“Franziska von Karma!” I winced as I listened to my name echo through the empty hallways. I wanted nothing more than to ignore my father’s call, but I knew better than that. Fearing the worst, I hurried to his chamber, where I found him pacing and grumbling with my spelling test clenched in his fist.
“What is this?” he growled, pointing to the red grade on my paper.
I remained silent, my face deepening in color. I couldn’t come up with anything to say that would even possibly calm him down.
“Answer me, child!” he barked, making me jump.
“A ninety-five percent?” I finally managed to squeak.
“At least that’s one thing you’ve got right,” he said disdainfully. “Why can’t you be more like your sister, Cordula? She may have been imperfect, but her grades were always reflective of her lineage. Honestly, how do you forget an umlaut?”
“But Papa,” I said, my voice beginning to waver, “A ninety-five is very good; it’s almost one hundred. I’m new to first grade, because you had me skip kindergarten. I’m still learning.”
“Only in first grade?” he roared. “A von Karma should be able to skip six grades and still be flawless in their precision!” My knees buckled out of fear, and tears began to collect at the corners of my eyes.
“You are more of a mistake than your sister or her mother!” he fumed. “You are a disgrace to the name von Karma! Get out of my sight!”
I didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence; I bolted from the room as fast as I could and ran down the hall, not stopping until I reached my bedroom. I flung myself onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow.
For a few minutes, I just laid there, sobbing and wishing that Papa were kinder to me. Was I really a mistake? Was I not meant to be here? What about Mama?
I stopped for a moment at the thought of my mother. I hadn’t seen her for over a year. She still loves me, I thought, even if Papa doesn’t. A little voice inside me whispered, “If she really loves you, why are you here?” There had t be a reason; there just had to. I closed my eyes and remembered Mama, trying to find something to contradict the voice.
A little over a year ago, I came home from preschool feeling empty inside. Some of my peers had been talking about going on vacations with their families and how much fun they had. I had nothing to contribute; after all, I knew very little about my father, and my mother spent a lot of time with her adult friends who were mostly males.
I was curious about my father, so I asked Mama if she would tell me about him. I got very little out of the conversation; therefore I pressed her for more information.
“Mama,” I asked, “How did you and Papa meet?”
“Not now, Franziska,” she said, obviously not expecting my question. “I’m getting ready to go out with some friends.”
Knowing full well what she meant, I replied, “Please, Mama? I don’t think that Mr. Reinhard would mind waiting on his own a bit longer.”
She sighed and poured herself a small glass of wine. “Alright, Franzy, I’ll tell you.” My eyes lit up, and I eagerly waited for her to begin.
“When I was a young girl, not much older than you, your father, Manfred von Karma, began going to the same school as I did. I fell in love with him the moment that I saw him, and I followed him around wherever I could. Unfortunately for me, it was only a matter of time until I discovered his crush on Christiane, another one of my classmates. For some reason, he chose to follow her around like a love struck puppy until the day we graduated from high school; it was sickening,” she ended bitterly.
“But when was I born?” I inquired, still not satisfied.
“Many years after graduation, I met your father at a high school reunion party,” continued Mama. “Even after so many years, I still loved him, so I was very excited to find out that he was now single. I approached him later on that night, and I offered him a drink, which he graciously accepted. He and I went off on our own and made merry long into the night.”
“Is that when I was born?” I asked inquisitively. Mama seemed taken aback that I had understood her sexual innuendo. She would have been even more surprised to know that I had figured out what happened that night. Even at such a young age, my peers had very interesting topics of conversation.
“Yes, Franzy,” Mama replied after taking a sip from her glass. “And that’s when you were born.”
“Mama,” I said, not finished gathering my information, “Do you still love Papa?”
“Of course I do,” she laughed, finishing her beverage.
“Then why are you always with Mr. Reinhard and not him?”
“Oh come now, Franziska,” she said, trying to hide her irritation behind a thin shroud of giddy laughter. “Your questions are going to make me late! I’ll see you later tonight.” With that, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door.
Later that night after I had already gone to bed, Mama’s friend, Reinhard Nichtosten, brought her back home. I went to get a glass of water, but I stopped at the top of the stairs when I overheard their conversation.
