Lisette had always found disguise to be one of the most difficult professions of her life. Besides being a constant actor, Lisette had been a sister, daughter, mother-figure, beloved, friend, student, teacher, and now, slave. But nothing compared to the disguises.
And yet here, before her, stood a man whose essence seemed to revolve around his disguise, around the mask that captured half of his features and made him hard to look at.
But Lisette could not tear her eyes away. He was strong, in body and character, much stronger than she. He was something otherworldly as he stood there, with his fine physique and his imposing stare.
The mask kept coming back to her. Something in it frightened her and reassured her at the same time; she knew he was dangerous, deadly even, but something made her feel like the pain would be for someone else.
She knew, in the confines of her mind, that such safe thinking could not be true.
---
Erik the architect was inspecting the girl as she stared at him with wonder. He felt her eyes travel down and up his frame; when she had fallen to her knees, he felt more powerful than the shah, for right now, Lisette was under his spell, and no one else's.
He had to admit, he had never seen her properly. But now that her face was tipped to his, he could not deny she was lovely. Her face had the same abstractly rounded perfection he had once used in a statue; the shah had appreciated the statue greatly. No wonder he had chosen this girl to come to his harem.
And her slim yet womanly figure, how could he not have noticed it before? It enticed him, and he almost shuddered at the thought. Her skin was whiter than his, and her hair a brown that seemed closer to black.
Erik the architect would have been content to stare at her for an eternity, but not when she stared back.
He went over to her, and spoke in his heavenly voice. "Come," he beckoned. She stood, taking the hand he offered her without thought before quickly pulling away, skin searing. He smirked.
Erik led her into another room, and she stopped behind him, staring at the luxury before her. She'd not seen so much splendor since France. He turned to her, and pointed to a chair. "Sit," he said.
Lisette sat. She fingered the pattern on the soft material, realizing she'd seen a similar design in her aunt Élise's sitting room. She itched to curl her legs under her as she'd done countless times with Benoit on her lap, but that was impossible here. Anything familiar was impossible.
The architect looked at her with a strange smile on his face. "Have you never seen such a chair before, then?"
"Of course I have," Lisette whispered. She cleared her throat. "There is one very similar to this in my aunt's house, in Cagnes-sur-mer."
"Where you were taken."
Lisette swallowed; she felt horribly confined and yet an eternity seemed to distance her from the architect, who had settled on a couch across from her. A small wooden table lay between them, and Lisette looked at his hands. They were strong hands, almost too big, but the fingers were longer than most people's.
"We must talk," Erik the architect said. Lisette drew her eyes to his, drinking in his appearance. He looked away after a moment, and she blinked before he spoke again.
"I trust your day went as well as can be expected for an odalisque."
Lisette nodded dumbly then she shook her head slightly. Erik leaned closer, frowning. "Naamah, she was taken to the sultana." Lisette stood. "I must go, I have to go to her," she said. She was distracted, and Erik moved into her way. Lisette stared at his chest, which was at her eye level, then looked up.
His eyes simmered at her with emotion, and he took her hand and led her back to her chair. He silenced her pleas with simple looks, and she sat as if under a spell as he fetched one of his robes to lay across her lap. She clutched at it, bringing it to her chin.
A smell hit her nostrils, and she immediately recognized fruit. And spices, of all things. She smiled into it, rubbing the material on her cheek. Erik questioned her about her sudden, soft smile.
"Your robe," she said. "It has a smell, of fruit and spices." She blushed at the amused look the architect gave her, and looked away. "It does."
"No one has ever mentioned that about my robes. Of course, no one has ever had the chance to smell them, so that does make a certain amount of sense." Lisette's eyes snapped to the architects'; was she really the first person to be this close to his robes? "But we must talk."
"Naamah," Lisette whispered. She would have gotten up, but Erik's eyes held her in place.
"She is being prepared as a gift to the shah's son. We have more pressing matters on our hands, however. Make no mistake, your chances of seeing Naamah again are very low. However, you will be seeing the sultana again very soon unless we do something."
"We? What can I do?" Lisette was churning with unease.
"I am willing to help you escape, if you would allow me. And we shall return to France," he said.
Lisette's mouth fell open. "You would- you would do that? For me?"
The architect looked annoyed. "I have just said I would, didn't I?" Lisette swallowed.
"Forgive me, but I am too amazed. How can you possibly think I would say no? To go back to France, it would make me whole again."
Lisette stood shakily, the robe still clutched in her fingers. She walked to him; he stared at her as she approached and took one of his gloved hands. Kneeling, she brought it too her lips and kissed the back of the glove, too embarrassed to look at him until she let go of his hand.
He was looking at his glove very carefully. After a minute, he raised his eyes to hers. "You are welcome, Lisette."
It was the first time she could recall him saying her name, and the sound of his wondrous voice saying it made her feel angelic, and she smiled.
The moment of serenity ended when Erik stood abruptly. "I must make plans, then, for us. Speak to no one of our plans, little girl, or you and I will face an ugly death."
Lisette nodded, and he offered her his hand. She accepted it and stood; he did not let go at once but instead looked at it as it lay there passively in his.
"Such pale hands," he said. Then, he came out of his half-trance and let her hand go. It fell limply to her side, and she stepped back, overwhelmed by the closeness. She had not been so close to someone she did not consider friend or family or fellow slave since Rémy, and the thought of him brought tears to her eyes.
"What is wrong?" Concern was prominent in the architect's tone.
Tears three and four and twelve fell from her chin to land on her feet. She lost count, and could only whisper, "Rémy."
