"That was wonderful," said a young man in heavily accented English as chattering onlookers left the tent.

Erik bowed some politely and answered in French. "You're not from around here, are you?"

The boy smiled. "A magician, a musician, and a mind reader. Is there anything you don't do?"

"I have yet to perfect the art of flying past levitation, but I'm working on that. What part of France do you hail from?" Erik asked, packing his violin into its case as he had every three days a week for the past fifteen or so years.

"Paris, actually. Was my accent so terrible?"

"Yes," Erik answered honestly, but in a tone that clearly stated it didn't matter. The boy chuckled lightly.

"Are you from Louisiana originally?" The boy asked, watching the masked man continue to pack for the day.

"No. I'm a man of the world, but I've lived here for the past fifteen years, give or take. It's terribly hard to keep track these days," Erik remarked, picking up the violin case and his bag and regarding the boy for the first time. He was tall for his age, only his face giving away his youth as he stood proudly and well dress. His hair was as black as pitch, contrasting starkly with his grey-green eyes and high, pale cheekbones. There was something terribly familiar about that face. Walking towards the exit of the tent, Erik allowed the young man to pull aside the opening and step through behind him.

"Would you like help taking down the tent?" The boy offered, and Erik waved him off as he began to pull back the canvas. After watching the masked man for a long moment, he spoke again. "Why haven't you taken off the mask?"

This question made Erik pause as he folded the canvas, leaving the wooden frame intact. "Young man, the mask is the only thing you have seen tonight that is not a parlor trick."

"What happened?"

Erik mused how decades ago that question might have chilled him to the bone, enraged him to the point of murder. His lie now was so practiced and so easily believed by the superstitious locals that it rolled off the tongue so honestly God Himself might not have known it was a lie. "Let's just say there is a reason my wife has asked that I practice parlor tricks instead of real voodoo."

"You're married then?"

"You are an inquisitive one aren't you?" Erik accused. "Don't you have anyplace else to be besides bothering old performers?"

"Sorry," The boy muttered, looking rather liked a kicked dog. "Really, the performance was wonderful. You ought to charge more," he remarked before turning to leave and give the man the privacy he clearly desired.

Although he couldn't say why, Erik felt a twinge of remorse for speaking so harshly to the boy. "Have you eaten?"

The boy turned and looked at the masked man in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you've eaten. My wife will have supper ready by now, and she always makes more than either of us can eat. You're welcome to take a portion with you if you're hungry."

"That sounds great. I haven't eaten since I arrived," the young man admitted.

"How long ago was that?" Erik asked, pushing the rolled up canvas into the corner of the wooden frame. He was a permanent fixture in the market, and no one seemed to mind anymore if he left his things ready to be set up the day after next rather than carting them home

"The train came in about ten this morning. I wanted to make sure I had a place to stay before I worried about eating, and then I got caught up in everything there is to see and do here. I didn't even realize it was supper until you mentioned it just now."

Erik hummed and began to walk down the street with the young man following beside. "My name is de Changy, by the way. Erik de Changy," the boy said, beginning to offer his hand when the taller man rounded on him and gave him a look so hard it made his blood run cold.

"What sort of game are you playing, boy?"

De Changy gaped and struggled to find his words under the man's hard gaze, trying his best not to look as intimidated as he felt. "No games, Monsieur! I thought since you were kind enough offer me supper you ought to know my name."

"Your parents. Are they the Comte and Comptesse de Changy?"

"Yes, they are. Do you know of them?"

Erik was still for a long moment, clenching his jaw tightly under the leather mask. "Why are you hear, de Changy?" He asked, spitting out the last word almost as if it were bitter on the tongue.

"I… Well. When I said they were my parents I don't suppose that is entirely true. They raised me, but on my fifteenth birthday they gave me a letter that was written by my birth mother. In it she said she had come to America. I've been trying to find her for some time now. The records show she landed on Ellis Island not long after I was born, and that she moved here to New Orleans not long after that. I was hoping to meet her before I start university..."

"Where is it you'll be studying," Erik asked after a long moment of silence.

"I've been accepted to study medicine at Harvard up in Boston, but I also have an offer here in New Orleans from Tulane I'm considering. Why?" The boy pried, tipping his head some.

How had he not seen it? Erik had known there was something familiar about the boy… surely this was just some strange, cruel joke played by the Changy family? Anya had never mentioned leaving a note. But those eyes… those were Anya's eyes, the same one she shared with her sister and the same ones she had guessed she had passed on to their son.

If this was truly their son, could Anya know? What if the boy wasn't satisfied with them? What if he decided to move to Boston? Anya had been a wreck for weeks after giving the boy up; there was no telling how she would respond to his return and sudden disappearance again. But how could he turn the boy away when he had already invited him to supper? And how could he deny the boy a chance to know his real parents? Erik had wanted a child to prove to himself he was a better parent than his mother had been, that unselfish love was possible. He had wanted to see the light in Anya's eyes whenever she thought about what they had created through their love. If this was a chance for that to happen, it was worth taking.

