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Ch. 12

It was well into the evening before Estella was to be seen returning to Erik's private wing. She had searched nearly every room of the estate to no avail, for she could not find him.

Frustrated, she had taken her meals in her own room and tea in the garden, though the weather had not been kind to her and the day had not been enjoyable. She had even asked the servants as to the whereabouts of her husband, but had not received a satisfying response, which had subjected her to an unnatural look of pouting and disappointed wandering throughout the day. What husband would completely ignore his wife, not even willing to hold a conversation with her?

The loneliness of her new home was a bit overwhelming. Of course it had not been out-of-the-ordinary for her not to have friends when she had lived with her uncle, but at least then she had not been completely devoid of associations! At least she could observe the events and habits of her cousin and uncle, even if she was excluded, and though they had not spoken kind words to her, at least it had been a form of socialization!

Though she had not believed Mr. Destler when he had told her that he wished to be friends and to share in each other's difficulties, she had still developed hope-as small as it was-that perhaps he was a good man, after all. Perhaps she would truly have a friend or form of companionship.

Instead, she was left wandering the halls aimlessly, with no one except for her lady's maid to keep her company. But the friendship of Marguerite had not been enough to satisfy her social and emotional needs, for she was only a servant and did not always have the time or right to converse with her unnecessarily.

And though her instincts had told her that Mr. Destler would most likely be occupying one of his private rooms, she had decided to save those places for last. After all, she was not quite certain as to how, exactly, he would react to her disturbing him.

Meanwhile, Erik was staring down the ivory-colored keys of his piano in silence. Though not a single window could be found in the the music room that was adjacent to his sleeping-quarters, he knew that it was the beginning of nightfall, and he frowned at the thick layer of dust that had collected on his instument.

How he had abandoned his passion for music, how it had burned along with the walls of the Opera Populaire! Though at times it seemed as if its embers would suddenly awaken, he had been quick to water-down the flames that threatened to burst inside of him. It hurt too much to be reminded of the time when he had shared the bond of music with Christine, and he simply could not relive the heartache through his music. How could he even think to write an opera, when it reminded him so much of his former home?

But how guilty he had felt for abandoning his one true amour; how much his fingertips ached when hovering above the keys, yearning to feel the release that only a melody could bring to him!

With a deep breath, he blew off the collected dust and wiped down as much as he could, until the instrument looked as if it had been used frequently instead of neglected. Then, he sat again in silence and allowed the thoughts of beginning to play to linger in his mind, though his hands remained folded in his lap.

The urge to pour out his heart and life into his music had increased since his marriage to Estella, even growing to become stifling to his very soul. She had awakened in him the emotions that he had wished to forget, and she reminded him of how miserable he had been, was, and would continue to be.

Erik rested his elbows on top of the piano and held his head in his hands. He wanted so badly to reacquaint himself with the sound of his music once more, yet he could not prevent the fear that he had of the pain that it would cause.

He did not know how long he sat there, watching the candlelight flicker across the keys, seeming to taunt him, dare him to play them. But he couldn't. Not yet.

When he heard a noise eminate from his bedroom, he turned his head to listen carefully. Then he noticed the shadow flicker across the floor as it slipped through the crack at the bottom of his closed door, and he knew that he was not alone.

Only moments earlier, Estella had been standing in front of the door that led to Mr. Destler's room, contemplating whether or not she should knock. A part of her was beginning to have second thoughts about seeking out his company, and the rest of her felt that he probably would not answer his door, anyway.

And so she did something that was terribly out-of-character, even for her; she slowly clasped the cold knob in her right hand and turned it ever-so-slightly to see if it was locked. Much to her surprise and even concern, it had not been.

Her heart began to pound as she opened the door with reckless abandon, knowing in the back of her mind that it was wrong, yet feeling the rush of adrenaline from her impulsive behavior.

Even in her excitement and fear, she could not silence the voice in her head that nagged her to stop, before it was too late. If he had discovered her sneaking about and violating his privacy, then certainly it would be to her harm.

She made certain to open the door slowly, so as not to make a sound, and she even breathed a small sigh of relief when the room did not seem to be occupied.

I should turn back, now, before he sees me! she thought to herself. I should not take a single step into his room-

But she had already done it; she had stepped into his room without hesitation, and this newfound boldness was both exhilarating and dangerous. She closed the door behind herself, though she knew that it would do little to protect her from the consequences if she was to be seen.

