Erika paces nervously. Every noise, every little movement, she expects it to be the veiled doctor. She hasn't felt this nervous since...
...was it Paris 1703? The shadow she'd caught in the corner of her eye there? She was convinced she'd been followed. So she'd taken a carriage, moved on, not stopping until she felt safe. Always with the running, always with the hiding, not knowing if this time she'd escaped for good.
She wonders for a brief moment, was she truly running away from him, or herself? He's likely long gone now, and if not, then she doubts that it concerns him any longer. Perhaps a matter of pride, that he might stumble upon her some day, and wish to exact his final revenge. But little more than that, surely.
Ah. Revenge. A sweet word, sweet in the manner that molten sugar is hot, burning the skin beneath. Her bitter heart burns as hot and as dangerous, as she waits, with her own bag packed. There will be revenge. And there will be pain.
She continues to pace, wondering now, re-reading the letter that Viktor had sent, wondering if she'd misread his intentions, and then tuts to herself. Her experiences with stagefright knows this is nothing but nerves. Viktor said he would meet here here. He will be here.