1

Autumn in Paris was crisp, perhaps colder than the year before. That Sunday, people pulled their scarves a little tighter, hoping to avoid illness. The late afternoon was tinged with a regretful shade of rusty gold.

In the park couples strolled, some old, some young. Families rambled, or scurried to a visit or service. Conversations were loud, soft, silly, sensible, and for some there was none at all.

One couple stood out from the rest, for no reason in particular. It was a man and child, nothing more. He was tall and thin, dressed all in black, save for the blue scarf he had buried his face it. The wide brimmed hat cast an inky shadow, and only the eyes burned out, gazing only briefly at the world and returning to the little girl at his side. She skipped along happily, keeping up with his lanky stride. Her little coat was grey, and the mismatched buttons told of an active life. Her stockings were white, quite neat, and the little shoes had been laced correctly. Apparently, they had been newly shined, for she would pause every few moments to peer down at them and make faces to the reflection. Her own little red scarf and cap clung determinedly to their mistress, in spite of her uneven walk, and her red mittened hand gripped the long, black gloved one contentedly.

"You can't see the spot where I kicked the shelf at all now," She piped excitedly, "and wasn't the bootblack nice and careful to get out all my scuffs?"

"Yes, Katrina, he was." The deep, rich voice replied, lifting her arm to help her jump a puddle.

"Papa's sister doesn't like bootblacks. She makes fun of them and says they steel and cheat." Katrina looked up, her brown eyes seeking farther insight into the character of bootblacks.

The gentleman tugged her to his right side, and stuck his left hand in a pocket. "Some, perhaps. But I would say they have done less wrong in their lives than I."

Katrina furrowed her brows, and bit a rosy lip. "Does doing less wrong than other people make you good?"

An elderly couple on a bench overheard the remark and smiled knowingly. Leave it to a child, their eyes said, to ask a question the wise can't answer.

"No, pride and arrogance about your goodness is a sin." The man said certainly. "Even piety can be the devil's mean to an end. But," he raised a long finger in warning, "do not abandon goodness because it could be an uncertain road. Leaving decency behind is death of the soul for sure."

A wind picked up Katrina's hair and pushed it around her face, obscuring the frown. The hair was a living thing in its own right, neither black, brown or red, but all three forced to occupy the same space. Had it been the gentle curls or compliant straight hair fashion demanded it would have been called unusual, perhaps attractive. But it was long, tight curls that refused to untangle and escaped every net, braid, bun, or ribbon. It frizzed and struck out, defying a world of popular notions and ideals.

They paused outside a bakery, and the man released her hand, handed her a few francs, and sent her inside for some rolls. Katrina's Sunday treat every week was a dozen of her favorite food to take home for supper, and her guardian seemed pleased to fulfill such a simple wish. When her purchase had been obtained, she skipped out, holding the brown bag carefully in one hand and reach for his arm with the other.

"Don't they smell nice?" She asked, looking earnestly into his shaded face. "Don't they smell like heaven?"

"I've never smelt heaven, so I wouldn't know," was the answer, but the tone was gentle. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and they walked at an easy pace towards the Opera. "Faust plays tonight, if you wish to hear it." He said to the rapidly cooling air.

Katrina nodded, her mind suddenly divided between Gounod, Mozart and bread. "Will they ever play The Magic Flute?"

"If they can find a decent singer," he spat, recalling the dreadful performance comprised entirely of students. It could have been salvaged, had there been any guidance been given to the ambitious musicians, but instead became a success off of embarrassment rather than the potential skills displayed. Sadly, many of the singers had been hired by the opera to understudy roles. It was cheap, but annoying if a lead became ill or had a crisis. Most of the newer musicians were poorly trained and could not sustain their notes or pitch. But, he conceded sadly to himself, he was overly sensitive.

Katrina beamed up at him, and the around to the world in general. Shadows could touch her, but never change her. Her parents had died in a boating accident the year before. Her mother, ever practical, had instructed her daughter carefully in what to do should they pass. Katrina had listened to the news her neighbors brought, and then looked at the bodies of her parents, which had been left uncovered by a foolish and insensitive villager. Being assured she was an orphan, she walked to the desk, wrote to her uncle, and after posting it, burst into inconsolable tears.

