Dedicated to my favorite goat.
Christine closed her eyes and turned her face slightly, her cheek just millimeters from Erik's lips. She breathed in his musky scent, thick with incense and sweat. She wished that they could stay in this moment forever. With him so close, whispering in her ear, she felt the rejection and fear of the day melt away, replaced instead with blossoming hope and anticipation.
Erik swiped his finger across her chin gently, stopping when he touched her mask. Christine stepped away suddenly, turning her eyes towards the floor and moving her head to hide the mask. Erik stood for a moment with his hand still outstretched, then straightened and coughed.
"Well?" he asked in a tone that was suddenly hard, his seductive whisper of a moment before gone in an instant.
"Yes, I will sing for you," she said. She lifted her face to look at him, but he turned on his heel and strode away from her, towards the upright piano standing in the far corner of the room. "Now?" she asked, her voice raising in a squeak.
"There is water and wine over there," he called to her, gesturing to a small table against the wall that held a pitcher, decanter, and the remnants of his dinner. "Best not to sing on a dry throat," he said, lifting his voice to a squeak on the last syllable and raising a sardonic eyebrow
She nodded and walked to the table to pour a glass of water, cursing herself for ruining the moment. She wanted to rip the mask from her face and toss it in the fireplace.
Erik watched Christine cross the room and pour a glass of water, her brow furrowed in a deep frown. He pushed back an urge to go to her and smooth the lines from her face. With her near, his mind had been cloudy, his senses ensnared by her scent, by the smooth skin that burned beneath his fingers, by the soft curls that tickled his lips as he moved them against her ear. In that moment, he had wanted to pull her into his arms, throwing all care and hesitation to the wind.
How is it I am having such thoughts about a woman I barely know? He thought in frustration, raking his hands through his hair.
His face mirrored her frown as she turned away from the table, thirst sated and walked towards him. How is she doing this to me? He had spent years in the royal court of Persia learning the deceptions of women, but no woman there, even the best in the harems of the Shah, affected him as this tiny chit of a girl. Even with her masked, deformed face, she made him feel that he was again an innocent boy of sixteen enamored with his first love.
As Christine crossed the room to join him at the piano, she pulled her shawl away from her shoulders, carefully folding it and laying across the back of an intricately carved bench. She rested her hand on it, as if steadying herself, then straightened her shoulders and walked to him, her chin high. "Shall we?" she asked him in a quavering voice that betrayed her stoic demeanor.
He looked her up and down, taking in the proud tilt of her chin, the soft jutting shelf of her collar bones. As he ran his eyes over her torso, he noticed that the fabric at her waist hung oddly, bunching on the sides and hanging loosely at the front. "Turn around," he said. She gave him a questioning glance but did as he requested. When she turned, he was presented with the sight of her dirty, worn corset peeking out through the fine, navy blue muslin. He grinned to himself, amused by the juxtaposition of the tailored gown and the garments that lay beneath.
He turned away from her and placed his fingers on the ivory keys, stroking them gently, lovingly before striking a chord. "Let's begin."
Christine sang for Erik for hours, taking only short breaks to satiate her thirst. She was grateful that he had her turn away from him out into the room to sing. The stringed instruments seemed to join her, softly humming as her voice rang through them, a ghostly orchestra joining her as Erik's demanding instruction took her voice to new heights. The training she had given herself had been sufficient to extend her range, but with Erik's guidance, her voice grew in timbre and volume as well.
Near the end of the lesson, Erik began playing a song that was hauntingly familiar, a piece of his own creation. It was The Point of No Return. Christine hesitated. They had sung it together once before on the night he had discovered her on the stage. It was a far cry from the pieces he had her sing throughout the lesson; those had been in German or Italian, all from comedies of old. Songs that were light and required little thought or intensity of emotion.
Erik paused expectantly at her cue, and she raised her voice to sing Aminta's first line. When she was done, the music stopped, and Erik rose from his bench.
