A/N: Requests for an earlier update were duly noted. Ask, and ye shall receive!*
*maybe
They wanted her to stay the night.
Well, Nadir wanted her to stay the night. Who knew what Erik wanted, in that moment?
Panic welled up in her breast. It was not the notion of spending a night with the two men that bothered her; she knew they would be perfect gentlemen. No, that would be just another indiscretion thrown into her life's file, whose examination at the pearly gates would surely hold up the line for entry.
What she feared was the anxiety that her absence would cause her father, and the inevitable torrent of worry and/or rage to follow her return home, regardless of her explanation.
But then, if the journey home was as dark and impassable as the daroga had implied it would be, what other choice did she have?
Clara looked at the daroga, his soggy brown suit practically adhering to his skin, and nodded. "All right," she said. "If I must."
Nadir went upstairs to change into dry clothes. Clara perused the volumes on the bookcase, and Erik tinkered with the piano. Even his tinkering, of course, was beautiful. She realized that she had rarely seen him play outside of his quick demonstrations in their lessons, and she found herself so unable to stop sneaking glances at him that she finally sat in the armchair opposite the instrument in order to watch him outright, not caring whether he was still mad at her. His spidery fingers skittered across the keys.
"Are you hungry?" asked Nadir, descending the staircase behind her. "I think I shall start preparing supper. What that will be, I have no idea, but I bought enough at the market today to give us plenty of options."
"Let me help," she offered, following him into the kitchen. As he began to extract colorful vegetables from a canvas bag, she lowered her voice. "I really must thank you, daroga, for arranging all of this."
He stopped and turned to face her, his hand cradling a red onion with its papery skin flaking off. "Do you know, Clara, that I have not left the city in nearly ten years? And I have always loathed its smell in the summertime." He set the onion on the counter and followed it with a zucchini. "So you see, my dear, our pastoral hideout is actually a much-needed escape for this old man."
"So you are on holiday, then!" she decreed, grinning. "In that case, I insist that you take a day to rest and indulge. You go into the other room with Erik, and I shall prepare dinner."
He resisted, of course, until she practically pushed him out the door with an insistence that she wanted to cook. And she did, in fact; the shining rainbow of produce on the counter practically begged to be handled and sliced and lovingly pressed to heat to draw out its enticing flavors.
She decided on seared scallops with sautéed vegetables. Nadir had wasted no time in stocking the small kitchen, and she easily found what she needed for the basic beurre blanc recipe that Erik had taught her. She contented herself listening to the rain at the window and to the soothing murmur of male voices outside the kitchen as she cut into the onion and zucchini, the summer squash and bell pepper. She wondered what the men talked about when she was out of earshot. It made her envious sometimes: their shared history, their worldliness, the fact that Nadir knew so much about Erik that had not yet been revealed to her—and perhaps never would be.
She imagined that Erik might feel the same about her relationship with Margot, had Margot remained on this earth. But if she had, would Clara have even found her way into Erik's underground? She shuddered to think about what other fate might have befallen her—or, she was afraid to admit, might still befall her if she did not figure out how to fit Erik into all aspects of her life.
She finished her prep work and fired up the stove, thinking that perhaps she had overestimated her ability to make the sauce, sauté the vegetables, and sear the scallops, all one after the other, within a matter of minutes. It was only after she had her ingredients in the saucepan that she realized she had forgotten the place settings.
"I could use some assistance in setting the table!" she called out, cringing at how indelicate she sounded. There was a moment of silence and then a murmured exchange between the two men.
It was Erik who came in. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his limber fingers withdrawing silverware from a drawer, collecting table linens from a cupboard. All of these he arranged neatly on the table. It was only when he came to stand behind her, legs brushing against the back of her skirts, that she realized the plates were on a shelf above her head. She froze, her whisk hovering over the beurre blanc as it simmered on the stove.
Cool fingertips grazed her neck while another hand palmed her hip. Erik swept a few tendrils of hair from the soft hollow of skin between her neck and shoulder, and he leaned in to plant a feathery kiss in that same spot, making her shiver. Then, without a word, he reached over her to pull three plates from the shelf.
It was only when he drew back that he whispered into the shell of her ear, "Keep stirring, my sweet." The words snapped Clara out of her reverie, and she hurried to whisk the sauce before it separated. He stepped away to add the plates to the table.
She exhaled slowly. Was the gesture meant as an apology, or was it a signal of his dissipated anger? Things between them still felt unfinished, but in this moment, his tenderness was enough.
Ten frantic minutes later and she had tossed everything together in a serving bowl that she set on the table alongside a baguette. Then she scrubbed her hands, wishing as she did so that she could slip away to wash up and change before they all sat down to supper. Her brow was perspiring from her efforts at the hot stove, she knew that one handwash would not get the odor of garlic out of her skin, and she was fairly certain that she had sauce on her dress. Oh, goodness, she hoped that was sauce and not the juice from the raw scallops.
When she turned back to the table, Erik had an empty fork raised to his mouth and was chewing thoughtfully.
