Chapter 5

Erik was well-acquainted with all manner of human vice. A creature born from as wretched of circumstances as he and raised in the face of black hate, it was only natural. Murder, thievery, blasphemy, and addiction . . . and those were only the ones he'd committed himself. Staggering off that wretched boat a decade ago, half-dead both from the khanum's poison and morphine withdrawal, Erik had sought an easy victim with enough coin to find a room for the night. Instead, he'd found Giovanni. The man had answered a drawn knife with laconic indifference and Erik's vitriolic insults with ironic tolerance.

But as acquainted with sin as Erik was, lust was a new endeavor. In fact, he had thought himself beyond the urgent throbbings of adolescence. Persia had purged him of many of his more heated longings, or so he thought. He found contentment in whatever capacity Giovanni deigned to give him, contentment with his music and his work. Then an angel's voice pierced him with a burning sword of pure sound and he was lost, aflame with a sudden, wretched longing. Hadn't he found himself in his basement room, unbearably hard and in mortal agony for the despicable truth of his fleshly hungers? Hadn't he taken himself in hand, and found blindingly intense release at the memory of her sweet face and haunting beauty hidden within her? Hadn't he gasped her name as he came?

Freshly tidied from his shameful act, he had sought her out. A cynical voice in his mind had told him to reassure himself that she was simply mortal, with nothing remarkable about her. But it was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, and instead of a shy, sweet wallflower of a guest, he now saw Christine. She had always been a lovely girl, but after hearing her sing, he found her every feature exquisite. His senses were deliciously heightened in her presence, eager for the faintest whisper of her scent: violet soap and clean linen and beneath that the succulent ripeness of a young woman.

She stood framed between the flowers gently swaying in the breeze, awash with moonlight. A young Diana, skittish and shy, poised to flee. With wounded, innocent eyes she questioned his leaving and Erik raged inwardly. Why her? Why after all these years of pining fruitlessly for a mate would his wretched soul latch onto her? So sweet, so young, so unfit for his scarred carcass and damaged, twisted soul. His hasty words seemed to reassure her, soft, rosy color staining her cheeks. Lovely. His mind gobbled up tiny details in an exercise of self-torture: the neat shape of her ear as she nervously tucked back her curls, her ragged, bitten fingernails, the startling generosity of her mouth . . .

Then she edging past him toward the safety of the house, and he stepped back, lest even the hem of her gown graze him. His sin was horrid. Christine was too young, too trusting, too pure for the likes of him. Moreover, she was Giovanni's guest, and her very presence in this house was transient in nature. This would pass, he consoled himself. The infatuation would pass; the lust would burn away soon enough. Erik simply had to endure it, and quietly. Inspiration crackled through his veins with the same incendiary power as lust, and for the first time in weeks, Erik turned his steps toward his writing table. He would channel his impossible longing into composing something beautiful.

Giovanni had seen beneath Erik's reserve often enough to discern when his mood was false. So Erik schooled his features to inscrutability as he made his way to the breakfast table the next morning. If the cambric shirt he wore flattered him, or his grooming was impeccable, it was simply coincidence.

"Good morning, Luciana, Sir." He uttered his customary greeting with his usual aplomb, nodding to each of them as he took his seat. Giovanni's smile was swift and easy, and Erik relaxed inwardly. Erik's poor manners the night before had not displeased him then. Luciana barely responded, choosing instead to slouch over her coffee, eyes swollen and face pinched. Caught between faint amusement and distant sympathy, Erik concluded that she was paying for her evening of excess.

He snagged a cornetto from the platter and dipped it into his coffee. Hot, rich flavor coursed over his tongue as he took a dripping bite. Just as he was dabbing the remnants of coffee from his chin, Daae and Christine made their morning's greetings. The surge of exquisite turmoil that filled him at the sight of her stole his breath. God, he was such a loathsome creature, to long for such an innocent girl. Offering his greetings, he focused on his meal with fierce concentration, determined not to stare. Had she rested well? Was her father's ill health troubling her? Perhaps he could share his healer's skills in hopes of- jolted by the mention of his name, Erik blinked at Giovanni.

