Her question brought his chin to rise and eyes to settle upon her. No more than three feet away, directly in reaching range, it was that one sided mirror that kept them apart. The bane of his existence ever since he had first laid eyes upon the monster in the glass, one he was determined to get rid of ... until he found out that he was that creature. "You would wish more?" It was a habit with him, answering a question with a question, wanting to learn more of her mind, her way of thinking. Infuriating, undoubtedly.
His weight shifted subtly, just enough to send draping cloth in a gentle lap against the side of his shoes. Raising a hand he slowly rubbed across his lips, fingertips brushing against porcelain with each thoughtful, right-ward stroke. Of course he adored her; she was his student, one that was blossoming quite well into a diva beneath his very eyes. It mattered not what the others thought. Let them wonder at her sudden talent.
She sat silently for a long while, unsure and thrown by his returned question. Surely he knew of her devotion? Was it so hard to see, to hear in the way she sang nightly for him? Christine stood, moving uneasily towards her dresser as at last she spoke, bemused. "You are a riddle, dear Erik." There was a sigh in her words, her eyes heavy as she sat upon the small stool and studied her reflection, thrice gazing back at her. What promise could he have seen in such an unremarkable child? Her beauty was certainly that of an ingenue, and could such a one live in the shoes of a Prima Donna? She'd certainly find out tomorrow night, when the rather bland dressing room would become swamped with bouquets with letters attached that showered adoration – just as he had promised.
Her answer brought a tug to the corner of his mouth and he lowered his hand to rest it back beneath the cloak. Loosely curling his fingers against his elbow again he regarded her silently from beneath that felt brim. While she considered herself unremarkable, he actually believed her not unpleasant to look upon. She was no vibrant, ravishing beauty, though she wasn't hideous to look upon either. A perfect balance, comely, and demure, which only made her ever the more alluring with an innocence he had never achieved since birth.
"Why is that, Christine?" came a voice from the dresser, the brush that lay upon it, in fact. He was a man of simple desires sometimes, and watching her do something as minor as brushing her hair pleased him. More than once he had attempted to draw himself from this growing infatuation, from this woman that treated him like a human, though she believed him to be some Celestial Being. If only she knew just how far from that he was.
How could she begin to explain his mystery? It was such that he drew from her every ounce of spirit when she sang, her heart open to his scrutiny while she in turn could but adore him in vain, resigned to the often absurd moments of speaking praise to hard, unfeeling air, dreaming of things that would never be, the frustration of a climb without a conquer. She thought of poor Piangi, and all of his adoring overtures towards a woman who could think of nothing but herself. Poor Christine, if anyone was to be consumed in such woeful restless anguish, it was she!
She touched the comb with her fingertips suddenly, running her palm over the teeth slowly as she spoke softly. "You lurk in shadow, when a wonder such as yourself should descend from Heaven. Why?" What are you punishing yourself for, dear Erik?
His lips tilted again, but this time in an almost wistful, yet bitter manner. It was a good question, one that he couldn't answer immediately. There was actually a rather long moment of silence as he considered how he should respond. Then he opted for a simple, "some things are better left unseen." The softness of his tone then shifted toward a more curious one. "It is said that it is frightening to behold an angel, a being who acts as God's wrath, one wing dipped in purity, the other in blood. Often, when you read the Bible, He sends His angels when someone needs punished. Would you truly wish to meet one, face to face?"
It was ironic; him speaking of God. A ..thing he shunned so long ago. Drawing his eyes from her, he followed her hand to the comb, then turned his gaze to the mirror that she stood near. Often he wondered if she saw something when she studied the mirror he was behind. Perhaps...perhaps, she can sense me here, he thought. And sense him she could. The heat and the weight of his eyes rested heavily on her, just beyond where she sensed that presence almost nightly. She spoke of it not, however, for fear he'd flee as he had weeks, months ago. How time had passed, a blur of endless encounters that felt as distant as a dream but still rested warm upon her mind, a ray of hope in a world otherwise desolate and colorless despite the vibrant surroundings.
She listened carefully to each of his words, enthralled by his short tale as she had been so many years ago when she and a friend had read to each other the dark stories of the North and her father spoke of goblins and great kings, of gypsies and the Angel of Music. Of Erik. She lowered her hand from the dresser's surface, standing as she spoke softly, lovely doe eyes wide. "I would. I fear I deserve punishment for my sin." And what sin was that? What catastrophe of impurity could such a bright angel be stained by? She wasn't good enough, she reasoned. She would never reach the caliber of her Angel's voice, his wisdom, his instruction. To prove herself worthy of his guidance, worthy of his praise, she must surely sing with the abandon he so gracefully poured forth, even in his very manner of speech and the power with which he held her enthralled, enslaved.
"Sin?" He continued to look upon her reflection, studying every nuance of her face as she stood before the vanity's mirror. "What sin would that be, my dear?" Genuinely curious, the tilting of his head would have proved this, if she could see it. But that time would never come, not if he could help it. He would remain her unseen teacher, closer than she would ever have guessed.
What would she think if she knew he had been behind the mirror, or in the auditorium all along? If he was but a man instead of this angel she believed him to be, he made her believe him to be? She would hate him. Hate him, or fear him. Think him a disturbed man, that he might have gambled her privacy when she slept and dressed. He didn't even wish to think of her shunning and denying him. Closing his eyes he gave a faint shake of his head, as if that would help get rid of the flickers of scenarios that traveled through his mind.
