Disclaimer: If it's familar, it belongs to someone else. I own no part of either POTO or Kay's Phantom.
A/N: Thanks to my beta, Skoteinos Metafiezomai, for all her help (check out Desert Roses). Anything good is due to her comments and suggestions, while all errors, mistakes, or just plain poor writing are my own.
He listened intently as his fingers moved over the black and white keys on the piano, guiding Christine through her scales. Satisfied, let them rest; both her upper and lower registers sounded normal, as did her tone and pitch. He briefly considered offering up a prayer, but really saw no reason to assume some mythical sky-fairy had anything to with Christine's recovery. No, that was the result of his skill and a rare turn of luck. Christine, on the other hand, was almost certain to be praying now. Her weight shifted from small one foot to the other, her nervousness increasing as he glared out her, deliberately drawing out the silence to increase her unease. Good, let her worry, he thought. Perhaps she will learn to be more careful. Only when she unconsciously lifted a hand to her mouth to bite her nails did he allow himself to give her a slight nod, and then only because he could not abide that particular habit of hers. Such behavior was suited for a child in the nursery, not a diva.
Relieved, Christine sighed, her shoulders slumping underneath the blue wool of her dress. Thank you, she prayed. Thank you. She promised herself she would say an extra decade of the Rosary tonight, even though she had refused to consider that her voice might be damaged—after all, she'd only sung over a little cold. But she'd grown frightened as Erik coldly guided her through the scales, once, twice, three times. His attentive ear would catch even the slightest change, even those that would pass unnoticed by anyone else. He knows my voice better than anyone, better, perhaps, than even me, she thought. She shuddered, imagining his anger if she had not passed his inspection.
"Perhaps now you will think twice before risking your instrument to please a certain young vicomte, even if he does bring you flowers in invitations to supper," he snarled, rising from the piano. He knew she was enamored of the boy—Erik refused to think of that pup as a man—but he hadn't thought she would endanger her voice just to impress him.
Christine flinched at the malice in his tone, dropping her eyes to study the intricate pattern of the Persian carpet beneath her feet. Some of us do not have the luxury of doing as we please, she thought. Erik would never understand that she'd sung not for Raoul but for the managers; with Carlotta's animosity towards her since the gala, she could not anger them and hope to stay employed. As much as she treasured her "instrument" as he called it, she liked having a roof over her head and food on her table. She wanted to defend herself but held her tongue instead, opting to cross her arms over her chest, giving him a look he could only describe as obstinate.
Erik noticed change her expression with concern, regretting his outburst. She'd given him many mulish looks during her convalescence, and they made him uneasy. At first, he had believed her sour disposition was the result of her illness. Suddenly he wasn't so sure. Now that she was well again, she should be her usual docile self, asking for his forgiveness, assuring him she would not repeat her mistakes. That was the Christine he knew. The obstinate girl before him unsettled him—not only the change in her inexplicable, it annoying. I would not have to be so harsh to her if it were not for that boy, he fumed. Erik only wanted to please her--could she not she that? Things could be so much better between then if only she would listen to him and rid herself of that fop she considered a suitor. He would no longer have to reprimand her like a wayward child, and they could go return to their usual pastimes of music and reading. I give you the music. He gives you flowers and pretty compliments. Granted the boy could show her a pretty face each day, but he, Erik, could teach her to win the hearts of the world. What was a face compared to that?
"Perhaps you would care for a lesson this evening?" he asked, hoping to lighten her mood and worm his way back into her good graces.
"Yes, please, if you think it wise…" Christine frowned at the sudden change in Erik's manner, a tiny line appearing between her dark brows. He can go from coldness to warmth so quickly. Grudgingly, she unfolded her arms and willed the exasperation from her face. If he is willing to be pleasant, I should do the same. And Erik's company was very enjoyable when he decided to make it so.
"Nothing too strenuous, I think." He hesitated, busying himself with a pile of scores he'd arranged only that morning. "I…I have a surprise for you."
Christine eyed him, tilting her head slightly. Erik seemed shy, almost deferent, not his normal authoritative self at all.
"What is it?"
"Change into a warmer gown and fetch your cloak and gloves. I have some business to attend to," he waved his hand, "just a small matter. Be ready when I return."
"I will be". He watched as she went to her room, smiling in anticipation, and then settled himself at his desk.
