The inside of the seamstress's shop was warm and smelled like old fabric. There was a crispness to it that Celi couldn't identify. Lettuce was crisp, but what else was?

  On the countertop, she saw hundreds of different colored threads and silver needles in clear packages. No one was at the counter, or in the store, it looked like.

   Celi stood still for a few moments, then, upon noticing a bell, rang it.

  A woman bustled forward from the back of the store. She did not see Celi at first, as she was tall and Celi was small.

   "How may I help you?" The woman asked. She was in her forties, with black hair, glasses, and long fingers. Her voice was kind and her eyes were warm. She made Celi feel better about being in the shop.

   The woman's eyes took in her slip, gray and dirty, and she frowned, wondering, no doubt, who this child, dressed so pitifully, belonged to.

  "Er... the... The Opera King sent me!"

   "Ah! Monsieur Erik ! Très bien, maintenant compréhend. D'accord."

     Celi decided the woman had not said his name right, or she had misheard, for she thought she heard the seamstress say Erik and not Erin.

  "He is a very good customer of mine, little one. I make his costumes.

   "But now let me see, you must be in need of a few dresses. I can have three done by next week. Quel coleurs préférez-vous ? "

  "Oh... I don't know what color."

   "That is not a problem. Come."

   She led Celi to the back of her shop and directed her to a dressing room. She then took the little girl's measurements. "Of course a little girl should have a pink dress, or a blue - something yellow. That would look nice. And I believe I might have something to send you home with today. Someone cancelled an order, you see. It is a white frock, and appears to be your size. You are five, yes?"

   "Seven."

   "Sept ans!"  She was shocked. "Gracious! You are small for your age."

   The seamstress wrote down a few things, rushed away, then rushed back. In her arms was a little white dress. She left Celi to change.

The seamstress added the amount due to the Opera King's account, wondering the entire  time about the little girl. Usually he sent in groups of children or people, along with detailed sketches of what he wanted designed. (Though many times she'd seen plays and operas where he'd altered the costumes she sent anyway, even if they were exact replicas of his drawings. The man was never satisfied with anything.) But the fact that he was a man who knew how to handle a needle... that was both impressive and startling.

  But Erik had never sent her an actual child, all by herself before, without any designs at all. This however, was none of her business, and she would not meddle or ask questions. For all she knew the girl could be his niece. It did not occur to her that Celi could be a street wench abusing a name; anyone who dared do anything without the Opera King's permission... well, frankly she never heard of them again. And knowing the so called King's false pretenses, and how only those in her inner circle knew his codes and fake names... a street wench would never be able to figure out any advantages to begin with. Just thinking about the first time the seamstress had met him made her shiver involuntarily. Her hand paused with her pencil as she worried briefly about the little girl's safety. But if he was going out of his way to buy her clothes - and quality clothes for that matter - she should be safe enough.

   And this innocence and simplicity was a nice change from those rich opera gowns he generally asked for. Oh, those just took so long for her to make! Whatever woman wore those probably didn't realize how real, and expensive they were. The jewels embedded in the silks, laces, and velvets were not faux.

    The little girl stepped out looking like an angel - a shabby angel because of the state of her hair and face, neither of which were clean, though last night Erin did tell her to wash everything. But the color suited her, with her big hazel eyes darkening against the light tone, along with her mousy hair. The chiffon was perfect against her skin. Not for the first time, the seamstress congratulated herself on her work.

   "Tell The King I'm making four dresses and three nightgowns to start you off with. They'll be done in twelve days. Now run back to him, little one."

   She handed Celi a slip of paper with writing on it - a receipt - and sent her on her way.

   Celi, not knowing what to do, stood outside the shop and waited. She watched the people go by in the street.

   The passerby rode on wagons, or fancy carriages, dressed either in fine clothes or rags. Dogs ran behind their masters or fled through the alleys, loose, carrying pieces of bread or a bit of old meat. Celi would like a dog. She'd like to adopt one of the ones running around, half starved from the street. They reminded her of herself. Wild, but wishing to be adopted.