For weeks, she was sure the brother of her Mama would not answer. Katrina lived in fear of being placed with her father's sister. It was not fear of ill treatment, but of being ignored and belittled.

Auntie had just married a widower with three children, and had had a baby of her own. She had never been fond of Katrina, and expressed a dislike for her mother and her mother's family. Now that she had risen in the world somewhat, Auntie would be more than derisive to her niece.

The day of the funeral, a tall, thin man dressed in black with his face shadowed arrived. All standing beside the open graves murmured in subdued confusion. He stood by in utter silence, and walked back to their cottage like a dark omen. Auntie had insisted that Katrina be ready to leave the next morning, so as to arrange for the rapid sale of the house and furniture, so Katrina slipped into her parents room to pack away a few trinkets to remember them by before Auntie took inventory. She ran her fingers over the box where her parents kept their special things, and wondered if she could hide it at the bottom of her valise.

"So, you are Katrina." A large, deep, elegant voice said behind her. Turning, Katrina saw the stranger from the funeral. Nodding, she walked a few steps closer and he knelt to get a better view of her face. "You look like your mother."

A hope began to stir in the child's heart. "Are you my uncle from Paris? Did you get my letter?"

"Yes to both, child. I have been listening to your aunt downstairs, and I think your mother's wish I keep you is the best one. Do you know what your father thought?"

"Papa said he wished Auntie would be different, he said she had no real heart for the young, though I'm not really sure what he meant." She paused, and peered into the shadows where a face should be. "Are you truly my Mama's brother? Am I really going to live with you and not that horrid woman?"

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a few letters, and handed them to her. He tiny hands held them, most of them where in her mother's writing. One was the letter she had sent. Her face brightened, hopefully, and then fell. "Oh, but Auntie is going to sell the house and everything in it."

"The house cannot be helped. But I think I can handle it in a better way. Come," he held out a gloved hand, "let us go speak to your Auntie."

As they went out to the open part of the house where the table had been pushed away from the hearth, and chairs now lined the walls, Katrina held his hand tightly. People offered condolences, and she responded with thank yous, not sure what else to reply. Auntie was bending over a meat pie, when the man spoke.

"I am Sarah's brother. I believe you are Jean's younger sister?"

She eyed him with open scorn. "Yes, and after today you are not welcome here."

"Ah, but I am. As legal guardian of Katrina, I decide who will come and who will go. See in these letters, Sarah wrote them, and they will be validated, but I recommend you spare yourself the embarrassment of admitting to destroying the will she mentions."

Auntie's face flushed with anger and hate, but she held her tongue. Before the other mourners there was nothing to say. The man had proof, and was obviously used to using the tools at his disposal. He said in a low tone only they could hear, "I will not be as cruel or foolish as to deny you and your niece a parting. Your sister did leave a few items in your care, and I'll see they are delivered. Outside of that, you had better not press my limited goodwill. Within the week, you will have seen us for one of the last times. A fact I think should please you."

With that cool and unobserved speech, he walked away, Katrina still holding his hand.

The rest of week was spent as he had predicted, in packing the belongings that Katrina owned for travel to Paris, and arranging for the sale of the house to a newlywed couple looking for a good home. As promised the items Sarah and Jean had left to Auntie were sent to her, along with a few gifts Katrina thought would sooth her relative's temper. The uncles forbid her to give up a certain broach she would have sent along as well, but in every other thing she was given her head.

On the day they left, Auntie came to say good-bye. She was civil to Katrina, even giving her a lace collar as a present. However, when she faced the man, her eyes burned.

"I pretend no love where there is none to show, heaven knows it's true I've been hard to her and her mother. But hear this; if even a whispered word ever reaches me that she comes to any harm at your hands, I shall personally hunt you down and kill you myself, Erik. As revenge from her dead parents and her innocence, I shall exact a price."

He bowed, almost mockingly. "Dually noted, Madame." Without another glace one for the other, Erik loaded his new charge into the carriage, and they drove away.

"Look, they are preparing for the Masquerade, Uncle Erik! See, they are tying up banners and flags to be unfurled at New Years! I wonder why they don't wait for winter?"

Her voice pulled him back from remembrance, and he gazed at the workers on their ladders, braving the height for the sake of decorations. "It would be too cold then, child. Come, we must hurry if we are to eat a proper dinner before the overture."