My good Messieurs,
I am pleased to inform you Mlle. Daaè has made a complete recovery. Expect her at tomorrow's rehearsals prepared for the role of Margaruite. The audience will no doubt be pleased she is once again replacing La Carlotta. I do trust you will heed my wishes. It would be a terrible misfortune if an accident were to befall our managers during such an important production.
I also find it necessary to remind you my salary is due on the 10th of each month, as you have been remiss of late. One must be scrupulous in their business dealings; word quickly spreads when gentlemen fail to meet their fiscal obligations.
Your obedient servant,
O.G.
Satisfied, Erik sealed the letter with his usual black seal and quickly donned his cloak and his fedora. He swiftly made his way to Box 5, and dropped it in the armchair, where Madame Giry would find in the morning. As he made his way back through the passageways, he could hear the buzz of voices as the denizens of the Opera prepared for that night's performance. He listened with only half an ear, not wanting to keep Christine waiting any longer than necessary.
"She's no better than she should be, if you catch my meaning," a voice piped from the large dressing room shared by the younger ballet rats.
Erik smirked under his mask. Many of the girls at the Opera fit that description.
"I mean, just disappearing without a word the way she does, then coming back like nothing's happened," the voice continued. "I swear her head's as big a Carlotta's. And where does she go, anyway?"
Erik froze. They could only be talking about…
"She seems nice enough, Lucille--" a voice began.
"I'd be nice too if I had the Vicomte de Chagny for my lover," someone snickered.
Christine. His Christine. Had the Vicomte suggested he was her lover? Did everyone know about this? You fool of course they know. You knew and you live five stories below the ground, idiot. You think a gaggle of vapid girls won't notice a titled young man in their midst? Still, such insolence could not be ignored.
"Marie! You'd best not let Madame hear you. And I heard she's been chosen by the Opera Ghost, and that's where she disappears to. He just pops ups and takes her," fingers snapped, "just like that."
"She can't be with the Vicomte," someone else interjected. "Last night he was here looking for her. When she didn't sing, he left at intermission. Carlotta was frightfully angry about it."
"Well, wherever she is, I feel sorry for her," someone sighed. "I mean, she has no friends at all really, except maybe Meg Giry. And Meg says she never talked to her that much."
"Always off in her own little world, where she's better than everyone else."
"Girls!" A cane rapped sharply on the door. "It is time."
Yes, he thought, it is. An idea struck him and he glanced at his pocketwatch. Surely Christine wouldn't mind waiting just a few minutes longer…
As he poled himself across the lake, Erik could not help but feel extremely satisfied at the surprise he'd left in the girls' dressing room. It was simple, effective, and had been artfully arranged in a matter of minutes. Simply put, it was an ideal reminder of exactly who was in charge of this opera house. The smarter of the little rats would heed his warning and guard their tongues in the future. The less intelligent ones…well, he made no promises.
When he returned to the house, Christine was waiting for him in the parlor. He noted her cloak with approval. She'd needed a heavier one and dark blue velvet he'd selected complimented her pale skin. Perhaps I should have a burgundy made as well, he mused. Usually, Christine made a point of not taking any of the clothing he'd provided when she returned above—he'd never understood her reasoning, but perhaps he could persuade her to make an exception for the cloak.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting. My business took slightly longer than expected. Are you ready?"
She rose, nodding. "Erik, is everything all right?"
"Certainly. Do not trouble yourself. After you, my dear," he said, ushering her out the door, and leading her down the passageway towards the Rue Scribe entrance.
"Won't you tell me where we are going?"
Erik shook his head "Patience, my dear…a virtue you would do well to cultivate." He heard Christine huff behind him at the implied reprimand. "Ah—here we are." He swung open the gate and they emerged to find a waiting carriage.
Christine turned to him, her brown eyes wide under her hood. "How…how did you do this?"
"I am not a total recluse, my dear," he chuckled, opening the door for her. "I assure you my travel arrangements are as mundane as any others…or they have been, since I've put the dragon out to pasture."
Her eyes widened. "Dragon? You had a dragon?"
Erik settled in opposite her. "Move on," he directed. "Yes, of course," he said carelessly, as if everyone Paris had a dragon. "Poor old fellow simply wasn't up to the job anymore. Rheumatism, you know…quite hard on the wings…" His took on that hypnotic quality, weaving a spell around them in chilly interior.