“I love you, Veronika,” Mr. Reinhard was saying. “I really do. But I can’t have pieces of the past around to slow us down. You understand, right?”
“I can’t just leave her Reinhard,” said Mama. “She’s only a child. Where would she go?”
“What about her father?”
Confused and scared, I retreated to my room and went back to sleep. I tried to convince myself that they couldn’t have been talking about me, but deep down, I knew that they were.
For the next few weeks, my world just got stranger and stranger. There were times that I felt that Mama was ignoring me, and sometimes when she would talk to me, she refused to look me in the eye. I felt ashamed, but I didn’t know why.
Then one day, Mama asked me if I wanted to go on a trip. It had seemed like such a long time since we spent time together, so I thought that this meant that life would soon be returning to the way it was. Mama told me to pack everything that I really wanted to take, including my favorite toys, skirts and bed sheets.
I asked her where we were going, but all she would tell me is that it was a surprise. I put all of my belongings in her car, and the trip began.
We visited many interesting places throughout southern Germany like the Black Forest and the Olympia Park. I was fascinated; I had no idea that the world was such a large and beautiful place. I thought for sure that my life was going back to normal.
After so much learning, fun and excitement, I was exhausted. I tried my best to stay awake, but the humming of the car’s engine and its rhythmic clicks eventually put me to sleep. When I woke up, there was rain sliding down my skin and soaking into my hair and clothes. At first, I thought I had fallen asleep with the window down, but I soon realized that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I was lying on my luggage on the front steps of a large, majestic house, alone in the rain. I was lost.
Before I could grasp what I was doing, I began to cry and bang on the front door, desperately hoping that whoever lived here would allow me to stay.
Above the sounds of my pounding and sobbing, I heard a voice. I couldn’t make out what it was saying, but it didn’t sound happy or welcoming. When the door opened, a well-built man with a stern stare, sleek white hair and ornate clothing that included a cravat came into view. He looked around as if searching for my adult supervisor and then looked at me. He scrutinized every aspect of my being from my hair color to my clothes to my luggage.
“Who are you?” he asked suspiciously. “This is not the orphanage, you know.”
I flushed in shame. “My name is Franziska Fehlerhaft.”
His eyes widened in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“Franziska Fehlerhaft.”
“It can’t be…”
“May I please come in?” I asked meekly, straightening myself up. “It’s very cold and wet out here.”
“Of course,” he said, more to himself than to me.
I began to gather my belongings and carry them to the door. As I made my way inside, I found that the house was not only regal on the outside but on the inside as well. I was so awestruck that I didn’t notice the letter that fell out of my luggage. The man however, did.
He stooped down and picked it up, reading the front. The words had been smudged by the rain, but they were still legible. The man quickly laid my possessions down and closed the door. He walked speedily to a tiny desk and pulled out a letter opener. Wasting no time in opening the envelope, he ripped the top off and dropped the letter’s shredded casing.
I picked it up, not understanding what he was getting so worked up about and read it. On it is written, “To Manfred.”
I looked up at the man, whose name I assumed was Manfred; his eyes were quickly darting across the folded paper. He kept muttering to himself, “No. It’s not possible.” After reading the letter for probably the fifth time, he put his head in his hands and sighed.
“Are you okay, sir?” I asked, not wanting my host to be uncomfortable.
“Come here, child,” he said quietly. I obeyed.
He raised his head and looked at me again, unsure of what to do next. “Is your mother really Veronika Fehlerhaft?”
“Yes, sir.”
He held out the letter. “Is this her penmanship?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He crumpled the note in his hand. “Then the rumors are true. I am a father.” His voice became more and more distant as he spoke. I still didn’t completely understand how this all pertained to me.
“You, girl.” He paused. “You, Franziska, are my daughter, my flesh and blood. You are no longer a Fehlerhaft but a von Karma.”
“Papa?” I asked, my heart leaping for joy. I threw my arms around his neck and embraced him, waiting for him to do the same. The closest he got to doing so was placing a hand on my shoulder.
“I suppose,” he began, taking a deep breath, “I ought to show you to your room now.”
“Oh, thank you, Papa!” I cried, giving him another quick squeeze before gathering my possessions.
