Chapter I -
"A man dressed entirely in scarlet, with a huge plumed hat perched over a death's head mask. And a very fine simulation of a human skull it was too! The art students who had gathered round turned him into a great success. They congratulated him, asked which designer, which master-craftsman, who clearly had Pluto, King of the Underworld, as a customer, has conceived, made and painted such a magnifcent death's head! The Grim Reaper himself must have posed for it.
The figure with the death's head, the feathered hat and the scarlet costume wore an immense cloak of red velvet which trailed behind him and spread like a fiery royal train over the floor. And on this cloak, were embroidered in letters of gold these words: 'Make way, for I am the Red Death.'"
Then, someone did touch him, for Erik's surprise. "They would feel the furious grasp of Red Death!", he thought, with all his indignation and ire.
But Erik heard a feminine whisper "come!", with a grasp far more potent than his, pulling him far from the crowd, and fast.
It was a Nymph, literally. A woman wearing a Nymph's costume. Erik blushed. He was at the party to crash and shock and a Nymph from hell pulled him by the wrist for no reason.
Besides, now he had lost track of Christine.
"I'm sorry about my rudeness. And I can't speak French. Yet! Messieur."
Her accent was precarious at best.
"And I don't suppose you'll ever learn. What do you want from me? Language lessons?", replied Erik, with flawless English.
"Well, I... You're English?"
"No, I'm French.", he was bored. "I insist, mademoiselle, what do you want?"
"You are rude, after what I did for you. Your English is flawless!"
The party ran with fun and happiness all around them and people stopped paying attention to Erik. But men, more often than not, asked to dance with the Nymph.
"And what, pray, have you done for me?"
She sighed.
"People are too dumb to realize. This is no painting. I love Edgar Allan Poe as much as the next person, but you came unmasked."
Erik, who was already ten deep shades of pale, flushed more scarlet than his outfit. He was more than puzzled as to how a woman could react thus to his appearance. She couldn't be normal.
"Mademoiselle, I don't know what you're—"
"Name is Melissa. Melissa Hart.", she extended her hand.
Which he didn't shake.
"All right, say I did such an imbecile thing. Why did you care?"
"Because I know what is like to be a stranger. I've always wanted to be a prima ballerina. At Opera Populaire. I've always been the best for that. And always, always, always rejected due to the language barrier. But when they finally saw how many fouéttes I can execute..."
"But why not learn French?"
"I didn't have much time. And actually... I'm not a quick study. In certain things."
"Oh. It's fine.", he smiled. "There's no shame in being stupid. Or perhaps, there is."
"Oh, a smile and a joke! From my favorite teacher!"
"Wait... teacher? We haven't talked about that. I'm not taking students. Unless you want Music lessons."
"You know Music?! What else can you do?"
"It's a bad thing to brag..."
"Tell me now! Then tell me your name!"
"I'm a Ventriloquist, Musician, Arquitect, I can speak more languanges than I can count, I built this very Opera."
"Wait... You built the Opera?!"
"Well, not with my very hands, but my project was comissioned."
"Wasn't it Charles Garnier's?"
"It got it under his name."
"Why? You would be a wealthy man now! Unless you are. And married, too! Unless you are."
Erik stared at her, discomfitted. A skinny, tall girl, with long dirty blonde hair, full lips, brown eyes... She couldn't possibly be flirting with him.
"Talk to the Persian and ask him to tell you all about our adventures. His name is Nadir and nobody knows. Don't spread.", he gave a small laugh.
"I didn't ask his name, I asked yours."
Erik was standing, puzzled.
"Why?"
"Why? Because, what should I call you? 'Hey, you!'?"
He laughed, in spite of himself.
"Why are you even talking to me?"
"I think you are... irrévérencieux?"
Erik guffawed holding his flat belly.
"I still don't know your name.", Melissa complained.
He bit his meager lower lip.
"Erik."
She kept staring, seeming expectant.
"Just Erik.", he finished.
"So, 'Just Erik', where do you live? Do you have a family?"
"Why, I...", he flushed, again. "I live here. I don't have a family."
She went out with him arm in arm, for his mortification.
"So, tomorrow, after rehersals, you can go to my dressing room discreetly to teach me French! Three times a week, how about it?"
"No! We hadn't agreed on- -"
"Or", she lifted her index finger, "it could be on your house! I'll bring food!"
"Twice a week and it's a deal!"
"Deal.", she extended her hand again.
He was so hesitant. His hands were calloused, bony and for the lack of nutrition on his system, cold.
And she felt all that, stoically.
Or rather, not so.
"There will be food twice a week and you'd better eat. Or I'll tell everyone you were not wearing a mask."