Christine closed her eyes and waited for him to draw her into a world where fantastical creatures existed in flesh and bone simply because his voice called them into being. I could follow that voice to the ends of the earth, she thought. Why is that? Her eyes popped open as another thought struck her. What if one day he chose not bring me back? For the first time, a Christine tested her will against the power of Erik's voice, holding his gaze as he summoned her into the mysterious world he was creating. Within moments he fell silent and turned away, withdrawing into himself.
She looked down at her hands as they nervously fiddled with the bows on her gloves. She ought to be relieved she was able to resist the lure of his siren's voice, but looking back up at the blank expanse of his mask, she could only feel regret. The night air seemed to grow colder and she shivered despite her warm lap robe. She wanted to say something, reassure him somehow and restore the ease between them, but all of her words seemed inadequate.
Erik stared numbly at the passing blocks. She refused me, he thought. Strange, he'd always thought Nadir would be the first to resist his voice. Christine had never before been strong enough to defy him; she was always looking for some sort of guidance. She was changing somehow, he was certain of it. I do not know what to do with her. Panic rose in him. How will I keep her now? My voice was the only thing that brought her to me. Without it, I am nothing to her. She will leave me and never come back…He regretted bringing her out at all, and considered ordering the driver to turn back.
They rode in the uncomfortable silence until they reached the park on Bois de Boulogne, now locked in the depths of winter. The snow reflected the light of the full moon, illuminating the winding paths that had been cleared for the enjoyment of the park's daytime visitors with surprising brightness.
Christine stepped down from the carriage, smiling, and drew a deep breath. Erik joined her, turning briefly to speak to the driver. With a graceful motion of his hand, he indicated they might walk.
They took a path leading down towards the lake. "I thought you might enjoy some fresh air," he said, awkwardly. Oh to walk with her like this in the daylight!
"Thank you." He nodded, acknowledging the sincerity in her voice. They continued in companionable quiet, their breath preceding them in little pale clouds.
Strange, she thought. Our best times come with both of us stop trying so hard. Like when they sang, or read together. Or when they simply walked, the layers of snow muffling the sound of their footsteps.
"I love that smell," Christine said softly.
"What smell?"
"The smell of cold, of…," she breathed deeply, "snow."
"I was not aware one could smell snow," he responded dryly.
"Oh but you can—like you can smell water." Her small face was serious. "You don't believe me?"
"I have little experience of such things." His voice was bitter, and Christine regretted speaking at all. Erik understood many things beyond the grasp of most, but could not claim knowledge that most people took for granted. You would think he never played outside as a child. Then she remembered he had not.
Impulsively, she stooped down and scooped up a bit of snow, shaping it into a small ball. Do I dare? Erik seemed lost in his own thoughts, oblivious to her. She let him draw two, then three paces ahead of her, before throwing the snowball. It landed perfectly between his shoulder blades.
Christine crowed with triumph, but faster than she thought possible, he whirled to face her, reaching for something under his cape as it fanned out around him. She immediately sobered, frightened.
"Erik, I'm sorry, I only meant to…" Stupid girl! she chided.
He looked down at the scatter of snow at his feet, then back at her. His eyes glowed in the blankness of his face, his stillness adding to his air of malevolence. She had thought him frightening when he raged at her the night she unmasked him, but she found his stillness far more terrifying: at least when he shouted she had some idea as to what he was thinking.
"It just that it's been so long since I've played in the snow," she babbled. No move was made towards her, but she found herself backing up anyway. "Please don't be angry—I didn't mean any harm. Forgive me. I forgot myself. I won't do it again…"
"You were…playing?" He sounded puzzled. "With me?" No one's ever done such a thing before…
"It was silly. Forgive me, please." Christine watched nervously as Erik bent, and with great care scooped up the snow she'd thrown at him. He studied it a moment as it lay in his gloved hand, then his fingers began to curl around it.
Oh no…She picked up her skirts and turned to run, but she was too slow; Erik's snowball tagged her back. She grinned at him over her shoulder.
"So is it to be war?"
"Indeed, mademoiselle, it is." He strode towards her.
