Salut!
The author's note from last chapter still stands, as this is being posted at the same time. Also, I haven't posted a disclaimer for a while, if ever, and for those of you who haven't assumed if from every other story on this site and the fact that no one is paying to read this:
I own nothing included in M. Leroux's novel, or any other novel that pertains to my dearest Phantom (not that I've read any others or base the story off any of them). Nor do I own anything created by M. Lloyd Weber or M. Schumacher, or any of their fine associates. And to be completely sure, I own nothing that by chance may have fallen into this story from another film. I'm not sure how that could happen when I've only seen the 2004 version, but I want to be safe in case there are any crazed estate executors scanning for a story without a disclaimer, just waiting to pounce.
I do own Cecily, and anything that might be original to this plotline and setting, and fully hope that all read this respect that. I am honored by stories that play off mine, if anyone gets the inclination. Just don't write better than I do! (Wink wink ; )
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Neither Erik nor Cecily could tell how long he had been reading when he finally closed the book. "He sounds like you," she whispered.
"Pardon?"
"I said he sounds like you. He was good at everything. He could paint, draw, design, invent…You can do all those things. I saw the sketches when I bandaged your hands. You invented the gas candles. You designed a way to get water without having to pump it out. Practically the only thing you don't do is construct buildings!"
"I do. I built this place." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"You what?" She was looking at him in utter awe. "You built this? How? When?"
"Too many questions. Be careful, little one, the cat may lose a life," he warned.
She took his not-so-subtle hint. "So you truly are like him, aren't you? Except you have one more thing: music."
I have done so many more deeds that you would cower if I told you. "Yes, little one, I suppose I am something like him. But it is late. Perhaps tomorrow, if your wound still holds well, you can return."
Erik wasn't sure, but he thought he saw something like disheartenment in her face. "Yes, of course." She pulled away from him; she had been leaning on his knee as a small child would. "I suppose we should both retire." A thought occurred to her. "Erik, where do you sleep?"
Another curious cat question. He could not tell her about the coffin. Sometimes it spooked him a bit; the girl would, in all likelihood, be scared witless. Just another thing about himself to keep locked away. "I rarely sleep, child."
"Oh! But Erik, you must sleep! I have taken so much from you, and your hand will heal better with rest! And I have taken your bed!" Her face was screwed up in childlike distress.
"It is all right," he said by way of comfort.
"No! No, it isn't!" She wrenched her face into a different position, evidently searching for a solution. Finally, she turned to him. "We both could sleep in the bed. It is plenty large enough for the both of us. Why, I wouldn't even know you were there!"
I would know you were there. "Cecily, I am quite satisfied to compose…"
She shook her head and tutted. "Nonsense! It is easy enough for us to accommodate one another, and there is no reason not to."
He looked at her. Her mind was made up, and he knew he either had to get angry with her, which for some reason he knew that she would return, or acquiesce, at least until she was too asleep to notice or care if he rose. "All right, Cecily. You win. Speaking of going to bed, I have something else for you." He left for a moment, returning with a nightgown in his hands.
She gasped. "Erik…" She tentatively ran her finger along the seam of the cloth. She looked up at him. "It, it's for me?"
"That is what I said, isn't it? You can't very well sleep in that frock."
She looked down at the dress he had given her that morning and, suddenly feeling self-conscious, ran her hands over the skirt to smooth them. "No, I suppose I can't." She took the nightgown in her hands as if it were made of glass and would break. She looked down at it a moment longer, but when she returned her gaze to him, the sparkle was back in her eye. "And you can't very well sleep in that finery. Go undress!" Seeing his shocked face, she corrected herself, blushing furiously. "Keep your breeches on, but the rest… Oooh, you are just trying to upset me, you scamp!" She turned and marched to the other side of the room. She whipped around again, obviously agitated, her face still aflame. "Go!"
She watched as he left the room. The nerve of that man! Making her feel like a stupid little girl! She was almost twenty, a good deal older than some of those in the employ of l'Opéra. Still, she did feel a bit childish in his presence. What was it about him? She gritted her teeth and slipped out of the dress. Her dress. It was odd, having such a piece of finery as her own. Her jaw relaxed a little. He had gotten it for her.
As she slid into the nightgown, she imagined she was an exotic princess, a sultana, with men throwing gifts at her feet just to catch a glance from her. She imagined she held court over hundreds of people every day. Entertainers from the far reaches of the globe would come to amuse her. Those that pleased her would be amply rewarded. Those that didn't…well, she wasn't sure what a sultana did with those.
She slipped beneath the covers and stared at the stone ceiling. She was deep into her imagination when Erik entered. She looked at him. He had removed the dress clothes and was wearing an outfit similar to what he had given her to wear. The shirt hung open at the chest, and she hastily diverted her eyes.
Erik saw her eyes shift and smiled when she pressed her eyes shut. Perhaps her beguilement had not been quite as innocent as he had thought. She was after all, a chorus girl in L'Opéra Populaire. It was not the most virtuous of places in Paris, and Paris was hardly the most virtuous in the world. She had seen the women coquet shamelessly, and if he was not mistaken, had picked up some of it, knowingly or not.
"Is this better than my 'finery,' Cecily?" He enjoyed the sight of her tensing and blushing. His eyes traced the blush until it disappeared behind the thin fabric of her nightgown. She turned toward him, and his eyes immediately returned to her face.
"It is." Her voice was as detached as she could make it.
"Are you quite sure there isn't anymore that I need remove?" He was taunting her, making her feel as he had felt.
To his surprise, she looked him over carefully. "No."
"What? No, there is no more I need remove, or no, I have missed something?"
"The second."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "And what would you have me remove now, Cecily?" He hoped to high heaven she could not hear the hunger in his voice.
"Well, I'm sure you would be much more comfortable…" She trailed off, leaving him agonizingly unsure of her idea.
"If…" he prompted.
"If you removed…Oh, it was not my place." She was toying with him now; they both knew it.
He leaned down over the bed, his mouth near her ear. "You must finish what you began, Cecily."
She shivered as his warm breath played against her ear. She could almost feel his lips brush against her skin as he spoke. She was tempted to give in at that moment, but was not finished with him yet. "If you remove…" her voice caught in her throat.
"Finish," he said again. He noted with pleasure that she was growing increasingly warm.
"If you remove…your socks." She finished. She bit her lip to keep from smiling as he hastily pulled back from her. "Honestly, Erik, I don't know how some men sleep with them on. It seems dreadfully uncomfortable to me."
"Yes, yes, of course." His mind was hardly on what he was saying as he removed them. The sly little minx! She had purposefully tempted him! He should kill her, as he had thought earlier. He wasn't sure why he hadn't. A flash of white bandages reminded him, and he abandoned thoughts of murder. For now.
He lay down between the sheet and the blanket, determined to keep a layer between himself and Cecily's body. As he stared up at the stone ceiling waiting for her to go to sleep, he drew one smug realization from the situation. The desire had been in her voice, too.
