He had gone longer than two days without sleep. When Hannibal breached his sanctuary at the House by the Lake, Erik was already fighting against sleep. The challenge the boy issued, however, drove him onward. And the music.... the music.... it sustained him.
Still, though Erik's attire was perfect, and he was well groomed for Arya's sake, his eyes were unfocused. It seemed he'd aged 10 years in less than a week. His movements were more uncoordinated than usual. He followed Hannibal slowly, more slowly than was normal.
Being in this manor hurt him. He remembered how Christine used to occupy the place, how she'd been the heart of the house, breathing music and inspiration into all the rooms. He remembered how her lithe dancer's form would spring through her movements in the studio the City created for her. He didn't know if that room still existed or not. With Christine gone, there was no use for it, but it was the room he'd proposed to her in, and he hoped, somehow, that it was still here. That it would still retain its wood floors and metal bars along the mirrored walls. That it would still retain some memory of his wife, even long after he was gone.
"I have your finished score," he said, the thick folio bound in leather and tucked under his arm neatly. His voice was not the metallic, harsh rasping that it had been when they last spoke. But the beauty of it was gone. There was nothing special inside him anymore. He'd bled it all out into the pages of the folio under his arm. He was tired. He was ready.
"Where is she?" he asked, knowing what he'd agree to do, and eager to see it done.