Papa then led me up the stairs into a long hallway. Every so often, he would pause at a door, look in and mutter to himself, “No, not here. Definitely not.” Eventually, he stopped at an especially old-looking doorway. “This will be your new room,” he said as if he had just made a very difficult decision. “I will be back later to remove my old files.” And with that, he left me.
I stared in awe of the dusty room. It looked as though it hadn’t seen light for years. I carefully sat my stuff down next to a pile of yellowed papers before continuing my exploration of the room. I soon found out that every part of the room was, in essence, the same: dark and all together, uninviting. But it really didn’t matter; I was going to perk it up as soon as Papa retrieved his papers.
I found my way back to the stairs and descended to the main floor to collect the rest of my luggage. As I passed what appeared to be the kitchen, my arms full of bags, I heard Papa talking on the phone.
“I don’t want to be a father! It was not my choice!” He listened to the person at the other end. “No, you fool! I was drugged! I made the mistake of loving once, and I will never do it again! Emotions are empty, worthless things, all of them! Especially love!” he spat. More listening. “But she reminds me of her! To the Devil with your morals; I will keep her, but only for my own reasons. One more syllable about right and wrong, and I’ll be seeing you in court! Good day, sir!” he growled, slamming the phone.
I was terrified, and I ran back to my room as fast as I could, slamming the door behind me. I prayed that Papa would be nicer to me than he was to that person on the phone.
I got some dust in my nose and sneezed, sending a few papers into the air. I picked them up, but before I put them back, a newspaper clipping that now sat atop the stack caught my attention. It read: Manfred von Karma, Perfect Prosecutor. Little did I know to what extent that statement would govern my life.
I returned to reality, where I was laying on my bed holding a tear-stained pillow. I didn’t want to think of Mama anymore; it hurt too much.
Instead, I thought about what Papa had told me a few days earlier. He had some business to take care of in the United States, and he would be gone for a week or so. There was a man, Gregory Edgeworth, that Papa was determined to defeat in court.

A few days after Papa left, I received a letter from him informing me that there was a delay in his plans. He would be coming back much later than expected. This surprised me, because his timing was always flawless. What could be so important that it had altered his plans?
About six months after I got the letter, Papa returned to Germany with a young boy and an ache in his right shoulder. Papa wouldn’t talk much about either of them at first, but after he and the boy got settled in, I learned more about the mysterious guest.
His name was Miles, and he was the son of Gregory Edgeworth, Papa’s opponent in court. Gregory was in an accident after a trial that resulted in his death, Miles becoming an orphan and another trial, which is what had changed Papa’s plans.
After the trial, Papa had offered to bring Miles back to Germany, where he would receive the highest level of care and a quality education. Within a matter of hours, they were both returning to Germany.
I didn’t particularly care for Miles at first. He was too quiet and too gloomy for my taste. For the most part, he only spoke when he was spoken to, but when he did speak on his own, it was hardly interesting. As it could be imagined, I was quite surprised when Miles approached me one day and tried to begin a conversation.
“Miss Franziska,” he asked timidly. “Do you know where your mother is?”
I was caught off guard by his question. “Not really,” I said without really thinking about it. I immediately caught myself and made an attempt to fix my error. “What does it matter to you?”
Miles blushed a little before answering. “I’m sorry. I was just curious.”
My heart softened. “What about yours?” I asked quietly, not wanting the conversation to end.
“She’s with Daddy,” he said softly. “They’re happy together up in Heaven.”
It was my turn to blush. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to bring up a painful memory.”
“It’s alright, Miss Franziska,” he replied, smiling a little. “You were just curious.”
As I smiled back, I noticed a tiny drop of water on his cheek. He seemed to notice it too, because he turned his face away from mine.
“What’s wrong, Miles?”
“It’s nothing. I just miss them so much,” he said, beginning to sniffle.
Before I knew what I was doing, I pulled him into an embrace. I had never seen a boy cry before, but I knew that pain is difficult to bear alone. “Please don’t cry, Miles,” I begged him softly. “I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
To my surprise, he hugged me back, his weeping muffled by my shoulder so that it was barely audible.
“Thank you, Miss Franziska,” he said after a minute or two.
“Call me Franzy,” I replied.
