The Universe's Mixer

The score for Mr. Northman's private performance was complete. Erik set his quill in its inkwell and leaned back in his chair, working out the cramps in his writing hand as he did. Scattered musical notations littered the desk in front of him. When he found relief from the ache, he finally stood and began to clear the madness away.

While he worked, a chime sounded low in the back of the room - an alert that he'd designed to tell him when the gates to the manor opened. This would be Christine, returned. Excellent. It was past time to talk with her about certain things. She usually sought him out when she returned; it was a quirk he found endearing. But when at last the knock on the door came, it was not from the delicate hand he'd expected.

Ten minutes later, as he dismissed the guards he'd employed to tend to his wife, Erik's face carried a grimness that would have meant murder in years past. The never-ending darkness of the days had brought back to the surface his darker inclinations, and it was more difficult than usual to temper his initial reaction. But he knew that Christine could read his dark side, if he let her see it in his expression. He didn't want to frighten the child. And so, when he dismissed the bodyguards, he gave them instructions to find Christine and bring her to him - in another 10 minutes.

And at last, when he again had mastery of himself, she appeared in the doorway. Her skin was pale and lovely. The mass of curls he so adored was down around her shoulders. Standing from where he'd been leaning against the desk, he offered one glove-covered hand to her - an invitation and command all at once.

A long, black town car pulled up to Ted's driveway, and two grim men in grimmer suits stepped out. In the night, they nearly faded from existence, but for their faces and their hands.

"Thank you," Beauty said sincerely, squeezing both hands of the beautiful woman who rode in the back seat with her. "I'll never forget what you did for me, Christine."

And then it was the long stretch of driveway, the crunch of gravel under boots, and a strong rapping on the door before her. The bodyguards stayed with her, flanking either side, while Beauty waited. Pale and miserable, she realized that the plastic bracelet was still on her wrist. It said her name in reverse order: BELLAFORTE, HONOUR

She was in the process of tugging at the band when the door swung open.