"Sir?" he asked.

"I said since it is Saturday, we should show our guests some of the city. Would you be amenable to escorting these young ladies around the city? Share with them the beauty of Rome?"

"Oh Papa, they don't want to see some dusty old buildings. Can't I take Christine with me to Michaela's salon?" Luciana said, surging forward in her chair. A distant alarm bell pealed at that speculative gleam in Luciana's eye. For himself, he was grateful for the offered diversion. Reeling drunkenly from the blow of her voice, Erik did not trust himself in Christine's presence.

"It is for the lady to decide, Sir," Erik said, allowing his gaze to flit over Christine. Flushed and dewy from sleep, there was a languor to her expression that Erik found unbearable. He dearly wished he could press a kiss to that tender, tantalizing spot beneath her ear, peeking through her mane of hair. How would her skin taste-? Erik snapped his attention back to the subject at hand.

"C—could we accomplish both? I would like to go with Luciana to the salon, but could we trouble Erik for a tour this evening?" Erik waited as Jean-Pierre interpreted, steeling his resolve against his hungrily roving eye. He must not let his thoughts stray. Therein lay danger and madness. It was better, safer to contemplate life's banalities. Jean-Pierre, for example. So much was lost through a translator, he reflected. Tone and inflection, the nuances of humor—

"That will work, I suppose," Luciana said, slouched in her chair, stirring her coffee. Luciana's sullenness could transcend language, Erik thought, glancing at Christine. He saw the flash of uncertainty, the anxious fear she had disrupted her hostess's plans.

"Good, it's settled then. You will go to the salon, and then Erik will escort you about the city before supper," Giovanni's voice was brisk; his sidelong glance relating to Erik that he had not missed that little byplay. Grateful for the momentary reprieve—and a deeper traitorous joy at the thought of being near her—Erik took a decorous sip of his coffee.

"I await your pleasure, ladies. I shall see you this evening," he said in both languages with a grave nod. Christine smiled at him and he jealously captured the soft wavering glow as one would shield the flame of candle with their palm. Yes, he could easily make a fool of himself for her smiles.

"Erik, in the meantime, bring the Valestro schematics to the study. I would like to show Gustave what it is we do."

"I was unaware of your interest in stonemasonry, Sir," Erik addressed Daae with a look of bland attention. Rome's climate seemed to settle heavily on the Swede, judging from the manner in which he perspired. Erik's clinical gaze noted the flare of his nostrils and the use of shoulder muscles to aid in breathing. Perhaps his tincture for Giovanni would ease the effort. His smile was like his daughter's, sweet and without guile.

"I must admit I know little of the art, Monsieur Rousseau, but I am eager to learn," Daae said. Erik's answering smile was knife thin. He had little tolerance for enduring a novice's blundering attempt at educated conversation, but Giovanni insisted and thus, the onus was on Erik to obey.

"I shall meet you both in the study, then," Erik said, finishing his coffee and offering his farewells.

"I look forward to seeing you, Erik." Christine's voice floated after him, snaring him with a loop of spun silver and sweet dew. He closed his eyes and exhaled a slow breath. He knew he had to deaden himself to beauty of that voice, but how could he when his soul was compelled to worship it? No songs within her head but songs of joy . . .

"Enjoy your afternoon, mademoiselle. I shall see you this evening," he replied evenly.

Through the predicted tedium of conversing with Gustave Daae on the finer points of stonemasonry, and later in the cool privacy of his room, Erik allowed a small corner of his mind to fret over Christine. Coupled with the blinding lust and the soul-deep yearning was an anxious tenderness, a grasping desire to shelter her from the world's cruel truths. Adolescent girls were notorious for their soft-voiced cruelty, and Luciana was certainly their empress. The gap of language made the worry sharper. Luciana and her ilk could mock Christine wholly without her understanding. He would teach her Italian. Surely the Latin-flavored words couldn't inflame him any more than the savor of his home tongue on her lips.