"That is enough for tonight," he said gruffly. She made a move to turn to him, but he stopped her with a hand on each shoulder. "You did well," he said as his hands worked the buttons of her gown free. A blush blossomed across her chest and shoulders as she remembered their deal, and when the gown fell loose, she pressed a hand to her breasts to keep it from falling away entirely.
"Th-thank you," she said haltingly, turning to face him. She looked inquiringly into his eyes, but they were hooded and he would not meet her gaze.
"May I come back tomorrow?" she asked, wishing he would look at her. He nodded, then lifted her shawl from the nearby bench and wrapped it around her shoulders and gestured the door with a short bow.
"Good night, Christine."
"Good night, Erik," she replied as she stepped away from him. In the doorway, she paused and glanced behind her to find Erik's gaze trained on her retreating form. She caught his eyes for a moment, then stepped forward and softly closed the door, letting her fingers linger on the brass doorknob. She turned quickly after one step forward and snatched up her lantern, remembering Mssr. Bouchard's warning of his displeasure should she lose it. She pulled a match from her skirt pocket and carefully lit the wick, twisting the knob until it shone brightly enough to light her way.
The floorboards squeaked softly under her feet as she padded down the hallway, but Christine could barely hear it above the rapid pounding of her heart. Their lesson had ended abruptly, unexpectedly. Though he was a demanding master, she felt she could have sung for him until the sun rose.
Was it because of the song? she thought, thinking of the way he would not meet her gaze, the way he looked at her on her way out as if trying to understand a grand mystery. Grander than you could imagine, she thought, the corners of her mouth tugging down into a frown.
Christine descended the staircase to the foyer quickly for fear that Mssr. Bouchard would return and find her on the second floor. As she stepped down from the final stair, a knock rang at the front door. She paused for a moment, not sure what to do, but when the knock rang more insistently, she hurried forward to open the door. She opened it just a crack, holding her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
"Who is it?" she inquired into the night. A gentleman stepped forward into the slim shaft of light from her lantern. His skin was deeply tanned and a thick black mustache rested beneath his long, thick ridge of a nose. His eyes were sharp and black, and in the dark, she could not distinguish iris from pupil.
"Who are you?" he inquired placing a hand on the outside of the door and putting enough pressure to make Christine take a small step back.
"Sir, it is an odd time of the night to come calling. Do you have an appointment with the master of the house?" Christine's heart was racing in her chest. She hoped Mssr. Bouchard would not find out about this.
"My dear," the gentleman said with a small smirk, "with this gentleman I need no appointment. Tell the master of the house," he extended each syllable mockingly, "Nadir Khan will see him."
Christine grimaced, "Sir, I do not believe Mssr. Chenet would…"
Nadir moved his hand to the edge of the door and pushed into the foyer, closing the door firmly behind him. "I will wait here, girl. Now go."
Helplessly, Christine sighed and dutifully returned up the stairs to seek Erik. She fervently prayed that Erik would not be angry with her for allowing this man, she refused to any longer think of him as a gentleman, to push into his home.
She knocked at his door gently, hoping he would not answer. Her hopes were disappointed when he flung the door open angrily and bore down on her.
"What is it now?" he hissed. "Need help getting tucked in?" He pulled her body against him roughly, "Back for a different lesson?"
Christine pushed the palm of her free hand against his chest, shocked by his turn in behavior. His eyes glinted in the light of her lamp, shifting wildly as he ran his gaze over her face. "No," she said gasping, trying to put some distance between them. "No, a man is downstairs."
He gripped her more tightly, his gaze hardening and flicking towards the stairs. "What man?" he demanded. The fingers that dug into her sides burned like brands against her skin.
"Na-Nadir Khan," she said, her voice catching.
Erik exhaled sharply and released her. She stepped back, clutching her arms around her sides, still feeling where he had held her so tightly. He ran his hands through his hair and, not meeting her eyes, he said, "Please accept my apology." With that, he straightened his shoulders and strode forward towards the foyer.
Her shoulders sagged and she let out a long breath, trying to steady herself. She racked her brain, trying to think of any reason he would react to her in such a way, but she came up empty. Heaving a sigh, she followed Erik's echoing footsteps and hoped the men would let her pass without notice.
