Boscherville, France, 1845

She was beautiful, the woman I met that year in a little French village just outside of Rouen. She was tired and aged, but she was still beautiful, far more so than my own mother.

Mother . . .

That night Erik had left I was run out of the gypsy fair by my own mother. She had greedily snatched up the gold he had given her and threw me out, stating I had been purchased for far more than a usual bride's price and to go find my husband.

And then they laughed. All of them laughed at the bizarre couple, the Living Corpse and the Demon Girl.

For two years I wandered through Spain and France, hoping that I would find Erik in his home country.

Ha! Even now I laugh at my own childishness! I, a lone girl not yet even thirteen, searching all of France and Spain for a singular boy!

But this boy- I learned- had quite the reputation.

Every time I asked in my choppy French for a skeletal boy who wore a mask and preformed magic, I was pointed in the direction of some traveling fair or what have you. But being without a horse, I never made it in time to see the shows.

Eventually the responses of praise and wonder I received turned into those of disgust and contempt as I neared a quaint little village in France. Boscherville, they called it.

The first thing I saw of the place was the cathedral, it's spires and windows gleaming beautifully in the rays of the setting sun. The music emanating from within its bowls was absolutely gorgeous, and almost familiar in a way. I simply had to go in for the evening mass.

I sat in a lone pew in the very back of the church and closed my eyes, just listening to that gorgeous music. It only struck me as all the churchgoers stood that this was one of the very songs that Erik sang to me in the tent those two long years ago in Verdu.

The thoughts put me at ease, and even though the pew was cold, the church was wonderfully warm with the heat of hundreds of bodies gathered together. I found myself dozing off before I could stop myself.

~

A hand gently shook at my shoulder, dragging me into consciousness.

"Are you alright, my child?" A deep voice called out to me in French. I looked up to see the priest that had led the ceremony standing over me with concern written across his leathery face.

I gasped and sat up, hardly noticing that the church was now empty. "¡Padre! Por favor, Padre. Tell me please, what was that song? The one that went; Angus Dei . . . misere nobis . . . Oh, I can't remember the rest."

The priest looked surprised at my use of languages, but answered anyway. "It was Angus Dei."

I gasped again and stood upon my knees on the pew to clasp his hands in mine. "¡Si! Yes, that is it! Oh Erik used to sing that so beautifully even without the music . . . Say, do you know of a boy as thin as death? He wears a mask- a white mask- everywhere he goes. Oh please Padre, I've been searching for him for so long."

The priest's suntanned face suddenly drained of all color and his hands grew cold as ice. "You are searching for Erik?" He breathed, old eyes wide. I nodded with a grin and his bewilderment seemed to grow. "Erik Destler? Why . . . Why are you searching for him?"

My grin lessened as I thought of my friend and the circumstances leading up to our separation. "Because he is my husband."

For a brief instant I swore the priest would faint. Instead he crossed himself feverishly and pulled me away from the pew. "Come with me child, there is someone you should meet." I was pulled out of the church into the chilling autumn night and through the streets of Boscherville. The priest was hurrying, though I did not know why at the time.

"I'm Tzipporah." I called out as I tried to keep up with the priest's long strides. "What's your name, Padre?" The priest seemed to think for a moment before sighing. "My name is Erik, child."

I gasped yet again and the priest sighed once more. "The boy's mother had me baptize him after myself instead of his late father when he was born," Father Erik hung his head heavily and rubbed his eyes with his free hand. "We didn't think he would be strong enough to survive that night . . ." 

I could practically see the weight resting upon his shoulders as we stopped in front of a stone house overgrown with plant life. The priest walked right up to the door and pounded on it with such urgency. "Madeline," he called out, "Madeline!"

After a few minutes the door opened, reviewing a small, plain looking redheaded woman in a nightgown holding up a candle. "Father Erik?" She wondered, her freckled nose turned up in confusion. "What brings you here at such an hour?" she looked down at me and her green eyes widened. I'm sure we were quite the sight; a tall priest holding the hand of a small gypsy girl.

"Mademoiselle Perrault," Father Erik began, "Where is Madeline?"