"I know it's simple," she explained anxiously, "and I am a mess, and the kitchen is a mess, but I thought that Nadir deserved some reprieve, and I could use the practice…" She trailed off, squinting, as he swallowed, chasing the morsel with a sip of the wine he had apparently poured while she cooked. "Is it...edible?" she finally asked.
"Clara, dear," he said, voice gentle, "what is our primary rule before serving guests?"
"Taste the food," she answered guiltily, and she found herself staring at his very shiny shoes. "I did try everything separately, and it seemed all right, but I have not had the chance to taste the final combination. Oh, dear, is it too soggy? Underseasoned?"
He shook his head. "It is quite good, my dear. My notes are minimal. At this rate, you shall surpass the daroga's ability in no time."
"And perhaps even your ability?" she teased, giving him a sly smile.
He chuckled without mirth, as though the very idea was ludicrous. "Well, that would certainly be something to aspire to."
"I imagine it would be more attainable than surpassing the size of your ego," she replied sourly, and that earned her a genuine laugh as Erik sauntered out to collect the daroga for supper.
It was their first meal together, the three of them, since Clara had departed for the summer. Nadir dug happily into the entree, singing her praises as he always did. Erik picked at his portion and peppered the conversation with acerbic commentary, as he always did. Together, the two of them talked opera, dissected Parisian society, and argued about literature. They had always folded her into their discussions easily, but there had been many occasions when she preferred to listen, and tonight was one such night.
It was a rare treat when they revisited their past, and she was amused beyond measure when the daroga spun a tale about Erik surreptitiously borrowing the shah's favorite Siamese cat in order to entertain Nadir's son.
"A fine cat," Erik said, nodding sagely. "Stunning diamond collar."
"Mm, yes, the same collar that disappeared from the feline's neck that very same day!"
"I will not give credence to your blatant insinuations, daroga."
Aha, thought Clara. So Isaac Verne was not his first victim of theft, as she had suspected. She raised her eyebrows, and he pretended not to notice. "Were conditions really so terrible that you resorted to thievery?" she teased.
Nadir snorted. "No sane man would steal from the shah, and Erik was showered in riches and gifts from him besides. You know as well as I do, Clara, that his thrill is in the act and not the reward."
"Gifts from a shah!" she exclaimed. "It sounds straight out of a fairytale. What sorts of gifts and riches?"
"It is of absolutely no consequence," Erik said. There was a bit of a bite to his usual sobriety, and it made her take notice.
"Oh, indulge the girl a bit, will you?" Nadir prodded. "She knows so little of your travels."
"And all the better for her."
The daroga waved away his words and turned to Clara. "He was given too many coin purses to count, of course," he said. "He was assigned one of the finest apartments at court. What else am I forgetting, my friend?" Erik poked at a scallop with his fork, looking unamused. "Ah!" the daroga continued. "There was a silver hookah! And a diamond ring, I believe, and a wi—"
He stopped himself at the same moment Erik's fork clattered to his plate. All went quiet for several seconds, and based on how intensely the two men watched each other, she was certain that an unspoken exchange had transpired during that time. Then Nadir cleared his throat. "Forgive me," he said. "I seem to have lost my train of thought. Would you pass the bread, please, Clara?"
When the meal resumed, the only sound in the room was the clinking of silverware against china. Erik had abandoned any pretense of eating and simply stared at his plate, brooding, until finally he pushed his chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor, and shot upright. "I apologize," he said. "I must...go out. Clear my head."
"But it's raining!" Clara protested, open-mouthed, at the same time that Nadir's sharp voice called after Erik's retreating form, "Oh, come now, this is hardly appropriate timing!"
She heard the rustle of Erik's cloak by the door, and then the daroga was tossing his napkin onto the table, stalking out of the room after him. "I can endure your coarseness more than anyone else on this earth, Erik, but this is utterly childish. Put your cloak away, and let us discuss this like gentlemen."
The front door creaked open. "I am no gentleman, daroga, and you were about to remind us all as much. Do not wait up for me."
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cottage windows. Clara delicately folded her own napkin and stood up to clear the table.
Erik had not returned by nightfall.
"It is my fault," Nadir announced from his preferred armchair, and not for the first time that night. "We talk often of our time in Persia, so I thought nothing of it at first. However, there have always been a few dark recesses of memory that we are careful to sidestep; I was careless." Whatever dark recess had incited this turn of events, however, he would not divulge: "I have encroached on Erik's privacy enough already. It is best for you to hear these things from him."
But I will not, she thought sullenly. She watched the daroga unfold a newspaper, feeling as though she ought to try her book again, but in the end she managed only to read the same paragraph approximately ten times.
It was a relief when Nadir set down the paper and stood. "I will go out and look for him," he said.
"No!" Clara protested, rising to her feet as well. "You have already been out in the rain once tonight, daroga. Let me do it."
"Ah, but I have another change of clothes. You, my dear, do not. Best to avoid further questioning tomorrow, hmm?"
