A/n: (I don't know how it's happened, but somehow when I uploaded this it
uploaded oddly. If you know how to fix this problem, please let me know.
Thank you.)
Hi everyone. Sorry I've been gone so long, I've been busy writing a story for a contest with my friends.
I realize that some of my grammar was not good in Emma's 'talk-a-thon', but I gave /my/ little sister Emma a topic and told her to start talking and that's what she came out with (more or less).
Thank you SO much reviewers! I'm so happy.
I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. 'The Highway Man' is written by Alfred Noyes, but the song is from a sort of...Celtic, I suppose?...singer of whose name I don't remember. If you remember please let me know!
Anyway, I'll just continue with the story.
~
Chapter Three: The Highwayman
Emily pulled the blanket further up. No, it was hopeless. She wasn't going to get any more sleep.
She sighed and got out of bed. She put her old slippers on, put on her robe, and headed downstairs as quietly as she could so she wouldn't wake their guest. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She drunk half of it then set it down and walked over to the piano and sat on the bench. She glanced over at the man on her couch. He seemed to be fast asleep. She looked through the few bits of paper on the piano and took out a few that had been sewn together. She carefully looked over it. She went through each page, and every once in a while changed something here and there.
"What is that?" came a harsh, beautiful whisper from behind her on the couch.
"What? Oh, just a song I've been writing for about...what, five years? I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Emily asked, whispering.
"No, no, not at all."
"Good."
BOOM, BOOM, BAM! Came from upstairs.
"Emma? Are you okay?"
"Yeah! I just tripped!"
Emily rolled her eyes.
"What are you doing up?"
"I can't sleep!"
"Come downstairs then!"
Emma came skipping down the stairs a moment later.
"Hi!" Emma cheerfully said to Erik.
"Hello." He said.
"Em'ly?"
"Yes, Emma?"
"Can you sing?"
Emily blushed and turned back to the piano.
"Not right now, Emma."
"Why not?" Emma complained.
Emily was sure they could see her shaking. /Sing in front of a stranger? I couldn't!/ her mind shouted.
"Because...my throat hurts right now."
"No, it doesn't!"
"How would you know?"
"I just do!"
Emily groaned.
"C'mon! Pleeease?" Emma asked. Emily turned and looked at her. Emma had knelt beside the bench, rested her elbows on it, clasped her hands and was giving her best 'puppy-dog look'.
/Must...resist...must...re...sist./ she thought.
She failed.
"Alright, fine."
Emma jumped up.
"Yay!"
Emily looked over at Erik.
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all, go ahead."
Emma took out the bit of music she had been working on. She took a few breaths to hopefully calm herself, and began.
"}The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding- The highwayman came riding up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlords daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by the moonlight, Watch for me by the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way'
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair I' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that /he/ would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! 'Now keep good watch!' and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say- /Look for me by the moonlight; Watch for me by the moonlight; I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!/
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
/Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!/ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; /Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,/ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! /Tlot-tlot,/ in the frosty silence! /Tlot-tlot,/ in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him- With her death.
He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
/And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highway man comes riding- Riding-riding- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair./{"
Emily looked to see Emma curled up on the old Persian rug, asleep. Emily smiled and picked her sister up, and carried her upstairs to her bed. She pulled the thin blanket over her, kissed her cheek, and went back downstairs.
"That was quite a lovely song. Where did you hear it?" Erik asked.
"I wrote it. My sister used to scare us with her ghost stories-she had tried to convince us this is the inn. She had me rather convinced, actually. That's where I got the idea for the song." Emily said, sitting back down on the bench. /Just ask...what could it hurt? You saved his life, remember, he at least owes you an explanation!/ a voice from within Emily said.
/Well...okay./ Emily thought.
"Um...if you don't mind, how /did/ you get injured in the first place?" Emily asked.
There was a short pause.
"A man told me to empty my pockets. I refused. He drew a knife and-before I had time to react- drove it into me. He was not able, however, to get to my pockets so he turned and ran." Erik told her.
"Oh." Was all Emily could say.
There was a long stretch of silence before,
"It is very late, Mademoiselle, perhaps you should be in bed?"
"I usually get a rather bad case of insomnia."
The man seemed to have been thinking for a moment.
"May I have my cloak?" he asked, glancing at it. Emily remembered taking it off and draping it over a chair before getting him onto the couch. She walked over and got it then turned and handed it to him.
"Thank you." He said then reached into it. He pulled out a small vial of some sort of liquid.
"If you pour half this into the rest of your milk and drink it I assure you that you will be able to sleep."
Emily took the vial and glanced at it, then walked into the kitchen. An alarm was going off in her head while she was pouring half the vials contents into what was left of her milk, but Emily pushed it away.
/I saved his life, he has no reason to want to hurt me...it's obvious, if he wanted to steal things, that I don't have much of value and if he did he would have done so already.../
She drunk the milk-and-liquid mixture and placed the cup in the sink. By the time she handed the vile back her eyelids were already drooping.
"Thank you." She said.
"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."
"G'night." She said, and went upstairs.
As soon as she had curled into a ball under her blanket, she was asleep.
~
Hopefully each chapter will get better. Most of this chapter was The Highwayman (which happens to be my favorite poem). Thank you to all those of you who have had the patience to read this far. Please review, and thank you so much to those of you who have already done so.
