Of Pokes and Cloaks (And Fiddles and Coughs)
The first thing Erik was aware of was of being poked. Then of a girl's voice, soft and punctuated with a nasty cough.
"Stop it Simon! It's not polite!" Erik opened one golden eye to see a sixteen-year-old boy standing over him, a look the former Opera Ghost had thought reserved for patrons of an opera had when seeing the chorus girls on the boy's face. Next to him was a petite dark haired girl, glaring fiercely at the boy.
"Quiet, you," said the boy angrily, continuing to poke the masked man. Erik sighed and grabbed the stick, startling both of the children.
"Monsieur, Mademoiselle, why are you here?" He asked, wondering where his Punjab lasso had gotten to. The girl looked at him strangely.
"We live here. You're at Rosefern, a prettily named town with decidedly disgusting people living here." At this, the girl's gray-green eyes looked pointedly at Simon. "I'm Cricket. That idiot is Simon." She stage whispered, "Ignore him, he's not very smart." The boy squawked at this. "If you don't shut up I'll throw something very sharp and pointy at you."
"What?" The boy challenged. Cricket got a wicked gleam in her eye.
" One of Mariella's pillows." The boy paled at the girls statement.
"You wouldn't! That's not fair!" Simon said petulantly. Erik smirked slightly.
"Do you have a smiggle?" The brunette asked seriously, leaving her "patient" to wonder at what exactly a smiggle was.
"What the heck's a smiggle?" Simon unknowingly echoed the man on the bed's thoughts.
"Well, then, life ain't fair, 'cause you don't have a smiggle. Thank you muchly for trying though!" The girl through something pink and fluffy at the boy, causing him to squawk again, and run out.
"Thank you for getting rid of that odious brat, Mademoiselle Cricket." Erik said, struggling to get up. Why did he feel so awful?
"It wasn't a problem, Mister. I can't stand him anyway. Are you feeling better? Frankly, I think it's ding-bat crazy to go out like you were in December, of all times. You collapsed! Mother Dearest called the doctor, and he said you had pneumonia. You should stay in bed!" The girl rattled off swiftly in one breath, making the one time Angel of Music wonder if he could use her as an example of breath control. The girl walked over to the corner of what he guessed was her room, rummaging around a pile of clothing, a few colorful words escaping when she apparently pricked her fingers. With a cheerful "Aha!" she pulled out his black cloak.
"May I have my cloak, Mademoiselle Cricket?" Erik asked, coughing slightly. Cricket smiled and walked over, holding out his cloak. He took it from her scratched up hands, and examined it. Apparently the girl had roughly sewn a pocket on the lining, something he had to admit he would find useful. He could put a spare mask inside… his mask! He threw his hand up to his face, earning a smirk from his hostess. Or what appeared to be his hostess.
"Here's your mask. Just so you know, I borrowed some stage make-up from a friend in the theater in the next town. It mostly hides …" The girl gestured at her face.
"Thank you again." He studied the girl closely. She was pale, with her hair tied back, and a peering gaze that led him to believe she was nearsighted. Her hair was an odd shade of auburnish brown in the lighting, and her too-long dress was ripped at the hem.
"No problem. Didn't want Simon to tell everyone and their cousin about it. Figured you didn't want the trouble." Cricket coughed again harshly, nearly doubled up. Erik tried to get up, not wanting his hostess to die on him. That would lead to unpleasant questions. "Don't- get-up!" she hissed between coughs.
"Are you ill, Mademoiselle?" He asked quietly. Cricket nodded.
"I cough a lot sometimes. I'm fine, really." He raised an eyebrow.
"If you're sure…"
"Yes, I'm sure." She snapped, surprising him with her shifting mood. "Sorry, I get a little defensive. A lot of people see the need to 'mother hen' me."
"I understand the need to be defensive, though no one has truly 'mother henned' me," he said wryly. The girl gave him a crooked grin.
"Well, as someone –I forget who- once said "A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it'll annoy enough people to make it worth the effort." You have to admit that's true."
He laughed slightly at that. "Yes, it is." Suddenly Cricket jumped up.
"I almost forgot your present!"
"My… present?" He asked quietly.
"It's Christmas, silly! You'll like it!" She gave him a smirk and dashed out, leaving him to wonder what this present was.
"I've got both of 'em!" Cricket smiled, holding up his violin case and a brown bottle. "Music and medicine, a perfect combination." Putting the violin case down, she shakily poured a spoonful of something out of the bottle, popping it in his mouth and making him nearly gag. Where was his lasso?
"You really needed to tune that fiddle of yours," she chattered at him, picking the worn case up and depositing it on the sickbed. "So I asked a neighbor who plays to help me fix it up. New rosin and bowstrings, and he tuned it for you." He smiled at her.
"Thank you, child." She raised an eyebrow.
'Cricket. I go by Cricket, thank you very much," she announced in a mock-grand voice. Maybe recuperating here wouldn't be so bad.
Provided no one poked him again. Then he would not be happy.