Once she had turned around and had more time to observe her surroundings, she found it odd that every candle inside of the room had been lit, and she feared that she might not have been out of danger, after all. But she hesitated and listened, finding that not even the shuffling of papers or a sigh could be heard, and she decided that he must have been gone for the moment.

She should have left that instant, before he would return, but instead she found herself being pulled further into the room by her overwhelming curiosity and unanswered questions, though she knew that it was this very same curiosity that would most likely lead to her demise.

But how could she refuse the opportunity to learn more about him? She was thirsty for the knowledge, parched from the lack of conversation and information. She had to discover what it was that he was hiding and who he was-after all, she was living with this man!

His room was so well-designed that she had to admire the details of it all. Surrounding her were stone walls with shelves upon shelves of various books and literature; the room was circular with a small stone staircase ahead of her, with ivory-colored columns and gold marbled throughout, and upon each step were clusters of candles on each side. It was as if the glowing decor was parting for her to reach those stairs and discover what was at the top of them.

The appearance of it all made her feel as if she had been transported into an exotic palace, and she almost couldn't believe that it was located in the very same house that she had occupied during the past week.

She hesitated for a few moments before placing her foot on the first step, wondering if she would find him at the top. She could not see exactly what was there, but she knew that it was an elevated room that probably contained his bed, and the thought made her feel the guilt of what she was doing by invading his privacy.

Still, she had come too far to turn back, and so she forced herself up the stairs, glancing up to notice the tall vaulted ceilings and gasping when she saw the painted night sky above. It was as if she was outside among the ruins of a roman palace, glancing up at the actual stars themselves, and she began to develop an admiration for the taste of this husband of her's.

Once at the top, she noticed the large stone fireplace and how it was lit, even appearing to have been stoked recently, but she was too awestruck to think anything of it. It was as if the room had cast a spell on her, and it was a beautiful one that she did not wish to break.

A large four-post bed sat along the far wall, with golden posts carved with vines and roses that reached toward the ceiling; golden silk bedsheets looked so luxuriously welcoming, and the black lace draperies gave an appearance of elegance.

There were no windows in the room, she noticed, but the various candlabras throughout were more than enough to provide ample light so that she could see, and she walked over to the desk that sat to her left.

Before she had reached it, however; her left foot caught on the leg of the desk, and she lurched forward. Though she had caught herself before she could cause more damage than a sore toe, she knew that the sound had been louder than she would have wanted.

She quickly glanced around the room but saw no one there, and she breathed a sigh of relief. What her husband would think of her if he caught her in his room and looking through his personal possessions! Perhaps he might even murder her in that very room!

How wrong it had felt for her eyes to scan the contents and various papers across that desk, but she was grateful to at least have learned a few things about him by means of this-he had been telling the truth about his occupation, as she noted the various sketches and designs of architecture, also noting that he appeared to have an eye for every little detail. She could imagine him sitting at this desk, scribbling and throwing away sheets of paper for hours on end, until he was satisfied with his work, with the scattered torn pieces that laid about.

And then she noticed the tattered sheets that had been crammed into a small shelf, and despite herself, she pulled them out to see the smeared ink of musical notes. They appeared to be sheetmusic that had been left unfinished, and she recognized both the shade of ink and the letters to be the same as Mr. Destler's architectural papers when comparing them.

She had never thought him to be a man of music, though it might have explained his desire for theatricality (after all, what normal man slept in a romanesque palace fit for a King, always dressed in fine attire, and wore a mask to cover his face?).

Suddenly the desire to hear his music took hold of her, and she almost regretted her discovery. She could not imagine that such a secretive and isolated man would wish to share anything personal with her, much less his music, and it was a bit of a disappointment to think that she would never be able to hear it. After all, if it was anything like his architectural designs, then she was certain that it would be something worth hearing.

She stuffed the papers back into the shelf, positioning them carefully so that they would not look different than when she had found them.

But as she drew her hand back and stood up straight, she felt a pair of eyes burning through her as they watched her every move, and she did not need to turn around to know to whom they belonged.

"What makes you think that you have the right to be in here?" his low voice growled.

She bit her lip, her heart pounding wildly in her own ears, as she slowly turned around to meet those hazel-colored eyes.

Instead of being gentle and pained, they were burning with an intense anger that she had not seen before.