Christine ran across the lawn to a small stand of trees, taking shelter behind one. He was faster than her; she could not hope to outrun him, but perhaps she could keep him at bay while she fashioned her arsenal. She peeped around her tree.
"Eek!" She pulled back as a cold ball passed inches from her face. "You missed."
"A minor error. I assure you it won't happen again." He stood out in the open, each fist full of snow. He must feel very sure of himself, she thought.
Christine gathered her balls into a fold of her cloak, and dashed to another tree. As she ran, she hurled ball after ball, pelting Erik relentlessly. His two firings found their mark, but Christine had more firepower and a surprisingly good aim. She ducked out of sight and knelt down, preparing herself for another round. She waited for him to call out a sarcastic comment, but he was silent. She cautiously looked out.
He was gone. Christine cocked her head, listening for the slight crunch of boots on snow. As she expected, all was quiet. She straightened and looked around, knowing she would not be able to take him by surprise again.
What was that? There was a faint melody coming from somewhere to her left. He was trying to trick her, draw her out. Christine smiled.
"No more," she panted, throwing up her hands. "I surrender." Erik rejoined her on the path as she struggled to get her breath back. She noted enviously he seemed as collected as ever. "But then you're not wearing a corset," she grumbled.
"Pardon me?"
"Oh," she shook her head. "It was nothing."
Erik nodded, still surprised she'd taken the initiative to begin a game with him, as if he were a normal man. As if I was her friend. She'd enjoyed this outing more than he had hoped. They walked in silence, Christine studying the snow-covered landscaped while Erik gazed at her from under the shelter of his hat. Her cheeks were still red and her hair had begun to straggle around her face.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Christine asked softly. "The lakes, the trees…"
He started, having been thinking the same about her. "What you see is a sham. This is not real nature—she would never be so orderly. The entire park wears a mask, trying to make itself something it is not."
Christine paused, looking back towards the lake. "'Give a man a mask and he'll tell you the truth,'" she quoted softly. Why did I say that? She kept her eyes focused on the path as they continued walking, aware of Erik's studious gaze.
"So you are not opposed to illusion, then? You would not consider it," he paused, "the same as deception?" he whispered.
They reached the carriage and Erik pulled open the door. With a slowness that would indicate reluctance in anyone else, he offered her a black-gloved hand. Golden eyes met brown. As she looked into his eyes, Christine understood intuitively if she took the hand he offered, their relationship would be irrevocably changed. She would not be a child, a pupil, to him any longer. She would be what? A woman?
Looking down again at his hand, she remembered the strength she'd seen when he played, worked in his laboratory, poled the gondola. She also remembered how his hands moved with such grace and gentleness over Ayesha's back that she could not bear to watch, and how it had felt when he lightly stroked her hair one evening while he believed she slept.
This is what he wants, a simple touch…am I ready to give this to him…do I want to give this to him? She remembered her father's ready caressed and kisses. To live without touch…She had done so for six months and found the isolation and loneliness beyond bearing. Erik had lived that way for a lifetime.
Almost of its own accord, her hand began to rise.
"Lovely lady!" a voice cried. "Dear lady of the night, won't you join us instead? We've got a jilted young man in need of your womanly comforts."
Erik and Christine sprang apart as another carriage rapidly approached.
"Not so loud, Edouard," a voice hissed. Christine frowned, her stomach flipping in such a manner she was sure it must rival the feats of the acrobats she'd heard about. I know that voice…
"Oh, come on, it's not like we'll scare her away. Don't be so nervous. So your slutty little cocktease dropped you. What you need is a good lay with an honest whore, and we've just found one. Come on darling, we're far better company. Driver, pull up right over there."
"Get in," Erik hissed.
Christine clamored inside, ripping her skirt as it caught in the step. Erik followed, slammed the door behind them.
"Oh, come on, you little slut," the voice called again. "There's more than enough of us to go around and our purses are full."
"Drive." Christine cringed in the corner. She'd never heard Erik sound so furious, not even on that terrible night she'd removed his mask. The carriage started off with a lurch. Christine was thrown forward, and a movement from the coach opposite caught her eye. A man's body was flung out, landing on the stones with a muffled thump. As he got to his knees, he lifted his head, looking directly at Christine.
"Go get her," the voice called.
Raoul. Christine fell back, the earlier joy of the evening forgotten.