Settled by the thought, Erik contemplated the score he'd written through the night, scourged by the exquisite beauty of Christine's voice. Erik tapped the tempo with the nub of his pen, immersing himself in the mournful cello, the playful pianoforte, and the weaker, thinner shadow of Christine's voice, the humble piccolo. Longing breathed in each rest, a song of love unrequited.

He was bound to love you when he heard you sing . . .

A loud rapping knock disturbed his concentration and a swift glance at his clock told him the hour was almost four in the afternoon. Erik's heart leapt to his throat, ink-stained fingers adjusting his mask and straightening his cuffs as he rose to answer the door. The breathless hope fell and shattered when he saw it was Luciana who summoned him. Inwardly, he chastised himself for his boyish mooning for Christine.

"Busy with your dusty old trinkets, Erik?" she said, in lieu of a greeting. The coy bow of her lips suggested teasing, but Erik could hear the waspish bite in the words. His smile was more akin to a grimace.

"Your interruption would no doubt supersede even the most important of labors, Luciana. I take it your outing was satisfactory?" In response, Luciana rolled her eyes expressively.

"I suppose. It is quite tedious waiting for a translator, isn't it? But Christine is such a darling, Michaela took to her immediately." Erik fixed Luciana with his patented cool stare. A bubbly creature like her dissolved under its weight. Usually. Luciana lifted her chin, dark eyes coy and challenging.

"Signorina Daae is our guest, Luciana. Your father would not like it if she were maltreated." Nor would I, was the glaring subtext. A frown creased Luciana's round, beautiful face, a flash of childish hurt in her eyes.

"I know. Despite what you think, I'm not an idiot. Come on, we're ready for our tour." Erik allowed the comment to rest, steeling his nerves against the assault of Christine. He mounted the steps at Luciana's heels, beaten by the sun's passionate heat. The mist of the fountain caught the light of the sunset and Erik was struck by a vision of Christine haloed in crystals of gold. An angel.

"Buenosera, Erik," Christine said with her small, shy smile. Her hair, what had they done to her hair? Christine's wild curls were subdued and bent into a torturous shape, braided and piled atop her head. Erik's fingers twitched at his sides, longing to pluck away the pins and have the rich bounty of her hair spill over his hands. He could tangle his fingers in it, control the angle of her head as he bent to kiss—Erik cleared his throat.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle. I see you did not escape the salon unscathed." Jean-Pierre interpreted for Luciana's benefit, but Erik's attention was fixed solely on Christine. There was no guile or artifice in her. In those soft, dark eyes he could see the shy flattery, a spark of humor and the guarded pleasure of new acquaintances.

"Ah, yes. Do you like it? Luciana's friends were very generous. They wished to straighten it with a hot iron, but I hadn't the courage." Her hand grazed over her hair. It brought Erik's focus to the soft nape of her neck. God, how could he look at her and not want her, the soft nubile body hiding an angel's voice?

"It looks lovely," he said, congratulating himself on the even, almost bored tone.

"We'll make a socialite of her yet," Luciana followed the words with an over-bright laugh. Francesco had hitched up the phaeton with Giovanni's matched bay driving horses arch-necked and spirited. Jean-Pierre mounted the step and offered his hand to help Luciana alight. It was pure happenstance that Erik guided Christine to the phaeton's bench. After a moment's delicate deliberation, Erik took his seat between Luciana and Christine, hands braced on his knees. The nerves of his left side quivered and sang with joy at every brush of her shoulder or knee against his, the whisper of her gown and the faint wafting of her scent. He cleared his throat.

"What shall we see this evening, ladies? St. Peter's? The Trevi fountain? The Piazza del Popolo? The Spanish steps?"

"Might we see it all? I must admit, Papa was not an exacting tutor of history, so I should plead my ignorance. But I would like very much to learn, and I am sure it's very beautiful," Christine asked. An echo of her father's voice this morning, but far more enjoyable, in Erik's opinion.

"I never liked history. Boring, dusty and long gone." Even whilst commiserating, Luciana managed to sound selfish and vain.