"What are you doing here, Khan?" Erik asked as he descended the stairs. Nadir turned from the painting he was examining to meet Erik's eyes.
"You know why I am here," he replied in a calm voice, the lilt of his accent ringing in through the hall.
Despite her efforts to remain invisible, Nadir's eyes turned to Christine as she strode down the stairs and through the foyer, her head bowed. Her face was shadowed, and the lumpy mask that sat against it cast a grotesque shadow. He watched until she had disappeared into the servant's quarters, then turned to Erik again.
"Is that the girl?"
Erik ran his hands through his hair again, pausing with his hands grasping the back of his skull. "Yes."
"What exactly is it that you see in her? An easy target?" Nadir asked in an amiable tone, but his words were edged with steel.
"I see a woman with the voice of an angel," Erik bit out, dropping his arms and standing tensely. The two stared at each other for several long moments, neither speaking, their eyes hard. "I think you should leave, Nadir."
"And I think I should stay," he replied. "If this girl is under your mother's employ, she is more dangerous than any of the rest. She is using a new tactic. You need me by your side."
"I am no longer a boy," Erik said in an eerily calm voice. "I need no one by my side."
Nadir resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "None the less, it is always good to have friends nearby. No matter the circumstances."
"I suppose I have no choice in the matter," Erik crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at his old friend.
"You always were good at reading people," Nadir said with a smile. "Come now, let us put unpleasantness behind us and join in some food and wine."
With a sigh, Erik acquiesced. "All right, but my patience will only last so long. I expect you to be out of the house before the week's end."
Nadir nodded his head, "That will be plenty of time to determine whether any danger will come to you from this woman."
Finally, Erik smiled and looped his arm around Nadir's neck. "Let's go get that wine then. I think Bouchard is holding some fine vintages down in the cellar."
The two men moved to the back of the house, heading towards the kitchens. As they walked, their conversation meandered. They reminisced about the good times that they had in Persia and discussed the upcoming operas. Nadir was a great fan of the theater, and Erik used his clout at the Opéra Populaire to get him box seats for every run.
"What's coming next?" Nadir asked.
"La Buona Figliola by Piccinni," Erik replied, swinging his arms easily at his side. "The managers wanted to proceed with a more recent comedy, but I convinced them to stick with shows that will actually fill the theater."
Nadir laughed. "You always did have a way of getting what you want."
Erik shrugged. "Nothing current can hold a candle to Piccinni's work. Not just with the quality of the music, but the popularity. We need to fill our coffers if we are to convince the public to attend the season finale."
"Something new?"
"Yes. In fact, we will be performing Don Juan," Erik said, his smile deepening.
"You finished?" Nadir exclaimed, his teeth flashing white in the darkness as a smile stretched across his face. "Congratulations, my friend." He clapped Erik on the back and pushed open the door of the kitchen.
A lamp sat on the table already, cutting through the darkness of the kitchen.
"Odd," Erik muttered, "It's unlike my staff to leave lamps around." He walked slowly around the kitchen, looking under tables and waving his hands into the dark shadows in the various nooks and crannies.
"Thieves rarely bring lamps," Nadir said, joining Erik in his cautious examination.
"Oh!" a voice exclaimed from the pantry. A thud accompanied the noise, and both men turned their heads towards the noise. Christine stood in her nightgown, which she had hastily tossed over her undergarments after shedding her dress. She wanted to find some maggots to clean her wound before while she slept and had found an old slab of meat near the back of the pantry, thick with the little mites. The smell was awful, but it was worth it to have the wounds on her face clean. "Please, excuse me," she said hastily, stooping to retrieve the package of rotted meat.
"Can't seem to escape you tonight," Erik said in a light tone, stalking towards her. "Were you hungry?" He took the package from her hands and sniffed it, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "I am sure we have much better fare than this."
Christine felt a blush rise in her face. How exactly could she explain that she wanted the maggots to clean the terrible wounds that festered beneath her mask? She twisted her toes into the ground and laced her hands together behind her back and looking at the ground.