The ginger woman turned her head to look into the house as footsteps came from behind her. "I'm right here," this new woman- Madeline- growled, tying a robe over her nightgown. "My god, Father, do you have any idea what time it is?"

As she came into the light, I noticed how disheveled the woman looked. Her eyes were sunken in and her cheeks were gaunt, but by God I had never seen a more beautiful woman in my life. She cast her tired gaze down at me and I nearly flinched. "Father, why in God's name do you have a gypsy with you?" She breathed.

Father Erik coughed into his fist and nudged me forward. "Go on, Tzipporah, tell them what you have told me."

I nearly cowered under the gazes of the two woman and clenched my fists to keep my hands from shaking. "I-I'm looking for my husband, Erik. He . . . He wears a mask-"

I was cut off as both women gasped and Mademoiselle Perrault dropped the candle to the ground in her shocked state. My eyes widened and I stomped the flame out before it could spread.

Immediately Madeline's strong grip was on my arm and she was pulling me inside. I was practically thrown onto an expensive looking couch as Mademoiselle Perrault and Father Erik began illuminating the room.

I felt my fingers begin to grow numb at Madeline's intense gaze as she knelt on the carpet before me, her grip never leaving my arm. "Tell me," she nearly hissed. "How do you know my son?"

I glanced briefly up at Father Erik for reassurance before taking a deep, shaking breath and beginning to tell my tale. I watched the reactions of all three adults as I spoke. It was nothing but shock and awe and anger from them all, but I felt my entire body begin to shake as my story approached its ending.

"I-I found Javert . . . unconscious and naked on the ground inside the tent. I-I believe he had t-tried to r-rape Erik . . . and so he knocked Javert unconscious . . ." I stammered out, feeling guilty for lying to a priest. But Erik's mother was there, and I could not tell his own mother that her son was a murderer. "I was having another seizure, s-so Erik took me to my mother's tent, gave her a handful of gold . . . a-and that was the last I saw of him . . . It is Romany custom to pay for a bride, and even though I am a lowly poshratt- half-breed- Erik still payed for me. Now I am his wife."

"What then?" Mademoiselle Perrault squeaked from her spot on the couch opposite the one I occupied. I pursed my lips, hands still shaking. "I was run out . . ." I whispered lowly. "Run out by my own mother . . . and sent to wander the world looking for him- for Erik . . . I came to France hoping he would return to his home country." 

I jumped as Mademoiselle Perrault suddenly lunged forward and wrapped her arms around my small shoulders, bawling her eyes out in my messy black hair.

"Oh you poor thing!" She gasped, then turned to the other woman in the room. "Madeline, oh Madeline, can't she stay? It does not have to be for long- just long enough."

Madeline Destler remained silent for a few moments before crossing her arms. "Oh very well." She sighed, reaching one hand up to rub her tired eyes. "Marie, run a bath. I will not have a filthy child running through my home."

Mademoiselle Perrault nodded immediately and ran up the stairs to do as she had been told, Madeline following at a much slower pace.

I watched the two women leave with wide hazel eyes, the numbness in my fingers slowly vanishing.

"Thank you, child."

I jumped as Father Erik once more rested a heavy hand upon my shoulder. "What for, Padre?"

"For lying to them. I have known Erik. I have seen what he is capable of. He killed that man, didn't he?" The priest's eyes were tired and his shoulders slumped under a heavier weight than before. I couldn't stop myself from nodding and confirming his suspicions.

Father Erik let out a defeated sigh and mumbled out a prayer, crossing himself once again. "You did well, Tzipporah. May the Lord bless you and forgive you for your lie."

The priest patted my shoulder before taking his hand away and retreating from the house. I never again saw Father Erik after that night.

Footsteps on the stairs caught my attention and I looked to see Mademoiselle Perrault beckoning me warmly. "Come, Tzipporah, your bath is ready."

I stood uneasily and followed the plain woman, trying carefully not to touch anything. I was too dirty to be in such a lovely home.

Mademoiselle Perrault caught me under her protective arm and led me upstairs with a smile. "Let me tell you about Erik . . ."