"Christine!" He'd seen her. "Christine, wait!"
Christine look up into Erik's golden eyes, shining with malice. "Your vicomte has deplorable taste in friends," he said coldly. And pastimes, he silently added. He didn't trust himself to speak further, longing to yank the whelp off the cobblestones and beat him to a sniveling, bloody mess. Why the boy would be out whoring while he had Christine's heart…He does not deserve her, Erik raged to himself. I would never…
Christine looked down at her lap as Raoul's cries faded. "He's not my vicomte," she whispered.
Erik's inelegant snort told her he was unconvinced by her statement. She looking again at him, noticing the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. Anger rose from him the way steam rose from boiling water. He was sinking into one of his foul moods, and she did not know how to stop it.
Do you think I'm not angry as well? she thought, returning her gaze to the seat. That was my fiancée out looking for a…who let his friends call me a…the blood rushed to her cheeks. Of course, Erik did not know that. I've done everything possible to keep that so-called engagement hidden from him. She refused to let herself wonder why she was more concerned about Erik right now than the betrothed she'd left laying in the street, obliviously the worse for drink.
They finished the ride back the Rue Scribe gate in silence, Erik working his fists in agitation while Christine looked out the window, at the seat, anywhere but at him, the intimate connection they'd almost made earlier lost. The quiet grew ominous as Erik stalked down the passage and angrily untied the boat. Once they reached the house, Christine carefully took off her cloak and gloves, watching nervously as Erik stalked before the fire.
Taking her usual place beside the piano, she waited expectantly, hoping he would forget his anger once he became absorbed in her lesson. He noticed her and the corners of his mouth turned down as he frowned under his mask. "Why are you—oh, your lesson." He shook his head and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. "Forgive me, I had forgotten."
Christine smiled shyly. Removing his cape and carelessly tossing it and his hat into the armchair, he commanded "You select the piece; you deserve a reward for your patience the past few days."
"The duet from Rigoletto, then?" It would let Erik vent some of his rage…
Erik looked at her in askance. "If you like." He took his place at the piano, and the pair stormed through the duet, ending with a flourish. As the last note faded, his fingers fell from the keys and his shoulders hunched. There was a defeated character to the lines around his mouth, and for the first time, Christine found it easy to believe that he was, as he had claimed, old enough to be her father.
"You've done very well, Christine." He looked up at her. "There's little more I can teach you. You would grace any stage in the world now. How proud I am of you…" This is what I wanted, isn't it? he thought. Why isn't it enough?
Christine bowed her head to hide her tears; it was easier to endure his criticism than his praise.
She'll leave me now, he thought, looking down again at his hands. I have nothing else to give her.
Each stayed quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Christine broke the silence. "Would you sing for me?"
"Why?" His tone was quiet, but his eyes held an expression she couldn't fathom.
Because I cannot bear your silence. Because I cannot bear your pain. "Please?" was all she said.
Reluctantly, he began to play one of his Romany melodies, moving one to a Swedish folk song she'd shared with him months ago.
As he finished, an idea struck him. "Would you like to try something from Aida? The final scene, I think." The words sprang from his lips and he wished he could take them back.
No, I can't ask her to do that.
Why not? his insidious inner voice asked smoothly. It isn't as if she'll be coming back now anyway—not now that she has what she wants. Remember in the carriage? You're losing her anyway.
"I've always thought that scene should be done in a wedding dress," he continued. "Something about a young lover choosing to die rather than live without her beloved…"
When would he learn that inner voice always lead to trouble?
"It's such a beautiful story," Christine murmered. "But a wedding dress?"
"There's one in your wardrobe with the other costumes. Of course," he shrugged nonchalantly, "I understand if you'd rather not. After all, I'm not sure you're emotionally ready for such a part. It does call for a certain maturity." He avoided her eyes. "Perhaps it would be best if you simply went to bed. You must be tired." He had not intended to push her, but his baiting words slipped out, and he knew she would do as he asked now.
You can refuse, Christine.
Shouldn't you get to see her in that dress just once? The little voice argued. There's really no harm in it, and you went to such trouble to have it made.
"I'm ready," she argued, annoyed that Erik insulted her when he was the one who suggested she try the role in the first place. "Of course I'm ready, she said stubbornly."
"If you say so." He said, shrugging again. "It makes little difference to me."
