To…
tink20: You have your wish…especially in the still-under-construction Chap 11!
Faust: You want thrills, you got thrills. ;-) Btw, I have read Little Women as well as seen the movie. Jo rocks.
And all other faithful readers, many thanks! And to those who read without reviewing, how dare you!
Also, Mominator wishes to pass a message to all the PoTO fans in the universe; here it is:
'Tell them all to visit their nearest comic book stores ASAP to order the PotO prequel (comic book) that is being solicited this month. It is called "The Trap Door Maker" and the publisher is Treehouse Animation. It's supposed to be 6 or 8 issues long, and their website is at: TreehouseAnimation dot com. They've got several panels posted, and what looks like the cover art to one of the issues.'
I must say, it sounds deadly interesting. Go check it out, good luck.
Chapter 10
Whispers of a Lonely Heart
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye.
She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere.
Christine's eyes lit with childish delight as she watched the dancing glass figures revolve on the pedestal to the music of tiny bells. The couple ceased their waltz, and she started to wind the key once more.
"If you would stop playing with that confounded box for one minute – I am trying to concentrate here."
Used to his brusqueness of tone, she put the musical box back away and wandered over to his side, where he was bent over his organ with one hand on the keys and another scribbling on a piece of parchment.
Though he did not ask her to, she hummed to the notes he played, knowing he would want to get the tune just right. And he did not chase her away, which was a good sign. She read these signals like a book with her sharp intuition.
"Have any of these scores ever been played?" she asked, ruffling through the sheets of compositions written in his elegant hand.
"I was a composer before I made my abode here." He would say no more.
"And now you live off your early retirement savings?"
"How," he asked with seething patience, "is it any business of yours how I conduct my affairs?"
She shrugged. "You intrigue me, is all. You are an obsessive, possessive tyrannical recluse; you are also a craftsman, musician, designer, and wonderful with animals."
He looked up. "So what are you telling me that I do not already know?"
"Not much. But I can also tell you that you are hiding things from me: one of those being that…you like me." She felt amazed at her own audacity, but barged on. "You like me because I am unafraid of you."
"What are you, a gypsy fortune-teller? Get out of here!" Infuriating girl! he thought as he watched her retreating back. And yet she brought a smile to his lips. Like her? She thought he liked her! He burned with desire for her. She was dearer to him than anything and anyone on this earth. The very admittance brought the sweetest of pain to his heart. It was like revealing the truth after an age of guilty silence.
He touched the small object tucked in his inner shirt pocket where it nestled like a bloom of forbidden hope. "One day," he promised himself. One day this would be hers. One day he would be hers, and she his. And that would be the happiest day of his life.
But now came the question he resented to ask: how could this lovely fiery thing fall in love with a hulking, accursed man who had only ever shown her his cold and abrasive shoulder? Ought he to ensnare her, to turn her with threats to say yes to his mad proposals? Erik imagined a long and torturous existence ahead, where everyday he would be faced with glares of hatred and icy silence, a life lived with a woman who would despise him with every fibre of her being for being forced into this unholy union. No, that was a path worse than the devil's death.
He would have to be…gentle. Subtle, but persistent. Somehow without ever intending to, he had won her approval. Now he would have to win her heart. But never, ever fall for her charms – no, this time he would be in control. He would be the seducer, the hunter, pulling in his prey bit by bit. And they would see who was the cleverer.
The winter at Candlemere was harsh and long. There seemed to be no escape from the bone-chilling blasts of air throughout the cavernous corridors and chambers, the only respite being furnaces and thick warm fabrics with which to ward off the threat of freezing in one's sleep. Christine, not used to such severe temperatures (it had never snowed in her homeland), could not help feeling rather miserable. Apparently the cold made Erik moody as well – he was worse company than ever. The timid, growing thought that his large presence would offer comfort from the weather was quickly dispelled. But there were moments when he was most cordial, even welcoming. The glow in his amber eyes when he smiled sent, much to her mortification, pleasant warm shudders down her insides. At times like these she wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and lie there till the first shoots of spring. But she was so afraid of wrecking the tender, fragile relationship between them. And it was ironic, because after the shock of their first meeting, she had almost never been afraid of him again.
One morning when the snow had stopped falling, Christine chanced to peek out of the library windows (where she had stoked up the fireplace into a roaring, cheerful inferno) and saw something that took her breath away.
The ground was coated with a pure white layer that glistened like sugar crystals with nary a muddy brown patch of earth visible. All around, leafless trees were draped like wraithlike brides in snowy lace. There was the faintest tinge of blue to the layer of ice – and behold! how beautifully it contrasted with the first slivers of sun that she had seen in a long time. A sharp piercing ray, golden but still faint with the domination of the wintry sky, which was no longer bleak and grey but a light blue. Suddenly Christine could not wait to taste the sugary snow for herself. She dropped the book she was holding and ventured outside.
She had read a children's tale in her early years about a Snow Queen who, in the quiet of the night when everyone was asleep, breathed her magic breath onto all still life and crystallized every twig and blade of grass in a sparkling white dust that was cold to the touch but would melt beneath a child's breath. Recalling the story of long ago, Christine put hr open lips to the surface of a frozen leaf and blew. The fine granules disappeared beneath the heat vapours and revealed the original green, dark and faded from lack of sunlight, but not really dead. She remembered a poem from Charles Roberts:
When Winter scourged the meadow and the hill
And in the withered leafage worked his will
The water shrank, and shuddered and stood still, -
Then built himself a magic house of glass,
Inset with memories of flowers and grass,
Wherein to sit and watch the fury pass.
As she raised her head from the shrub, a glint in the near distance caught her eye. It was the lake. The sight of the normally rippling waters stilled into an icy mirror was enough to leave one breathless. So vivid was the crystal-blue of Candlemere that like a foolish child Christine reached out and laid a foot on it, not believing that such beauty could be real.
Her body leaned forward; tentatively, she began to rest her weight on that foot. And as the sun grew stronger, it hit the glassy lake and added streaks of gold and pink to the silver-blue. So enraptured was she by the sight that never did she hear the subtle splintering sound…
Until it was too late.
With a deafening sharp crack like a gunshot, the lake parted, and for a moment Christine had a vision of her foot being Moses' walking stick that had split the Red Sea in two. Then a black blanket of icy cold swallowed her up.
She never heard the splash. Her body was already overwhelmed by the fine daggers of ice piercing her heart. Too late for crying, too late for help, too late…
Those were her last thoughts as all others left her.