She talked of hope and a future brighter than what they left behind them. Perhaps it was, but only in contrast to the wretchedness he'd lived through. No longer would he be another king's butcher. No longer would he be the whipping boy or a sideshow freak. No longer would he be the sexual plaything of an abusive carnival leader. No longer would he be hunted down for the mere appearance of his face. And he would never look into a woman's eyes - mother or otherwise - and see revulsion again. He'd rather die. He'd rather kill.
But for all the talk of hope, he couldn't find himself lifted from the gravity well of his present. There was so little left to hold to.
Magdelene would sing. That was something. He covered his eyes briefly with his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I'm not a man to force someone to adhere to a promise given in different circumstances," Erik said, dropping his hand back to his knee and lifting his glass. "But I am glad to know that you will sing. Yours is a singular beauty."
And that last sentence could be about her -- or her voice -- but Erik wasn't specific. He drained his glass and poured another.
"Thank you," he said after a moment. He so rarely used those words, but it fit now. She needed to know that he appreciated her choice.