    This was the Paris Celi knew mixing with the Paris Erin came from. The rich mingled, rather unwillingly, with the poor, without acknowledging them. The lower class moved aside for carriages without looking at them,  simply moving for the ghosts they didn't want to encounter. The small bowing to the great. The strong bent, unknowingly, the backs of the weak.

    One part of Celi called this 'home' and another part was disgusted that she could ever come from such a race, dividing itself, uncompassionate, fearful.

   A carriage turned a corner, with a man and a woman inside. The woman was older, and as she gazed at Celi the muscles in her mouth momentarily slipped. Her jaw dropped down. When she was finally able to speak, Celi was raising her little hand to wave before the carriage passed. "Celi!" The woman called, her accent stumbling over the two syllables. It was Mrs. Treacle.

   The memory Celi had of her was both positive and scary. She remembered being hungry and muddy, being led back to the Monsieur's, and Mrs. Treacle's kind smile. Celi shivered as the master of her old home made an appearance in her mind.

   A leather gloved hand gently touched her shoulder, a feather soft contact that was warm and firm. She spun around in surprise as Erin started talking.

   "My apologies for being late so late, but your friends are safe, my business is taken care of, and I managed to procure a set of shoes for you." He offered her a pair of black boots.

   Celi launched herself at him, so happy was she that he did not abandon her after all. Erin patted her head, surprised by this display of affection, as he was unused to displays of affection in general. "Thank you for coming back!" Celi squealed, her arms bound in a vice-like grip around his waist, standing on her toes to reach. She was about to cry.

   He smiled, unbeknownst to her, as her face was buried in his stomach. Erin reached down and and easily picked her up. He had no doubt about his strength, but as he held her his face briefly slipped into a frown. She was too light. Nearly corpse light. He thought she was malnourished, but this startled him. He, could frankly be described as a walking skeleton, Lord knows he looked like one under his mask, but Celi was worse than him.

   But he wouldn't let her see his worry.

   "It's nice to see you too, but I didn't go off to war, merely a couple blocks over. You needn't react so hysterically." His voice, coming from the inner depths of his hood, was amused.

   Celi gasped, realizing something.

   Erin's arms tensed and removing one he balanced her on his hip and slid his hand onto his face.  "What?" His voice shook.

   "You gave me a handkerchief!"

  Erin sighed, almost dropping her in relief.

   Celi assumed the moment of silence brought forth by Erin was due to him retracing his actions of that day.

   "So I did. And that absurd woman - well, I saw you waving at her again today. But come now Celi, let us go home. It was unfair of me to remove you before you had breakfast."

  He set her down and waited for her to put on her shoes. She did, finding they were a size too big.

   "I told the shoemaker I needed shoes for a seven year old girl. He must have  -"

   "I'll grow into them," Celine interrupted, calming her irritated friend with logic. "Until then I can stuff them with something. Perhaps more of your handkerchiefs."

   Erin chuckled and followed her to his carriage. "You are very resourceful. However, from now on, I'll  try purchasing things for a six year old. I notice that your little dress is hanging a bit as well."

   "Only because I'm thin."

  "Only because you're skinny."

   Celi pouted as she settled down cross from him. "You are just as skinny."

   "I'm an adult."

   "And I'm a child."

    "Fine, if I'm skinny, you are malnourished." Let her find a retort to that one.

  "What is malnourished? I've heard it before."

    "I was probably saying it to you." Erin enjoyed her playful argument with him, but was now surprised by how little she knew. He forgot that while she was intelligent, she did not have very much knowledge. He wondered if she had any form of schooling at all. Judging from her origins, most likely not.

  "If their is ever a word or phrase you do not understand, nor enough context - context is a sentence in which a particular word is used for a particular reason - I want you to ask me. Malnourished is..."

   He explained and Celi thought  about the explanation for a while. She did not pity herself for being so unhealthy. There were other children far worse than she, and according to Erin, she would still be able to put meat on her bones.

  But now Celi had another question. "Erin, why do you wear a cloak all the time?"

   "Security."