Author's Note: Hi. Thanks to all who reviewed. I had an absolutely horrible, awful, terrible and unadulteratedly nasty day at work. Thus, posting this chapter, of which I am excessively over-proud, and getting your lovely feedback will not only be the highlight of my day but very likely the ONLY bright spot. Further, tomorrow and Saturday aren't shaping up to look much better. That having been said, I'll proceed directly to the story without further adieu.
Disclaimer: All I own is my overactive imagination....
Humor Warning: If you enjoy having food or drink splattered on your monitor and keyboard, you are hereby encouraged to eat, drink, and be merry at all once. Should you choose to do so, however, you must be advised that I am not responsible for such debauchery and you are entirely on your own to explain the mess to your family, friends, employers, crime scene investigators, FBI and CIA agents, and other governmental personnel.
"Erik!" Carlotta's voice said in a breathy whisper. "What are you doing here?"
"I missed you," he crooned softly. "Oh, how I missed you!" His voice was muffled as he embraced her. "My darling, my darling!" I could envision Erik's embrace, not a dignified reaching of the arms around her delicate shoulders, but with his full body pressed against hers, his hips thrust against hers urgently, his hands straying to her derriere as he moaned to her, "Oh, how I missed you…."
"Oh, Erik," she murmured back. "I missed you as well. It has been too long!"
There was no sound then, but for a near-silent rustling for several moments, then a deep gasping breath from Carlotta.
"I need you," Erik's voice urged, low and throaty.
"Yes!" she gasped, then an instant later in a voice more controlled: "Yes, Erik. Soon," she sighed. "Right—" she gasped "—after."
"Oh, God," he moaned in a voice filled with desperate desire. "After? After! Carlotta, I shall die—" If I didn't know better from experience that a man does not die of wanton desire, I should have entirely believed him. His voice was urgent, desperate, wretched.
"It is the retirement gala, Erik," she protested, her voice growing husky as well. "I cannot miss it!" She panted, "I… must… sing...." Her words turned to a moan of pleasure, but she fought for control one last time. "Please, Erik. Please!" she hissed. I could envision her pushing his hands away. "I go on shortly. Let me warm up now. It is just one short piece from Faust." Then she whispered urgently: "I shall be right back!"
His reply was nothing more than a moan, which she returned.
"But I must," she insisted unconvincingly. "I cannot—I—Ah!" Her breath hitched audibly and she surrendered. "But what shall I tell them?" she whimpered. Yes, he was in complete control now. I grinned to myself at his expertise.
"You are ill, my darling," he crooned. It is uncanny that without seeing him I could tell nonetheless what he had done. His hands now touched only appropriate areas—he delicately stroked her cheek, then his fingers wove themselves between hers while his other hand gently stroked her hair.
"Ill?" she echoed faintly. She was displeased. She wanted those hands back where they had been.
"I daresay you are feverish," he continued huskily. Surely his hands touched her forehead, then the place where her neck meets her shoulder, but nothing more. "You feel hot. Clammy. Truly, love, are you well? You are flushed, even." The girl moaned her yearning for him.
I pressed my fist against my mouth to silence my laughter. Oh, Erik! I thought. Would that I had your wit and even half your skill! Satisfied that he would not harm her, I left the closet and made my way towards the door when my movement was arrested by the sound of Carlotta's door opening and closing once again. I heard Carlotta in the hallway, her voice not at all the high clear coloratura soprano the audience would recognize but deeper, darker, in seductive mezzo tones. "Oh, Marie! Help me, please! I cannot sing tonight! I cannot sing!"
There was a murmur of, "Whatever is the matter?" from presumably Marie then Carlotta continued:
"I am ill. Tell them I am ill. I feel faint. No, no, I am fine here against the wall. Do not send for the doctor yet, but tell them I am ill and wish to lie down. I cannot sing tonight. Please! Oh God!" Then her door opened and closed abruptly yet again and this time I heard the sound of the key in the latch. "Oh, Erik," she moaned. "Please, Erik!"
"Yes," I heard him say. I hesitated at the door, wondering if the hallway was clear. A loud sound startled me and I leapt into the wardrobe once again, my heart pounding in rhythm with the singer's moans beyond the wall. I considered: If the sound were in the hallway, I was trapped. More likely Erik and Carlotta had knocked over an item in her dressing room in their exuberance, but I was not confident enough in that to emerge from the room. Instead I found myself confined to the closet for the duration of their rough lovemaking which lasted sufficiently long to ensure that I was prevented from hearing Christine Daaé triumph in singing Carlotta's portion from Faust that evening.
Daaé was splendid, Darius told me later. Daaé was amazing. Like nothing anyone had ever heard before. Radiantly beautiful, a voice like an angel, yet a passion about her that could not be expected from one seemingly so innocent. Had I not known Erik's whereabouts intimately over the past few days, I would have suspected he'd taught her passion with more than just his voice. As it were, I wasn't entirely convinced that Daaé's performance could have bested the spectacular chorus of ecstatic cries I had enjoyed instead.
Darius reported to me that following her triumph the sweet child collapsed into the arms of some of the members of the chorus who carried her from the stage. I did not learn until the following day what happened in her dressing room after Erik managed at last to leave an exhausted and still panting but thoroughly sated Carlotta lying on the floor of her dressing room.
Seeking not to be seen, I did not follow him directly and as a result I lost track of him for a few moments. It was likely during that time that he visited with Christine Daaé and gave her that ridiculous line about her soul and angels weeping. I rather suspected he had rushed to her dressing room, so I headed in that direction. By the time I got there, however, the door was closed and all was silent.
I traipsed back up the hallway wondering where else Erik might have gone, debating as I went whether to go below for drinks with the others once I was reunited with them or if instead I should try to get another throw out of Sorelli after her speech; listening to Erik and Carlotta from the wardrobe had certainly frustrated me. Unsure of where Erik might be, I wandered about the Opera aimlessly for a bit.
No one stopped me. Over the course of the three months I'd trailed him during the Daaé girl's lessons I'd become commonplace enough at the Opera. People crossed themselves or crossed their fingers when I went by due to that viscous rumor that someone (read: "Erik") had started about my having the evil eye, but that was all. I had nothing to fear but the shade in the felt hat who was always apprehending me and dragging me to the manager's office where I spoke few words, imitated my mother's accent as best I could, and pretended to be confused. Thus far it had worked, but I wasn't too confident my luck would hold.
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