Thank you, thank you, so sorry, in rush!!
Thank yoooou!
Chapter Ten.
The warm water welcomed his aching muscles as he slid down into the tub, in the simple bathroom that adjoined this house. He closed his eyes lazily with a contented sigh, collecting water from the well and waiting for it to heat over the fire was well worth the bother. An arduous day's work out under the blazing sun had tired his body. With his hand he removed his mask from his face (which he had had to clean yesterday, what with the blueberry covering it) and dropped it on the floor tiles beside the tub. Oh if only he could savour the warm embrace of this water for an hour or more, but he had to ready himself for the dinner tonight. He took the flannel from the water and began to scrub his skin. He tried not to look at his loathed body, each scar and blemish a history of each part of his life. The welt on his lower abdomen which had never fully disappeared, one of the gifts from the gypsy who had bought him as a child, a fine white scar from his Mother on his chest, a faint burn mark, a scar from a prisoner in Persia…He turned his attention to his hands, to the scars that were there from hard work. Scars which he carried with pride – from his masonry days, where he had created beauty from granite and clay and wood…He then paused and held the ring on the chain around his neck, eyeing it sadly. He brought it to his lips and dropped it, forbidding his mind to linger on his lost muse. Finally he was ready to wash his face, and he washed the left side of his face without a thought. He turned his face to the looking glass which hung on the wall, and a childlike amusement flitted through him – the trick of glass, allowing you to see what you want to see, as he gazed at the perfect side of his face. Then he sighed and washed gently the other side of his face. His curse.
The stippled, marred flesh of rotted death. The skin that had mocked his Mother the moment she had stared at him in horror after giving birth to him. She could have been forgiven for thinking she had expelled a dead corpse from her womb.
He had stopped running his fingers over his ruined flesh years ago. He had memorised every blemish, every marred and split curve. Every bump, every cranny. He knew exactly how his sunken in ear felt, how the pitiful pathetic fragments of silvery brown hair fell down this side of his face. But oh, his disgusting self didn't end there! His twisted nose – well, that is what you would call it, for it functioned as one, even if it didn't appear to look like it, dissolving into his face, like the wax of a candle melted. His face was the most revolting thing on his whole body, yet he washed it as gently and tenderly as a newborn's smooth skin. How pitifully ironic.
Once he had finished washing his body, he lay there moments longer, no thought passing through his mind, his hands carelessly making whirlpools out of the water. He sighed, he needed to get out and ready. He stepped out and immediately took a towel, drying his body. Once he had rubbed himself down, he moved to the table and replaced his wig over his head, and then placed the mask over his face, concealing his hideousness once again.
He had not realised he would be so enthusiastic as he turned to his fine clothes. Tonight the widow was entertaining guests, he would not be expected to wear the clothes of a peasant. He pulled his trousers on, and buttoned his light cotton dress shirt. Over that he tied his chocolate coloured cravat, where a slight silver pin of a skull was adorned. Then he picked up his soft green waistcoat of Chinese silk and buttoned it up. He turned to the looking-glass once more, and a burning of pride settled in the pit of his stomach. He could not help his loathed face that the creator saw fit to give him, but he could control what he chose to wore. He noticed a smile had crept over his face. He had missed looking the part of a gentleman.
He turned to the clothes he had discarded before getting into the bath with distaste, and rifled through the pockets, finding the boy's diary. Finally he could read it in a rare moment of privacy. He had carefully hidden the ingenious padlock and key in his room, and so he opened the book eagerly, and began to read...
I feel rather foolish writing my thoughts down, but as I could not help but purchase this book and padlock from the merchants from the east (Persia, was it?) when the new ships came into port, I might as well put it to use...
He stopped reading at once when he heard a noise from the other room. A sort of thud, and something being dragged. He closed the book slowly, and turned to the door. The widow had gone to the neighbour's to borrow some sugar, perhaps she had returned? Perhaps…But those were not the widow's footsteps…
He quietly made his way out of the bathroom, looking around. With fascination he realised the door of Toby's was open. He heard a grunt, and a soft curse which most certainly would not come from the widow's sanctimonious mouth, and as quietly and agile as a feline, he glided over the room to the doorway, looking in.
He saw the back of a young man, bent down at the chest of drawers, trying to pry a locked drawer open.
Janvier.
How very interesting.
Hadn't the widow offered to pass on some things of Toby's to him a couple of days ago? What was he looking for? His snuff box with his initials engraved on it perhaps? But why was he attempting to steal it back?
"Good evening,"
The blonde-haired youth sprang up with a short cry of surprise and whirled around, his mouth agape when he saw Erik staring at him lazily, leaning against the frame of the door.
There was silence between them, until Janvier swallowed and said nervously, "You…You look different tonight," motioning to Erik's clothes.
Erik smirked, "And so do you, boy. But I do not believe that crimson becomes your usually pale complexion,"
The boy blushed deeper, but stood straighter in an air of defiance. His eyes flickered to the book Erik was holding, and before he could veil his emotions, his eyes widened.
"That…That book," he pointed to Erik, "That belongs to me!"
Erik looked down at what he was holding, then back at the boy, who was fidgeting nervously.
"Oh, really? I could have sworn it was Toby's, since he has written his name on the front page," Erik answered amused.
The boy swallowed again, and moved forward, "It is rightfully mine now that he has gone,"
But Erik pocketed it, and dismay befell the boy's features. Then he rushed forward, trying to take it out, "It is rightfully mine Goddamnit!"
Erik pushed him away roughly, and when he heard a sound of the front door opening, both jumped from the bedroom, and Janvier slammed the door shut as the widow entered the homestead.
"Good evening Madame," the boy hurried over to help her with her basket, and she smiled fondly as she thanked him.
As she shuffled off to the kitchen, Janvier turned and looked at Erik helplessly. Erik nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment.
Well, this would be an interesting night after all…