Nadir stepped forward and took the package from Erik, carefully loosening the twine and opening the paper. A foul stench rose from it, but he leaned in closer. "Maggots. The meat's turned."
"I need them," Christine said, her voice pained with embarrassment.
Erik laughed, "Were you planning to eat them?"
"They can be quite good," Nadir said. "In Persia, the poor would roast them in sugar. I often received them as gifts."
"No," Christine said, nearly retching at the thought of popping one of the wriggling white bugs into her mouth. "I need them to clean a wound."
Immediately, Erik's demeanor became rigid. "Are you hurt? Was it from last night?"
"No," Christine said weakly. "I…" she trailed off. Erik gestured impatiently for her to go on. "My face…"
Realization dawned on both men's faces, and Christine buried her own face in her hands. Steeling herself, she took the package from Nadir's hands. "Please, excuse me."
"Do you need help?" Nadir asked in a kind voice. His eyes focused intently on her mask, taking in the lumps caused by the bandages beneath.
"No," Christine replied, unconsciously clutching the package to her breast, barely noticing the scatter of maggots that fell from it.
"I insist," Erik cut in with a hard tone. "We should call a doctor if you're injured."
With a groan, Christine set the package on the table. "Fine, I will accept your help. But please, do not call a doctor on my behalf. The wounds just need a bit of cleaning."
Looking triumphant, Erik walked to a nearby shelf and pulled down a second lamp, setting it near the first. He lit it carefully with a match and gestured for her to sit on a bench near the table. Wishing she could disappear, Christine sat where he directed, clutching the edges of the bench and hanging her head.
Nadir approached her and set a hand on her shoulder. "Come now, let's have a look."
She turned her face to him. For the first time, she saw that his eyes were a dark brown rather than black. When he wasn't angrily pushing his way into the house, his face was quite kind. Small wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes, showing that he was a man who enjoyed laughter. His dark skin was smooth, like a fine chocolate mousse, and his beard was thick with curls.
Christine set her face in an impassive mask and raised her hands to the straps that wound around her head, releasing them carefully to avoid tangling them in her hair. She pulled the satin mask away from her face, but the bandages stuck.
Nadir raised a hand to the bandages and tugged at them. Christine hissed, sucking in her breath sharply as they pulled at her skin.
Erik strode around the table and stayed Nadir's hand. "Get us water," he commanded. Nadir nodded and pulled a bucket from the wall, heading to the pump behind the house to fill it. "How did this happen?"
Christine shrugged, "Simple neglect. My previous mask was ill fitting, and I simply did not care to do anything about the sores."
"But now you do?" he asked softly, placing a hand on her unmarred cheek and raising her head so he could see her bright eyes shining in the lamplight.
"I am now a maid in a fine house," she said in an even tone. "I must care for myself so I can continue to serve and earn my place in this household."
At her mention of her role in the household, Erik dropped his hand from her cheek. "Indeed."
"The water, Erik," Nadir said, heaving the bucket onto the table. Erik nodded and cupped some water in his hands.
"Tilt your head back," Erik said to Christine. She complied, and he wet the bandages with several scoops of water. The cool liquid felt good against her face, and she closed her eyes and sighed. When the bandages were loose enough, Erik carefully worked them free, finally pulling them back entirely.
Both men let out a whoosh of air at the sight of her face. The scars were terrible, but the festering wounds made her visage especially grisly. The sores crossed the expanse of her cheek and shone bright red. The edges of the wounds, which had been white after she cleaned it in the morning, had grown black from the lack of air.
"You should not cover them," Nadir said, turning from her to start a fire in the hearth. "The air will help them heal more quickly."
"Perhaps," Christine replied stiffly. She doubted that Mssr. Bouchard would agree, though.
The three sat quietly as Nadir brought the water to a boil. Erik pulled a bottle of wine from the cellar and poured it into three glasses. He pressed one into Christine's hand, and she opened her mouth to protest.