Without answering the boy's question, Erik continued walking. The house wasn't far from the market, sitting on a quiet street with several other modestly sized homes pressed close to one another as was typical for the city. Anya and Erik were by far the quietest couple on the street, with no children although Anya ran a dancing school from the den during the days. Several people nodded to Erik as he passed, and the man nodded back; New Orleans was a social town, but its people knew when to pry and when to keep their questions to themselves. After fifteen years the people Erik saw daily had learned not to ask about his oddities, although sometimes Erik wondered whether it was out of respect for his privacy or out of the fear of the voodoo that had supposedly taken his face. Either way, Erik was pleased enough with the arrangement.

Striding up the steps to the porch, Erik let himself inside without regard to the young man following him, who waited politely on the street to be invited in. Anya peered out of the kitchen and smiled to her husband, hanging up her apron. She was as beautiful at forty eight as she had ever been. Long, lean, and as charmingly disproportioned as any proper dancer, Anya lifted up on her toes to greet her husband with a kiss. "You're just in time. I roasted the chicken Madame Simon gave us, it just came out of the oven."

"It smells wonderful," Erik promised, returning the kiss. "Set a third place at the table, we have company."

Anya raised a brow. "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" She accused; occasionally she would invite one of her dancers to stay for dinner when she knew there was no meal waiting for her at home, but Erik usually preferred that Anya wrap up the meal and send their guest on their way."

Ignoring her remark, Erik moved back into the doorway to beckon the boy inside while Anya moved back into the kitchen to bring out a third place setting to the table. The young man stepped inside just as Anya was moving out of the kitchen. Upon seeing him, Anya dropped the plate and glass both and gasped audibly. The glass rolled aside but the plate shattered, yet Anya made no move to clean up the shards of porcelain

Erik de Changy bowed some and smiled politely. "I hope you don't mind my presence, Madame. Your husband invited me to share supper, and I was hungry enough to agree."

"Anya, this is Erik de Changy, from Paris," Erik introduced, and Anya moved to gaze between them incredulously. "I am Erik Rameau, and this is my wife Anya."

It was the younger Erik's turn to stare. "…Did you say Rameau? Anya Rameau?"

"The one and the same," the masked man confirmed.

"How old are you, Erik?" Anya demanded suddenly, sounding more defensive than she had meant.

"Fifteen, Madame."

"And… And your parents? Surely they're not the Comte and Comptesse de Changy?"

"The same," the young man answered.

"What brings the son of a Comte to New Orleans?" Anya asked after a moment, barely louder than a whisper.

"I've come looking for the woman who gave birth to me, Madame," the young man explained, pulling an aged envelope from his coat. Anya instantly recognized her penmanship on the front of the letter, spelling out her son's given name. "She left me a letter, explaining why she had given me to the de Changys."

In an instant, Anya strode forward and embraced her son tightly. "My boy," she whispered. "My beautiful boy…"

The pair stood like this for a long moment before Anya stepped back and wiped at her eyes, suddenly realizing how mad she must have seemed. She had known of his existence for his whole life, but surely he had only just learned of hers. "You're even more handsome than I thought you would be. And so tall! Why, you're nearly as tall as I am."

"Was my father tall?" The young man ventured, and Anya smiled over to Erik.

"See for yourself."

When the younger man knit his brow, his resemblance to Anya was uncanny. "But in the letter you said my father had died."

"I was mistaken. It's rather a long story," she explained, unable to take her eyes off the boy, this perfect piece of herself and Erik. "…Did they treat you well? The de Changys, they were good to you?"

"They were wonderful," the young man admitted. "They never once mentioned how I came into their family, not until they gave me the letter. But… part of me always knew. My hair was a little darker, and nobody in the family has eyes like mine as far back as I could trace. Not to mention I'm the only one of my brothers Papa doesn't have to pay to send to university. I have a full scholarship to Harvard and Tulane."

"The de Changy line was never known for its brains," Erik remarked, earning him a chastising look from his wife.

"But they're good people," she added. "Very good people. Look at the mess I've made… Sit, both of you, and I'll clean this up and set another place."

Erik talked more over dinner than Anya had ever seen him speak with a stranger during all their years together. He was inquisitive and answered the young man's questions honestly and with little objection. Anya brought out their best bottle of wine, the irony that they had come all the way from France and now considered French wine an indulgence not escaping the younger Erik for a moment.

The three drank and talked until the moon was high in the sky and Anya's yawn alerted them all to the hour.

"I suppose I should leave the two of you to bed," the young man remarked, and Anya shook her head.

"You're not going out there this late. This isn't a town you want to be strolling in at night," she remarked, and Erik chuckled.

"She's nearly as superstitious as the rest of this town."

"I am not. And anyway, we have a room we never use. Stay the night, I'll make beignets and coffee in the morning, and maybe Erik could give you a tour of the city."

When the boy looked to Erik, the masked man nodded his agreement. More and more studying in New Orleans was beginning to seem like a far better option than moving to Boston. "All right," he smiled, "I'd love to stay."

Author's Note: If I could give each and every one of my readers a hug, I would. Thank you for taking the time to read my story, and thank you even more if you've ever taken the time to review. It really means the world to me. If you enjoyed this story even half as much as I enjoyed writing it, please give my other Phantom stories a chance. For the moment, Letting Go will be my last Phantom story... but I am open to requests! I'm also working on an original story on my fictionpress account, if you're interested in that sort of thing. My username there is the same as it is here. Again, I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, especially those of you who have been reading my Phantom stories since the beginning. It's been a fun ride!

- Erin