; You won't have to drink any of that disgusting tea." A proud smile appeared on his face then. "Hey, I'm not too bad at this parenting thing! I could do this with my own little girl!"

"So you want a daughter?" I asked quietly with a small smile on my face.

"I mean, a boy would be nice too, but I would like a girl more for some reason," he replied with an eager nod.

"Well, I'm sure you'll be a lovely father one day," I said. "And at least one of us seems to know what we're doing, right?"

~~~~~

updated 12/22/21

wow, this was a long one, but I loved it.

thanks for reading!