Over the next few days, Miles and I became closer and closer until it was impossible to tell that we had only known each other for a few weeks. There were times when Papa would pull him aside for private lessons on prosecution, and those times were the worst. I felt so lonely and empty inside that I thought I might die. To keep my mind off of missing him, I would often nap in the hallway, where I would daydream about how he and I would always be best friends who would do absolutely everything together. Quite simply put, I was smitten by him.
Of all of the memories that he and I created, none is held more dearly tan that of our first Christmas together. The streets were filled with last minute shoppers and laughing children, and joy could be felt floating in the air, mingling with the snowflakes before they joined their brethren in the fresh blanket of snow that covered the city.
Miles and I were engaged in a snowball fight after completing a snowman lookalike of one of the neighbors. I had discovered the key to making good snowballs and was determined to use it to my advantage. I was focused on beating him, no matter what it took.
Carefully peeking out from behind the frozen mound I was using as a fort, I saw him packing handfuls of snow for ammunition next to his own fort, which was significantly larger. Our eyes met, and the battle began.
Within moments, my fort was under siege, snowball after snowball pounded against my barrier. But I knew better than to waste mine on his fort, and I waited for the perfect moment to strike. As I noticed his pace beginning to slow, I selected the finest of my weapons to use against him.
Glancing over my fort, I could see that he was forced out from behind his stronghold to gather more snowballs. I watched his movements, taking careful aim in my mind. Confident in my analysis, I jumped into the open and threw my snowball with all my might.
I watched with satisfaction as it sailed through the air and struck Miles in the stomach. He let out a grunt and fell to the ground. Horrified that I had actually hurt him, I ran to his side.
“Miles!” I cried, kneeling beside him. “Are you alright?”
He coughed. “It’s okay. You just knocked the wind out of me, that’s all,” he said weakly with a smile. “That’s quite an arm you’ve got there.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ll need some help getting up, though.” I stood up and reached out my hand. He took it, and I pulled back as hard as I could. He got back on his feet and paused for a moment, bringing our faces unnaturally close together; my face darkened slightly.
“Franzy, your cheeks are red,” he observed. “Are you cold?”
“A bit,” I answered quickly. “But I like it out here.”
He grinned. “Me, too.” His attention was drawn to a group of twelve people approaching the house. “Look, Franzy! Christmas carolers!”
One of them, a tall slender woman with wavy blonde hair showing from beneath her pale pink snow hat stepped forward. “Hello, children,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Enjoying the snow?”
“Yes, ma’am!” We replied enthusiastically.
“That’s wonderful to hear,” she said. “My friends and I were wondering if you would like to hear some Christmas songs.”
“Yes!” I cried. “Please sing for us!” She smiled and nodded, stepping back into the group as they began.
At first, Miles and I just listened to their beautiful voices, gently swaying to the music, but as the tunes grew more familiar, we sang along. As “O Christmas Tree” drew to a close, Miles started to laugh. When I inquired about what was so funny, he replied that he had been having so much fun that he couldn’t remember how many songs we had heard; neither could I.
“It’s getting late, and we’ll have to go soon,” the woman said. “We can sing one more song if you’d like.”
Miles and I nodded. “Yes, please!”
She smiled. “Alright then.” And with that, she began to slowly sing “Silent Night,” her friends quietly joining her. Her voice was gorgeous, even when she performed by herself; it reminded me of a pure stream of mountain water flowing smoothly over stones. I was captivated.
Miles tapped me on the shoulder, snapping me out of my trance. I turned to face him. “Miss Franziska,” he said playfully, bowing deeply. “May I have this dance?”
“But I don’t know how to,” I replied, looking at the ground.
“It’s alright,” he said, taking my hand. “Just follow my lead.” He guided my free hand to his shoulder, placing his on my waist and adjusting our other hands, his right and my left. We listened as the carolers began the second verse, and Miles led me in a slow waltz. A wave of warmth swept over me despite the chill in the air, and I never wanted it to leave.
The carolers, Miles and I were too lost in the moment to hear the grumbling and the banging sounds coming from the top floor of the house. With a metallic click, one of the windows burst open, revealing Papa’s angry figure.