Roses,
PhantomessAbigail
Hi everyone. Sorry I've been gone so long, I've been busy writing a story for a contest with my friends.
I realize that some of my grammar was not good in Emma's 'talk-a-thon', but I gave /my/ little sister Emma a topic and told her to start talking and that's what she came out with (more or less).
Thank you SO much reviewers! I'm so happy.
I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. 'The Highway Man' is written by Alfred Noyes, but the song is from a sort of...Celtic, I suppose?...singer of whose name I don't remember. If you remember please let me know!
Anyway, I'll just continue with the story.
~
Chapter Three: The Highwayman
Emily pulled the blanket further up. No, it was hopeless. She wasn't going to get any more sleep.
She sighed and got out of bed. She put her old slippers on, put on her robe, and headed downstairs as quietly as she could so she wouldn't wake their guest. She walked into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of milk. She drunk half of it then set it down and walked over to the piano and sat on the bench. She glanced over at the man on her couch. He seemed to be fast asleep. She looked through the few bits of paper on the piano and took out a few that had been sewn together. She carefully looked over it. She went through each page, and every once in a while changed something here and there.
"What is that?" came a harsh, beautiful whisper from behind her on the couch.
"What? Oh, just a song I've been writing for about...what, five years? I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Emily asked, whispering.
"No, no, not at all."
"Good."
BOOM, BOOM, BAM! Came from upstairs.
"Emma? Are you okay?"
"Yeah! I just tripped!"
Emily rolled her eyes.
"What are you doing up?"
"I can't sleep!"
"Come downstairs then!"
Emma came skipping down the stairs a moment later.
"Hi!" Emma cheerfully said to Erik.
"Hello." He said.
"Em'ly?"
"Yes, Emma?"
"Can you sing?"
Emily blushed and turned back to the piano.
"Not right now, Emma."
"Why not?" Emma complained.
Emily was sure they could see her shaking. /Sing in front of a stranger? I couldn't!/ her mind shouted.
"Because...my throat hurts right now."
"No, it doesn't!"
"How would you know?"
"I just do!"
Emily groaned.
"C'mon! Pleeease?" Emma asked. Emily turned and looked at her. Emma had knelt beside the bench, rested her elbows on it, clasped her hands and was giving her best 'puppy-dog look'.
/Must...resist...must...re...sist./ she thought.
She failed.
"Alright, fine."
Emma jumped up.
"Yay!"
Emily looked over at Erik.
"Do you mind?"
"Not at all, go ahead."
Emma took out the bit of music she had been working on. She took a few breaths to hopefully calm herself, and began.
"}The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding- Riding-riding- The highwayman came riding up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jeweled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlords daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter, The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
'One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by the moonlight, Watch for me by the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way'
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair I' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching- Marching-marching King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that /he/ would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! 'Now keep good watch!' and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say- /Look for me by the moonlight; Watch for me by the moonlight; I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!/
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.
/Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!/ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; /Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,/ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! /Tlot-tlot,/ in the frosty silence! /Tlot-tlot,/ in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him- With her death.
He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
/And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highway man comes riding- Riding-riding- A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair./{"
Emily looked to see Emma curled up on the old Persian rug, asleep. Emily smiled and picked her sister up, and carried her upstairs to her bed. She pulled the thin blanket over her, kissed her cheek, and went back downstairs.
"That was quite a lovely song. Where did you hear it?" Erik asked.
"I wrote it. My sister used to scare us with her ghost stories-she had tried to convince us this is the inn. She had me rather convinced, actually. That's where I got the idea for the song." Emily said, sitting back down on the bench. /Just ask...what could it hurt? You saved his life, remember, he at least owes you an explanation!/ a voice from within Emily said.
/Well...okay./ Emily thought.
"Um...if you don't mind, how /did/ you get injured in the first place?" Emily asked.
There was a short pause.
"A man told me to empty my pockets. I refused. He drew a knife and-before I had time to react- drove it into me. He was not able, however, to get to my pockets so he turned and ran." Erik told her.
"Oh." Was all Emily could say.
There was a long stretch of silence before,
"It is very late, Mademoiselle, perhaps you should be in bed?"
"I usually get a rather bad case of insomnia."
The man seemed to have been thinking for a moment.
"May I have my cloak?" he asked, glancing at it. Emily remembered taking it off and draping it over a chair before getting him onto the couch. She walked over and got it then turned and handed it to him.
"Thank you." He said then reached into it. He pulled out a small vial of some sort of liquid.
"If you pour half this into the rest of your milk and drink it I assure you that you will be able to sleep."
Emily took the vial and glanced at it, then walked into the kitchen. An alarm was going off in her head while she was pouring half the vials contents into what was left of her milk, but Emily pushed it away.
/I saved his life, he has no reason to want to hurt me...it's obvious, if he wanted to steal things, that I don't have much of value and if he did he would have done so already.../
She drunk the milk-and-liquid mixture and placed the cup in the sink. By the time she handed the vile back her eyelids were already drooping.
"Thank you." She said.
"Goodnight, Mademoiselle."
"G'night." She said, and went upstairs.
As soon as she had curled into a ball under her blanket, she was asleep.
~
Hopefully each chapter will get better. Most of this chapter was The Highwayman (which happens to be my favorite poem). Thank you to all those of you who have had the patience to read this far. Please review, and thank you so much to those of you who have already done so.
Roses,
PhantomessAbigail