Like the moon misses the sun. He hadn't needed to explain it; she understood instantly what he meant - another sign of their destined connection. Inwardly she sighed - he would have been a perfect father - but outwardly she smiled and rested her head on his shoulder, content to be walking with him in the woods, which were no longer frightening. They were beautiful, just like the love between the vampire and his pretty little maiden. "Where are we going?" she asked after walking in silence for a few short moments, her voice just above a whisper and her heart fluttering in her breast like a hummingbird, willing to be uncaged but not quite ready to survive in the open world just yet. She bit her pearly lip and looked up at him, her love, with wide eyes, brimming with anticipation. He had a plan for tonight, she knew, and he wouldn't reveal it just yet, because he enjoyed his mysteries and secrets, even ones against her. But she would play along with him, and ask, and let him answer in riddles, and pretend to be frustrated by this, when truly she had expected it and wished only for him to speak like that all the time, because it was his puzzles and clues that were the most poetic of any of the things he ever said. She smiled again; they walked like this always, they rarely kissed, and yet it was all enough for her. She knew she was delicate and fragile compared to him. He could crush her in an instant if he wanted to. He could break her bones with one flick of his wrist. Perhaps someday she would be able to endure his strength, and then perhaps they would be able to consummate their overwhelming love for each other, but not today. For now, they would have to wait, however painful the wait would be.

She gasped as the car began to levitate, but shut her eyes tightly and kept her jaw clenched so she wouldn't - or couldn't - scream, or cry, or faint. We're not flying, we're just driving, but the road is a little bumpy. We're going up a hill now, a steep hill, that's all, she told herself, and continued with such thoughts to calm her panicked mind. Heights. Such a stupid thing to be scared of, especially since she hadn't actually hurt herself when she fell that one time, years and years ago.

"You stupid girl, Esmé! Why did you let go of the broom?! You're useless, girl, a useless idiot!"

That's what her mother had said. Her beautiful, glamorous mother, admirer of Narcissa Malfoy and lover of all things elegant and expensive. If it cost a lot of money, Mrs Thistlewhite adored it. She loved her jewellery more than her husband, and much, much more than her daughter. It had taken her seven years to realise that Esmé was a metamorphmagus; in fact, Imelda Thistlewhite didn't even know that her mother-in-law had also had the power. She was an ignorant woman, and rude, and childish, but very beautiful. Esmé had her blonde hair - but her father's curls - and her milky white skin, and her charming figure. Tonight, however, Esmé was dressed for Trace, in the body that belonged to him and the dress she had found especially for tonight.

She kept her eyes tightly shut and told herself they were driving along a road.

Smoothly and quickly they arrived outside the theatre in central London, Trace quickly moved around the car and helped his horrified missus out the car and stroked a strand of hair out her beautiful face and smiled at her, "Sorry darling, It was quicker this way" he whispered and nodded elegantly to the men and women either side of the red carpet, he escorted Esme along. She had a flash back in the car, and he knew this because he was touching the same object as she - the car, which allowed him to see into her thoughts if only for a short amount of time, he handed the tickets to the entrance man and smiled casually, leading her in, the door man took her coat and Trace gave him strick orders to make sure he didn't misplace it. Everyone doing as Trace commanded and lead Esme to her seat, after collecting her a glass of champange, if she wanted any. They moved through other elegant people, he stopped to one man in perticular, a man who would act the Phantom this evening, he held out Esme's hand to the man and he kissed it and stood straight and proud, "This is my wife" Trace announced casually, yet proudly to the man, the man stared and looked amazed, "How?!" "The world allowed me this one gift from heaven, In hopes I shall perish in time," he murmered, the man laughed and patted Trace firmly on the shoulder and looked at Esme, "Glamorous, Just like he told us in his letters, Enjoy the past of your husband My Lady" he said and with that he left. Trace smiled wildly and lead her to a box and smiled, "This is our spot" he smirked.

Needless to say, Esmé was thoroughly confused by all this. First, the people in the theatre knew Trace, second, he introduced her as his wife, which she didn't object to, but nothing of that sort had been mentioned before, and thirdly, his past? What of his past? He had barely spoken of it, except when she'd demanded to know about his maker and the turning. She sat down next to him in the box in rather stunned silence; this was much, much more than any of his previous games and mysteries. There had to be something she could say, rather than remain in this dumbstruck way. "This dress..." she began in a quiet voice, speaking of the first thing to come to her mind. "It belonged to a great, great, great aunt of mine. On my father's side we are loosely related to the French magical families - hence my name, Esmé - and my great uncle told me stories of the woman who owned this dress, and promised it to me when I was old enough to wear it properly. I inherited it when he died. The woman - her name was Christine - was an opera singer, but she had to run away, I think... I don't know much of the story, as I am sure my great uncle made some of it up to excite my young imagination, and some of it he didn't know either. But now I have the dress, and now it belongs to you, I suppose...husband..." She smiled dreamily and kissed his cheek, delighted by the whole affair.

He noticed her being slightly confused and tilted his head and smiled softly at her, and listened to her story, he squinted his eyes and looked up to the ceiling of the box and inhaled through his teeth, making one of those unsure sounds. He looked at her, and reached his cold hand out and stroked her cheek, and nodded at the end of her story and felt her warm lips grace his cheek and kissed her forehead and sat back in his seat, pulling it closer to her, to hold her hand. Trace absently then began his own story, he stared at the stage, "I knew Christine" he said, his face looked as though he had seen a ghost, "She looked how you do now, That dress, I knew I seen it somewhere" he paused and frowned, "You must remember days then were beyond my control, I grew obessive, and repulsive to society, My life was pretty much as the story will be told. Yet My face. My face was never demented, It was infact my actions, the way I hid from the world, My music i once conducted, and the beauty of your aunts voice that enticed me into such a world full of darkness. Painful memories Esme, But never doubt for a moment You are unloved by me. This heart, that maybe black and not beating will belong to you, I would never love anyone the way I have this insane painful yet magical obsession with you" He said, staring now at her eyes, and closed them, and looked down to the stage. Wondering now if this was a good idea, He closed his eyes as the music begun, gripping her hand tightly.

She could guess, sort of, what was going to happen. It would be a love story between Trace and a woman long since dead. Well, I shall have to pretend she is me, and that it is us, falling in love in another place. Then everything will be alright. "Was she...the one you were going to marry? Or was it...after?" she whispered, knowing he would be able to hear her above the loud overture. Music delighted her, but she rarely heard it; at home she would try and listen to classical composers but would be stopped by her muggle-hating parents. She'd heard Beethoven once and loved it, and wished she could hear it again. To try and get around the ban, she'd taught herself to memorise a piece of music instantly after one listen, so she could recreate it in her head whenever she wanted to, but it was never quite the same. This opera; she would memorise it and try and sing it back for him whenever she could, if indeed her singing voice was able to manage it. She had a sweet voice, and had a wide range, but was - like her speaking voice - far too quiet to impress anyone. Perhaps, if Trace liked music so much, she could learn, for him. And he could write her songs, and she could perform them to him only. She had a brief image of them in the future, just as they were today, in the middle of the forest with only a piano and sheet music for company, him playing and her singing. She smiled again, happy with her daydream, and turned her attention back to the stage.