“What’s all that racket out there?” he growled, leaning out of the window. He examined the scene below. “Carolers? Be gone with you! Go spread your foolish peace and love elsewhere!”
“A Merry Christmas to you, sir!” The woman called cheerily as she and her fellow singers calmly returned to the street.
Papa ignored them, redirecting his wrath toward us. “And you two!” he barked. I flinched, almost feeling his gaze pierce my skin. “I never want to see either of you participating in such and activity again! Ever!”
Miles and I hurried back inside, careful to avoid upsetting Papa further for what little bit of time remained in our day.
I laid on my bed and savored the fun in the snow. I didn’t mind being scolded as much as I usually did; the warmth seemed to have formed an impenetrable barrier around my good mood. I felt bad that Papa had yelled at the carolers, but I was very grateful that they had come.
Because of his obsession with perfection, Papa often found it necessary to critique others and their behaviors. Not even the mail carrier could escape his scrutiny.
One night after dinner, conveniently after Miles had left the room, Papa began to criticize him.
“That boy can be so useless and whiney sometimes,” Papa remarked while cleaning an old whip. “He never wants to study. All he ever wants to do is play and have fun.” He mentioned the last few words with great disdain. “And lately, he keeps asking to go see a movie. With Miss Franzy nonetheless,” he added, glaring in my direction.
“Don’t be so harsh on him, Papa,” I said defensively. “Perhaps what he really need is a break from lessons.”
“A break?” he hissed, twisting the whip in an agitated fashion. “Are you suggesting that I should reward him for being a poor student?”
“Of course not; he should be rewarded for being as sharp and as clever as he is in school and in his lessons,” I replied. A slight creaking noise captured my attention, and I looked in the direction that it came from only to see Miles’ face retreating into the shadows. He had heard the entire conversation.
I felt my face go red with embarrassment, and Papa grabbed my shoulder, tuning me to face him. Thankfully, he hadn’t noticed Miles.
“What reason could you possibly have for wanting to defend him of all people?” he growled. He turned his back to me and paused. “Is it possible that you have a soft spot for the brat?” He looked over his shoulder and gave me a dark stare.
As it had been such a long time since I had felt love or companionship of any kind, I was unsure of how to respond. “I don’t know,” I finally answered.
Papa spun around, a demonic look in his flashing eyes. “Do not lie to me!” he cried, unfurling the whip. “You ingrate! First you invest your soul in that imperfection called love, and then you further flaw yourself by lying about it!”
What happened next was nothing more than a blur in my memory. I remember crying out in pain and falling to the ground as the twisted leather stung my skin. I remember Papa furiously shouting about me being a fool and frantically attempting to avoid the onslaught of angry blows while clutching my bleeding arm. But most of all, I remember escaping Papa’s wrath, longing to see Miles waiting in the shadows to help me, only to find that he had already fled to the safety of his room.
I spent the next few hours in my bedroom tending to the superficial wounds that the whip had left on my exposed skin and nursing the injuries on my heart, too frightened to sleep. I was in pain, yet I found myself unable to cry, that is until I heard Miles.
His sobs carried from the room across the hall into mine. I was angry with him, yet my heart was torn as I listened to him cry. My own tears began to form and fall. For whom I cried, I was uncertain, but the tears flowed in a silent stream. I couldn’t stop them.
After I was certain that Papa had retired for the night and that Miles’ fearful tears had lulled him to sleep, I crept down the stairs and into the room where it had happened.
I wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for, but I knew it was there. I shivered and inadvertently touched the cutes on my arm as I passed the spot where Papa had beaten me. I looked down at the puffy lines that were illuminated by the moonlight and traced them with my fingertips. They still hurt.
My gaze drifted from my wounds to the floor, where I noticed the whip, an eerie blue in what little light there was, discarded and alone. I picked it up and ran my fingers along its braided texture. Examining the tip, I discovered traces of my own blood, now dried onto the material. I had found it.
I coiled it back into its innocuous position and carried it up to my room. I laid it next to my bed. There, it would be a constant reminder of what it meant to be truly powerful, to be truly perfect.

Over the next several years, Miles and I slowly drifted apart. We spent less time together and more time on out studies. Before I knew it, I was no longer just another face on the streets of Germany; I was Franziska von Karma, Prosecuting Prodigy, and I was only thirteen. Thanks to Papa’s private lessons and my genetic talent for bringing the guilty to justice, I found myself spending time in the courtroom rather than at school.