That's not true, she thought. But she held her tongue, as she always did, and went to change.
There was something unsettling about Erik's suggested costume, but she wasn't sure exactly what; it nagged at her like a dream she couldn't quite remember. With the mask covering so much of his face, Christine had learned to read the subtle clues of his body to gauge his feelings. The tense set of his lips and shoulders told her the dress wasn't merely a prop. For some reason, it mattered it him that she wear it. She opened her wardrobe and pushed her dresses to the side.
There it is. The dress had been wedged into the corner of her wardrobe, behind the other costumes almost as if she wasn't meant to see it. The tiny beads on the bodice glittered as she pulled it out and held it up. It was a beautiful gown (for seemed sacrareligious to refer to such a creation as merely a dress), designed to make the one who wore it feel like a beloved princess, the way every bride should feel on her wedding day.
No, not a princess…this gown was meant for a grown woman…a queen.
So it was for you then, the dress and the ring…Surely God in his wisdom has chosen you as he once chose Our Lady…
Then words of the strange little man she'd met at the Rue Scribe gate came back to her. Her knees buckled, and she sank down onto the stool before her dressing table. She could almost believe the dress was a costume. An expensive well-made costume.
Why would he have something like this to use just as a prop? And why a ring? Granted, he wanted the best in all things, and the clothes he provided her were well-tailored and fine like his own. But this…
It is too much…Christine's fingers shook as she undid her buttons and slid the dress over her head, the white satin cool against her skin. She managed to fasten the gown and turned to look at her reflection.
She was beautiful, her long hair looking almost black against the pale fabric. The gown clung to her slight figure, accentuating each curve. The girl who had romped in the snow only an hour ago was gone, replaced by an elegant stranger Christine wasn't sure she was ready to meet.
A small finger of apprehension teased her. Was it truly wise to appear before him in this gown? She could simply take it off and tell Erik she was tired. That would be the easiest course. But he has chosen me, she thought, staring at her reflection with wide eyes. Do I dare refuse? The gown seemed a way of voicing a question he was too shy to ask outright.
Dear God, what do I do? Frantically, Christine's mind searched for options. She could simply stay in her room and avoid the matter entirely. Or she could go out and finish her lesson. But would that mean to him, once he saw her wearing the wedding dress he'd selected for her? And in the park he'd had offered her his hand; she had almost accepted it, would have accepted it, if they had not been interrupted. Had there been a symbolism there she had missed?
Perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe the dress is just a prop, as he said, and this is all my overactive imagination. Surely my ego is not so large I must assume he wants to marry me.
I can do this, she reassured herself, examining her reflection. Just like in the carriage tonight. She breathed deeply, in, then out, the way he'd taught he to steady her nerves. The image in the mirror looked confident enough, after all. That woman looked like a match for Erik's strength.
That woman also had another's man ring dangling from her neck. She hurriedly undid the clasp of her necklace, dropping it the drawer of her dressing table. Somehow, it didn't seem right to wear it now, and she didn't particularly want to anyway after the events in the Bois.
She crossed herself once, then opened the door and stepped into the parlor. Erik was standing beside the piano, his back to her, studying one of several sheet of music he held in his hands.
"Erik?"
He turned. Oh dear God, this was a mistake, he thought, dropping the score he held. Still, he couldn't take his eyes from her. He knew she would be beautiful, but he had not known the dress would leave him on fire for the wedding night, when she would slip that gown from her shoulders and offer her pliant body to her husband arms…
And they said a girl's imagination took her to the altar and no further.
Christine came forward and bent to retrieve the papers.
"Leave it!" He rasped, his voice devoid of its usual melody. "From the recitative " 'My heart…' "
"But aren't you--" she gestured to the piano.
"Do not argue!"
She glared at him. This was not fair; he should at least give her a guiding chord.
He advanced on her. "Now!"
"My heart foreseeing your condemnation, into this tomb…" she sang.
"Enough," he gasped, wrapping his arms around his thin body. "No more. Go to your room!"
"What? Why? Arent' you--"
"Go, you…damn it, go now Christine," he panted, rocking himself back and forth. "Go now and bolt your door."
She hesitated, shocked at hearing him curse.
"But--"
"NOW!" The gleam in his eyes terrified her. She picked up her skirts and fled.