AN: I'm giggling in appreciation of the reviews! Thanks so much (and if I get any of your names wrong, I sincerely apologise): Erik's Blue Rose, PhantomFan01, Phan3145, RedDeathLvr, NotAGhost3, Erik's guest, Penelope Zoses I'm kind of surprised that I wrote this as quickly as I did, and I owe my undying gratitude to my dear friend, GG, for proofreading this for me.
The following morning, Erik informed me that, while I'd been asleep, he'd gone out to determine if anyone matching my description had been reported missing.
There hadn't been.
That didn't trouble me as much as I'd expected it to. I suppose some part of me knew I had no family to worry after me.
He handed me a brioche; it was filled with chocolate. Yummy.
"What is your name? Have you, at least, recalled that?"
I shook my head, sad to disappoint him, and sighed. The pastry he'd gotten me helped take the edge of my melancholy state.
"There was a man," I blurted in more of a gasp than a statement.
"A man? Here? Tell me! Where is he?" he demanded.
His anger didn't frighten me. "No. Not here. B-before."
He relaxed instantly.
'What a delightfully strange man he is,' I thought to myself.
A week later, Erik had still not heard of anyone that might have been looking for me.
He was so kind to have taken me in. As long as I stayed out of his way and didn't ask him personal questions, I did not anger him. My presence did not bother him.
Much.
More than half of that week, I spent alone in my room. I could have left, had I not still been recuperating. And where would I have gone? I had nothing but the clothing I'd been wearing when Erik had found me. He had given me a few things to wear, but leaving - disappearing - after all his kindness to me -
I simply could not do that.
I kept myself occupied during the long hours of my voluntary solitude by singing. Nothing in particular, just whatever words popped into my head.
It was during my sixth night in Erik's home that he heard me.
He knocked tentatively on my door; I opened it slowly.
"Your voice . . ." he whimpered.
"Was I being too loud? I'm sorry. I'll try to be more quiet."
"No! It is I who should . . ." His voice trailed off. "My . . . darkness . . . It overwhelms me at times. Please," he held out a hand. "Come with me. I wish to show you my music room."
He played sublimely - the violin, the organ, the nyckelharpa, some contraption of his own design that produced amazing sounds - and I was moved to tears.
Erik handed me a sheet of music and instructed me to sing. I obeyed, but I hit a sour note that made him wince. For some reason, he continued his ministrations of the organ's keys. He wouldn't let me stop or even sit.
Three breathtaking hours later, he was satisfied with how I sang one particular composition.
"That was . . . good."
High praise, indeed. "Thank you," I replied. My mouth was terribly dry.
Apparently, he was aware of that and retrieved a decanter from a rather remarkable globe in the corner. He poured me a glass of dark liquid.
"Swirl it around in your mouth before you swallow."
I nodded. Wine. Red wine. A hint of oak and . . .
"Cherries," he affirmed. "I steep them for a month. They lend a nice undercurrent of flavour, don't you think?"
"Very nice," I concurred. "Perhaps we could have a bit of supper now?"
"Prepare anything you like. I . . . do not have much of an appetite at the moment."
This wasn't the first time he'd said that to me. It meant that he would join me later and attempt a few bites of whatever I'd made.
Our candle-lit chats across the table told me more about him than I might have read were his life laid out in a book.
But what an interesting tale that would be . . .
Later, in his sitting room, he handed me a folder bound with ribbons.
"I wrote this for you," he mumbled. "Chantal."
I didn't know what to say besides "Thank you."
He put another log on the fire before retreating (or sulking) to his bedroom.
Very interesting, indeed.