Papa would sometimes escort me to trials, but he never stayed to watch. I tried not to care and made a habit of carrying my whip around with me to ease the pain I felt inside.
There were a few times early in my career that I was quite certain that I had seen Miles in the crowds that gathered after every trial, but he always seemed to vanish before I could talk to him. Once, I could have sworn that he had smiled slightly and winked at me before disappearing. Much to my embarrassment, I blushed and it was photographed. It didn’t take much to convince the photographer that he didn’t really want that picture after all.
Not long afterwards, Papa made an announcement over lunch. “Next week,” he said, “Miles will be leaving for America.”
“What?” he and I cried in unison.
“It is time for you to return to your country,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, “As a prosecutor.”
“Please, Mr. von Karma,” Miles begged. “I’m only twenty! I hardly feel ready for such a task.”
“You are ready, and you will go,” Papa replied sternly. And that was the end of the conversation.
The next day, he was packed and ready to leave before noon. That was the last time I saw Miles for a long while.
Papa’s house had always been a quiet one, so the silence following Miles’ departure was nothing new. But for some reason, I couldn’t help feeling lonely. There was something about his presence that made the house seem like home, and now that he was gone, the whole building felt cold and desolate.
Both Papa and I kept to ourselves for the most part; even at mealtimes, we often ate alone. Occasionally, he would approach me looking very satisfied and hand me a clipping from an American newspaper about some important case that Miles had won. I would skim the article and then return it to him, nodding in approval. But inside, I was hurting.
No matter how many cases I won, Papa never seemed to be proud of me, but whenever Miles got a guilty verdict, he would practically ooze with satisfaction. And Miles wasn’t even his son.
Four years after Miles left, Papa came to me with news. He had some urgent matters to tend to in America, and he would be leaving immediately. When I asked about the nature of the trip, he replied, “I have reason to believe that an important case will soon arise, and I intend to be there when it does, to put everyone in their proper places.”
I remember watching him carrying his luggage out the front door and wondering why he continued to come back to this loveless place. It was not until a couple weeks later that I heard that he would never be coming back. He was found guilty of killing Gregory Edgeworth years ago while trying to pin the blame of Gregory’s death and another murder on Miles. I was shocked; I knew Papa was coldhearted, but I never thought he could be so cruel. Perhaps he deserved what he got.
As much as it hurt me to think of Papa locked in a lonely jail cell across the ocean, it also gave me a sense of freedom that I had never known. He was no longer there, watching me constantly, waiting for me to make a mistake that he could pounce on. I was my own master.
And then it occurred to me that Papa had changed many things about Miles and me, including our behaviors. Now that he was gone, Miles and I might be able to be friends again, and maybe, just maybe, our bond would be stronger than before. There was a change that my childhood daydream would come true; we would be the best of friends, forever.
Excited by the mere thought, I immediately began to plan. It would be awkward if I were to just show up expecting to be welcomed with open arms, especially after what Papa did. I needed another reason, one that would not be questioned.
I spent the next few days researching Miles’ career in America, hoping to find something to lure him into the same courtroom as me. It wasn’t long before I had it all planned out.
Miles, like Papa, had a courtroom nemesis; his name was Phoenix Wright. Miles had faced Mr. Wright in court several times, but he had yet to be victorious. If I could defeat this Phoenix Wright, achieving a feat that not even Miles Edgeworth, the genius prosecutor, could, I would surely attract his attention! And it just so happened that Mr. Wright was the man who had defeated Papa, giving me the perfect excuse to face him. I would face Phoenix Wright in court under the pretext of revenge!
I left Germany with a newfound sense of determination. For the first time in a long time I felt that I had done something right, perhaps even something perfect.
Unfortunately, things didn’t go as planned. Mr. Wright was a far better lawyer than I gave him credit for, and after several humiliating defeats, I found myself waiting for the plane that would take me back home. It was then there that I was found by the person I least expected to see, Miles Edgeworth.
He came up to see me while I was sitting in the waiting area, feeling lonelier and more disheartened than ever. “Where are you going, Franziska?”