She began to pace slowly, her words low and heated as she explained her previous remark, "My sin, dear teacher, is in my soul! I hold my back straight, I measure my breaths, I close my eyes and I envision a choir of angels accompanying me in my song and still I fail. Still my spirit yearns for ... for ..." She sighed heavily, seating herself rather suddenly on the chaise. "Oh, I do not know. How can I explain this wanting, this restlessness? Never before have I felt it." She wrung her hands nervously, her whole fragile form trembling with excitement as she spoke. A thin wisp of curls shivered upon her shoulders and tumbled in a thicket of russet color over her back and breasts, sharply accentuated by the glowing pallor of her chemise.
Lovely and frail as she was, a delicate flower in a bed of weed and thorns, she served as her own worst enemy – her judgment clouded by insecurities, her nature conflicted by her strange guardian and mentor. The power he influenced her with frightened her in a way; never before had such a man, Celestial Spirit from above or not, entranced and intoxicated her so. She felt as if she might die in his silence; his voice, a heavy sedative that proved sweet to taste but lethal within its deceiving promise of one gentle caress, one tender ... no, there she went again. Quickly she stood, active and alive, and she moved to the center of her dressing room, turning to face the mirror slowly, challenging her own reflection.
The sudden strength and conviction behind her words caused a brow to faintly lift from beneath the veil of porcelain and he tilted his head to the side, in an animalistic curiosity. She seemed troubled and confused about what she wanted and yearned for. He had no suitable answer for her, because he wasn't sure what she was speaking of. He had felt many yearnings in his lifetime, though never something that had to do with his soul or his spirit, or so he believed.
He had just begun to speak when he heard a soft knock at the door, causing Christine to start with a soft yelp – she had been straining to hear his response at the time. Closing his mouth he pressed his lips thinly, and cat-like eyes flicked from her poised form to the door, silently cursing whoever was on the other side of the portal. Didn't people understand that when someone went to their dressing room, they usually wished privacy? "Christine!" Meg. Of course. Exhaling a quiet grunt he shook his head gently.
Christine hesitated to move, still somewhat dazed by her encounter with her elusive Angel. At last she mustered the strength, moving hastily to unlock the door and open it, allowing the glow of the light from the corridor to wash over her bare feet. She donned a soft, sudden smile for her friend, though her cheeks were pale and her skin overall lifeless. "What is it, Meg?"
By the way the little blonde was bouncing from one foot to the other, something had caused excitement within the young woman. She clutched an object against her chest; and now handed to it Christine with a near-squeal. A simple envelope stamped with an unmarked seal. "Someone left you a message. He said that you would know who he was. Oh he was so handsome." Behind that mirror, a single brow was slowly lifting. Someone is giving her messages? "Open it, open it," Meg begged, inviting herself inside the room as she peeked down at the missive and smoothed her hands against the plain cloth of her dress once the envelope was taken.
Christine took the letter from her friend quickly, busy with examining its exterior as the bustling ballerina hurried in. She closed the door absently behind her, breaking the seal and folding back the parchment slowly as her gaze lifted in slight amusement towards her companion. Surely not an admirer? She had only rehearsed for the managers and several members of the troupe and stage hands, had she not? And, of course, her shadowed Angel.
She thought of him now in hopes that perhaps this letter was from him. No, of course not, stupid girl. Was he not watching now, could she not feel the weight of his eyes on her from what seemed every corner of the room? And surely Meg hadn't seen him! No, this letter proved to be worthy of further inspection, her gaze dropping from the blonde to scan slowly over the elegant scrawl, her mouth working silently to form the words.
You've come a long way from attic stories
and childhood fancies. Though, nevertheless,
I hope you still have your scarf, Little Lotte.
That water was dreadfully cold.
Sincerely,
A friend.
That was all it said in a flowing, almost feminine, script of black ink. Meg was nearly crawling out of her dress to get a better look at what was on the parchment. "What's it say? Who was he? Oh come on, Christine, tell me!" She returned to the bouncing, left to right, right to left, and even he had to stare at the child for a few moments. Just what does she put in her food every morning? Shaking his head he stepped a bit closer to the mirror, curious, hesitant to speak. Even if he did, he might have been too distracted by the young one. Then again... no he wouldn't have. This letter had roused his curiosity.
Surely not ... no ... Why, she had not seen her childhood companion since she was but a gawkish, insipid little thing, gullible to her father's stories and dancing clumsily to the sway of his violin by the sea. And a red scarf ... and a breeze that carried it into the salty void ... and the boy that retrieved it, soaked through and through and beaming like a rascal, expecting a kiss for a reward. The corners of her mouth turned upward, her eyes lifting to Meg as she folded the parchment slowly, resting it in her lap.
"I dare not say, but I think it's from one of my eldest and dearest friends." Had it been more than friends? Oh, she couldn't remember. The stretch of years did ever so riddle her mind with dreams she had placated for reality; unshed tears, the memorization of verse after verse, dead and unfeeling song and dance was all she recalled of her younger days. The days after her impetuous youth. She opened and re-read the letter once more, reassuring to herself that no other could have penned such an elusive message that spoke of times long ago.