"You'll be glad for it once Nadir starts cleaning your wounds," he said softly. Remembering the pain she had felt while cleaning the wounds in the morning, Christine nodded and drank the wine. "All of it," Erik said when she stopped after one gulp. She complied and drained the glass, which he promptly refilled. "One more."
Christine drank it all and handed the glass back to him. He filled it again, but she held up a hand. Her stomach filled with warmth from the wine and her head started to feel a bit fuzzy. She hiccupped, drawing a laugh from Erik. "Let me know if you need more." She nodded and offered him a lazy smile as her body relaxed.
Nadir pulled the water from the fire and set it on the table. Steam rose from it and he carefully poured cool water into it to lower the temperature. "This will hurt," he said, dipping a clean cloth into it and approaching her. She nodded and raised her face to him, closing her eyes under his ministrations.
She winced as he scrubbed the wounds, her fingernails digging into the soft wood of the bench. When he paused to clean the rag, she let out an involuntary whimper. "Nearly done," Nadir said in a quiet voice. He touched her chin to let her know he was starting again, and she nodded.
When he was done, her face felt as if it had been pushed into a fire. It burned everywhere, and her fingers itched to smooth over the inflamed flesh. She raised a hand to touch it, but Nadir slapped it away. "No."
She opened her eyes and watched as he carefully pulled several maggots from the rotted meat. Erik stood by in the shadows, watching her closely with a glass of wine dangling from his fingers.
Christine clenched her teeth as Nadir placed the maggots around the various wounds. "You will need to sleep carefully tonight so as not to dislodge them."
"Do I need to pull them off?" she asked. She had been very young the last time her wounds were treated this way, young and lost in another lifetime, and she could not remember.
"No, they will fall off on their own. They only eat dead flesh. They do not care for the living."
Christine resisted the urge to nod, keeping her face upturned. When Nadir stepped back, she started to rise, but he pressed a hand into her shoulder. "Erik will carry you to your bed. It is the best way to ensure that they remain."
She watched out of the corner of her eye as Erik pushed himself off the wall, gazing at Nadir with an odd look on his face. The dark man nodded. "I will prepare food and drink. I will see you in the study in ten minutes time." His voice was hard with authority, and Christine wondered about the tension that suddenly rose between the men.
With a swift motion, Erik grasped her behind the back and knees and lifted her. Nadir pushed her mask into her hands, along with a set of clean bandages. "Leave it uncovered as much as you can."
"Thank you," she replied quietly, clutching the scraps of cloth in her hands.
Erik turned from the man and strode from the kitchen, heading towards her room with long, even strides. He navigated through the dark easily, barely pausing as he rounded corners and pushed through doors. When he reached her room, he carried her across the threshold and set her gently on the bed. He took her mask and the bandages from her hands and set them on the table beside her.
"I am sorry," he said quietly, returning to her side and taking one of her hands in his.
"For what?" she asked confusedly, looking up into his face and trying to make out his features.
"That you must bear this burden," he said, carefully raising a hand to the marred side of her face and drawing his finger along her jaw.
An image of him suddenly rose before her, the flesh of his face torn with scars and sores more ferocious than her own. She reached up to touch his face, marveling at the smooth skin of his cheek and the rough patches of hair that grew along the length of his jaw. "It is a burden I bear gladly," she said softly.
He turned his face into her hand and held it there for a moment. "Get some rest," he said. "You will need your strength tomorrow."
Christine nodded carefully and dropped her hand from his cheek. He rose to leave but hesitated at the door.
"Erik," she called out. He turned back to her expectantly, taking several steps forward. "I left my lamp in the kitchen. Mssr. Bouchard will have my head if he finds it there."
Laughing, Erik closed the gap to her bed in a few steps. "It will be here for you in the morning." He pressed his hands into the bed on either side of her shoulders and leaned in above her. Even in the dark, she could see the gold of his eyes. A fire burned there as he hovered over her, and the air around them grew thick. He leaned closer, and she felt a thrill grow in her chest. He pressed a kiss against her lips and whispered, "Sleep well, sweet Christine." Then he turned and strode from the room, pulling the door shut behind him.