I was caught off guard. “What are you doing?”
“When you left the party,” he said slowly, “I admit, I was worried about you.”
“Don’t waste your pity,” I said bitterly. “I don’t need it.”
“Are you going back to Germany?”
“What does it matter to you?” I mumbled crossly. “It won’t change anything.”
“So you are going back?”
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I cried, sensing that my resistance was starting to give way.
“Franziska,” he said softly, almost whispering. “I haven’t done anything to you. Why are you so upset with me?”
“You’ve always,” I began angrily. I could feel the emotions welling up inside me transforming into tears, and I choked on my words. “You always left me alone and walked on without me.” I felt the hot water droplets pouring down my face. I was ashamed of myself for crying like that in public and in front of him of all people, but I couldn’t stop.
“I have spent much of my life in your shadow, wanting nothing more than to stand alongside you as your equal. But every time I draw near, you pick up speed, leaving me to eat your dust.” I locked gazes with him, my eyes brimming with tears. “I can’t continue to torture myself like this.” My flight number was called over the loudspeaker, and I turned to leave.
“Franziska, I… I had no idea!” Miles began, gently placing a hand on my shoulder.
“Perhaps someday we will meet again,” I said, biting my lip. “Goodbye, Miles Edgeworth.” I slid my shoulder out from beneath his tender grasp, leaving him on his own, alone in the crowded airport.
For the next eleven months, I spent a lot of time on my own in Papa’s house, taking up only as many cases as necessary. The smaller they were and the less publicity they got, the better. It wasn’t long before Franziska von Karma, Prosecuting Prodigy, had almost completely dropped out of the public eye.
I spent most of my time trying to make the house seem more inviting; the first place I worked on was the hallway upstairs. I took it upon myself to remove Papa’s old files from the many rooms that they inhabited. At first, I was overcome by curiosity and looked through some of them. For the most part, they contained old letters and pieces of evidence that had been forged to turn the tide in his favor countless times in court. I was disgusted by how many lies Papa had managed to stuff into every individual folder.
Because of my reclusive behavior, I wasn’t very close to many people. The very few visitors I had were mostly clients and fellow lawyers who would always call and arrange a meeting time beforehand. As a result, I was quite surprised to hear my doorbell ring one cold winter night.
In my head, I ran through a list of all of my recent guests, trying to think of whose appointment I could have possibly forgotten, but nobody came to mind. Cautiously, I peered out of the small but elegant window on the door. It was snowing, and the precipitation was obscuring my view of the figure’s face. It would be rude for me to leave a person on the doorstep in this kind of weather, so I went to let the nameless figure in.
I opened the door, and light flooded onto the fallen snow, making it sparkle and gleam in the darkness. Without a word, my visitor stepped into the light and lifted his head. My heart skipped a beat.
“Miles?” I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Good evening,” he replied with a shy smile. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”
I caught myself staring and blushing, invited him in. He took a seat on one end of the couch in front of the glowing fireplace, and I took the other end.
“What brings you back to Germany?” I asked curiously. “Is there and important trial brewing?”
He laughed quietly and shook his head. “I decided to take a break from prosecuting.”
“But why? You were successful.”
“I have come to learn that money and records mean very little. It is those who possess other things who are truly successful.”
“Like what?” I asked while pouring some hot water for tea.
“Well, for one thing,” he said slowly, “There is friendship.”
His statement caused me to look up. He merely smiled and continued. “Wright has so many close companions who would willingly give anything to aid him. To be honest, I envy him.”
His last sentence stung a bit, but I did my best to ignore it. “Tea?” I offered him one of the steaming cups.
“Why, thank you,” he said, his smile returning. “You’re too kind, Franziska.”
“You’re always welcome, Miles,” I replied, smiling myself. He sipped his drink and sighed contently.
“My favorite blend, too. How did you know?”
“How could I forget?” I laughed, my face changing shades. Thankfully, the fire’s warm colors hid it. We both held our cups and stared into the fire, listening to the soothing sound of the flames licking the wood.
After a few moments, I turned to face Miles again, only to find that he was already looking at me. Our eyes met unexpectedly, unnerving us both. I merely averted my gaze, but he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Actually, Franziska,” he said softly, “There’s more to it than that.” He noticed my puzzled look and corrected himself. “To friendship, I mean.”