"A personal preference, but I would happily share what I know," Erik said, his voice cool and his tone noncommittal. He would be civil, though Luciana's presence grated.

The ride was pleasant, and not solely from Christine's company. Luciana behaved admirably well for one who would rather throw a tantrum than read about history—as Erik's prior experience would recall. Tucked in the slanting shadows of lengthening evening, the ride was cool, and even the jostling on cobbled streets was smoothed by well-oiled springs beneath the phaeton's bed. Erik spoke in slow, staccato Italian, allowing time for Jean-Pierre to interpret.

"As you can see over Luciana's side, there is the central figure of Oceanus, or god of all water. The scene's composition is meant to describe the 'taming of waters.'"

"What is that . . . creature there?" Christine asked, pointing to the left-hand side just below one of the niches.

"That is a hippocamp, a figure in ancient mythology. A sea-horse is an adequate way to describe it," he said.

"I only know a little of Greek and Roman mythology. Papa always used to tell me the frightening stories, dark stories of the North, he calls them."

"Norse mythology, then? Valkyries, dark elves, wolves and the like?" A discreet shudder raced through Christine, and Erik saw the roots of a childhood haunting. Privately Erik felt a weed of dislike for the elder Daae shoot up. Christine deserved to be cosseted and cherished; Erik would hold her to his heart and . . . a stiff breeze brought a wave of the fountain's fine mist over them. Luciana squealed, throwing up her shawl to protect her hair and Christine giggled, swiping the dew from her face. Erik produced a handkerchief for both of them.

"Thank you, Erik. You always know what I need," Luciana said sweetly.

"Thank you," Christine echoed. Both ladies blotted their impromptu shower from their skin. Erik watched transfixed as a singular drop of water pearled at the base of Christine's throat. He stifled to urge to kneel on the phaeton's bed and lick the drop from her skin.

"You were saying," he rasped, striving for an even tone, "about your father's stories?" Christine returned his handkerchief with a glance at Luciana, who still toyed with hers, weaving it between her fingers. Erik tucked the handkerchief into his vest pocket.

"Yes. Afterwards, Papa would always play his violin to help me sleep. He said the Angel of Music would be there to sing to me in my dreams." A sharp thrill raced through him, a deep and potent longing. He had been an angel of doom in Persia, he could be Angel to Christine. In another time, another place he could have been that for her. He would twist himself into whatever shape she desired.

"I do not recall any Angel of Music in Norse mythology," Erik said.

"Can we move on? I'd like to show Christine the obelisk," Luciana said, fanning herself with a languid hand. Turning to Christine, she said through Jean-Pierre, "Erik and Papa are always squinting at it, stroking the carvings and muttering to themselves." Erik watched Christine's face as she listened, a moment's puzzlement erased by a sunny smile. It dissolved the acidic irritation he felt at the interruption.

"I'd like that. Let's go, then," she said.

The evening passed thusly and the three of them developed a pleasant—if slightly uneasy—rapport. Erik was delighted to find that Christine had an open and inquisitive mind, asking intelligent questions and displaying genuine interest in the answer. Although, predictably, when the attention wandered too far astray from her, Luciana was quick to assert her opinion. For example, the opera houses in Rome were certainly finer than Paris's the Populaire, or had Christine really never sampled gelato?

The tour concluded in a café where each of them ordered a cup of gelato and found a table outside. Erik's was flavored by coffee, Luciana's strawberry, and Christine's mint. The look of surprised pleasure at her first bite would be forever etched into Erik's memory. He gulped the remainder of his dessert, not even tasting it.

"I've had flavored ices before, but never anything so creamy, so sweet. It's wonderful!" Christine said, making a small, happy sound whenever she took a bite. Luciana's laugh was sharp.

"I'm so glad you like it!" she said.

Erik pretended rapt interest in the movements of the flock of pigeons fleeing the toll of the evening bells, humid heat radiating from the walls of sun-warmed brick around them. If he kissed Christine, would he taste the tang of mint on her tongue? She would taste so sweet—God, being near her was an exercise in self-torture.