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, more confused than ever.
“True friendship is not something that comes and goes with the tide. No, true friendship is something that lasts a lifetime, something that, in its purest form is known as love. After seeing Phoenix with Ms. Fey and little Pearl, I have come to know this.”
“Watching them interact also awakened old memories that I had long since forgotten. Special memories, memories of our childhood together. And that is the reason I came here tonight. Our friendship never ended; it was merely forced into hibernation.” He added quietly, “Unless, of course, you feel differently.”
I was torn. I truly wanted to forgive him, but he had caused me so much pain and heartache that I found it very difficult to do so.
“You came back,” I asked softly, “To try to regain my friendship?”
He nodded, and I looked him in the eye. “Then why do I feel like I can’t trust you?”
“What?” He was taken aback.
“Just now, you were talking about true friendship. That’s all I’ve ever given you, Miles!” I sat my tea down and rose from my seat. “And in return,” I continued, the intensity in my voice growing, “You have abandoned me when I needed you most. And not just once.”
Frustrated and angry, I began to pace slowly in front of the couch. “Many times, you’ve held my heart in the palm of your hand, and every time, your fingers have slowly closed around it, constricting it until it has broken in two. And every time, I have mended it and foolishly given it back to you. What makes now any different?” I cried desperately. “How do I know you’re not just going to do it again?” I turned my back to him in agitation, trying to hide my tears.
He stood up and grasped my wrist, stopping me in my tracks. His hand slipped down into mine, our fingers intertwining. I slowly turned to face him, his hand seeming to guide my rotation. He lifted his free hand and placed it on the side of my face. His thumb gently trailed across my cheek, wiping a tear.
Removing his hand from mine, he pulled me into a tender embrace. “I’m so sorry, Franzy,” he whispered. “I never meant to hurt you. That night when your father lost his temper, I was afraid that you would be hurt. But I also feared for my own safety, and I fled. I was a selfish coward for leaving you to face him on your own, and it was that same selfish cowardice that made me avoid you afterward; I just couldn’t face you for running away. I could never be sorry enough.”
I felt my heart melting as I wrapped my arms around him, returning his display of affection. “You are forgiven,” I said, a joyful tear sliding down my cheek and onto his cravat. I smiled at him, unashamed of my tears for the first time.
“Thank you, Franzy.” He stroked my hair and tenderly kissed my forehead. My cheeks turned a rosy color, but I no longer cared. Inside, I felt warmer and happier than ever before, and my heart fluttered in my chest like a jubilant bird; nobody had ever made me feel so alive and so loved, not Mama, not Papa and not anybody else.
If that moment had never ended, I would have been content, but as we stood there holding each other, I heard a familiar and welcoming sound.
Miles noticed it, too. “Do you hear that, Franzy?” he asked. “Christmas carolers.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Listen carefully to the song. Can you tell what it is?”
The tune was barely audible over the crackling of the fire. It started off as a lone, melodious voice, but it steadily became louder as more of them joined in. “It couldn’t be,” I said, surprised. “Silent Night?”
He smiled and nodded. “You know,” he said slowly. “We never sis finish that dance.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, remembering that Christmas Eve many years ago.
“Miss Franziska,” he said playfully, making a deep, sweeping bow. “May I have this dance?”
“Only if you lead,” I replied. And with Miles guiding me, we waltzed together, at first to the carolers’ melody and then to our own long after the voices had faded away. My heart wanted more, but my body was too drained to continue; Miles seemed to sense my exhaustion.
“Tired?” he asked.
“A bit,” I lied.
He stopped at the couch and sat down. “There’s no need to hide the truth.” He gently pulled me down next to him and drew me close. “Rest yourself for a while,” he said, stroking my hair. And I did.
I laid on the couch with my head on Miles’ chest and his arms still wrapped around me. I was lulled to sleep by the combined warmth of his body and by the rhythmic beating of his heart.
Papa was right in saying that love was flawed. But people are flawed, too, and it is in his lack of understanding that he himself was wrong. If living a life of perfection means living without love, then I am proud to be inadequate. After all, only a fool would pay such a price for something like perfection.