Upon reentering the phaeton, Luciana sat precisely in the middle of the bench. Erik's jaw clenched. His patience had frayed, both with Luciana's truculence, and the constant yammering assault of his lust. Over ten years of tranquil peace, of an almost monastic rhythm to his life alongside Giovanni, and then she came with her sweet smile and gentle soul, her angel's voice and her sylph's body and ruined it. The embodiment of temptation.

The phaeton had barely stopped in the courtyard before Erik swung over the rail in one smooth movement. He knew the words to say: of polite but distant pleasure at their shared evening, a mannerly wish for their good rest and begging for their pardon at his departure. His mother had been quite strict in matters of etiquette, after all. But Erik craved—needed darkness, quiet, and, more importantly, distance. Erik's eye wandered over the fountain, the familiar square house covered with clinging ivy, intensely aware of their stunned and wary regard. It was a hot itch between his shoulder blades, not unlike his mother's auger-like stares. Why was he thinking of that evil woman?

"I will bring a tonic for your father, Mademoiselle," he said first, in French. Then, in Italian, "And Luciana, please remind your father to take his dose with supper. You know how it nauseates him. Goodnight, ladies." He did not wait for their reply.

XXX

Luciana sank back on the phaeton's bench with a huff, pulling a nasty face at Erik's turned back. Christine watched his retreating figure, more puzzled than irritated. What had soured his mood? Perhaps the sweet had not agreed with him? More than once, his sharply green eyes had settled on her and Christine had felt flushed and bashful, painfully aware of her plainness, her abbreviated education. Erik could speak so eloquently and intelligently on any topic under the sun. It made conversing with him more than intimidating. That and his pulsating force of presence. He commanded attention simply by being.

"His moods are . . . unpredictable," she remarked. Jean-Pierre interpreted and Luciana snorted, rising with a flutter of plum-hued skirts. She accepted Francesco's hand down and Christine hastened after her. Luciana muttered something as she marched toward the house and Christine, uncomprehending, looked to Jean-Pierre. The young man flushed and reluctantly translated: "She says: He's an old grump is what he is. Blind and proud and a fool." Perhaps that was true, after all Luciana had known Erik for many years. But there was something in his manner, when they spoke so easily of stories and myths, a quiet eagerness, a hushed pleasure in a shared interest. He seems lonely, she thought.

Luciana swiveled, beautiful face half lit by the flickering lanterns casting little orbs of light on the rippled face of the fountain.

"Aren't you coming?" she asked, hands braced on her hips.

"Yes. Yes, I'm coming."

Supper had already ended, but Signora Donati warmed leftovers for them. Christine gobbled the sandwich of warm, crusty bread spread thick with cheese and grilled vegetables.

"You enjoyed seeing Rome, Miss?" the Signora asked with an expansive sort of pride—Luciana acting as the reluctant interpreter after Jean-Pierre took his leave.

"I did, Signora. So sweeping and beautiful. Erik was a fine guide," she said. At the mention of his name, the housekeeper tutted, hands sweeping in a dismissive gesture.

"Tch, that man. I don't know why the Signore puts up with him. He's such an abrasive fellow. Hard to trust a man who covers his face." Christine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The older woman sounded just like Papa. It seemed so petty and narrow-minded to dismiss one of Erik's talents solely because of his mask. Christine buried the burning ember of curiosity that wondered what lay beneath it. Christine thanked the Signora and Luciana before retiring.

Papa's snores greeted her as she slipped inside and completed her evening ablutions. A small green bottle sat empty beside the ewer. Remembering the Parisian doctor's horrid tonics, she gingerly sniffed at the vial. There was a pleasant scent of something densely herbal, with a faint stinging tang of alcohol. In a wedge of moonlight, she watched Papa's chest rise and fall, stunned by the easy, even flow. At times his rasping breathing acutely pained her. But he sounded better now, thanks to Erik. She settled on her pallet, and made a mental note to seek him out and thank him for his kindness. Despite what the others said, Christine thought that he was neither a fool nor a crook nor a madman.

In fact, she had the sneaking suspicion he was a good man.

A/N: Reviews are lovely.