She had to concede his point. She nodded and sank back into the loveseat, staring at the tiny, peach-pink roses that dotted the wallpaper in the sitting-room until the flowers seemed almost as though they were moving.
Nadir was back within minutes. She shot up from the sofa again, terrified to know what had precipitated his early and empty-handed return.
"César is gone," he said. "I do not know how Erik bypassed the flooding, but on horseback, he could be anywhere by now. At this point, we may as well retire to bed; there is nothing more that we can do. Come; you may take Erik's room."
She shook her head. "I am not yet tired," she replied; that was most certainly a lie. "You go ahead, and I will wake you if I need anything."
Once Nadir went upstairs, she dimmed the lights in the main room until only a sparse few candles against the back wall enabled her to see. Erik might be more inclined to return, she reasoned, if he thought they were asleep. Unfortunately, the plan was far too effective, when the darkness and quiet lulled Clara into slumber only minutes later.
It was the infernal creaking of the front door that woke her, and with her eyes unadjusted to the dark, she struggled to recall where she was. From where she was curled up on the loveseat, she began to make out a V-shaped patch of white. Erik's shirt.
And then there were his eyes, having spotted her easily in the night, and they watched as she pushed herself to a sitting position.
"Where did you go?" she whispered.
"Everywhere. Nowhere. Or so I thought." He moved a few steps closer, and she could smell the rainwater on him, combined with the musty odor of wet wool. "I had no destination in mind, and yet I eventually found myself on your beach, staring up at your window." She stood, putting herself mere inches from his face, but he did not flinch—only adjusted his gaze. "You have some sort of unearthly pull on me, my sky-goddess, as the moon does the tides."
She breathed in deep. How he could enchant her, her phantom, with his sonorous voice and his pretty turns of phrase. But she would not let him elude her, not this time.
"Perhaps you ought to change out of those wet clothes," she suggested. Before we talk, was the implication.
He shook his head and began to pace the length of the room. "No. Not yet."
She watched him for a few seconds, and then she made a decision. She moved from the loveseat to the wall that separated living room from kitchen, and she sank into a sitting position against it, tucking her legs under her skirts as delicately as one could while sitting on the floor. Then she patted the space next to her.
Erik hesitated, exhaled, and finally moved to join her. He stretched his legs out in front of him, where they seemed to go on forever. He sat close enough that his arm rested against hers, and she began to feel the dampness of his jacket through her sleeve. She rose to her knees. "We ought to at least get you out of this coat," she urged.
His lips parted in surprise as she reached for the lapels, but he let her tug the wet wool off of his shoulders and down his wiry arms. His glowing eyes tracked her every movement.
She folded the coat lengthwise. "Let me hang this," she said. She moved to stand, but her feet had not even found solid ground before a white hand shot out to grip her arm. Erik pulled her to him in one swift movement, and she fell against his chest. He tore the tailcoat from her grip—she heard the light slap of wet fabric landing across the room—and his arms ensnared her: one around her waist to pin her to him, the other curling up and up her back until a hand wound its way into the thick hair at the base of her head, tightening around the strands, anchoring her so that she did not give way when he crushed her lips with his own.
A reflexive, muffled cry sounded in her throat. She welcomed the taste, the touch of him—but oh, there was something unsettling in this, too. He seemed almost desperate, taking and taking and taking from her faster than she could give. It was dizzying, maddening: the pressure of his mouth, the feel of his ropy muscle stretching and tightening with every kiss and every breath that he stole from her lips. She began to feel trapped.
She barely managed to come up for air. "Erik," she said, trying to get his attention, but based on his quietly rasping moan, and the way his mouth dragged itself across the slant of hers, it must have come across as an entreaty for more.
She put her palms to his chest and pushed their bodies apart. "Erik!" she cried, urgently now, and he froze.
Blue and gold eyes danced around each other as she worked to fill her lungs again. She was stunned to find herself in his lap, and when she moved to pull away, he released her without protest.
He avoided her gaze when she finally settled in at his side. "You cannot continue to do this, you know," she told him. "You cannot control aspects of my life while simultaneously denying me access to yours."
When he still did not speak, she took one of his hands in both of hers. "Erik, what are you so afraid of?"
He did look at her then, and it seemed to her that his eyes shone of the purest gold, as though they had managed to harbor the last vestiges of innocence after all of these years. "Oh, little fawn," he whispered. "I am terrified of everything."
"Tell me," she said, her eyes wide.
He hung his head and moaned, looking very much like a child forced to own up to an infraction. "I want to, I truly do—but oh, how does one even begin to explain?"
"Please try."
He shut his eyes as if to seal himself in with his thoughts. "Imagine, if you will, a lifetime of near-drought. A lifetime of unhappiness and want! Would you not, when at last presented with enough water to slake your thirst, keep drinking and drinking? Would you not make all efforts to retain and safeguard your provisions?"
She frowned, trying to understand. "And what does the water represent in this scenario?"
"You, of course! Oh, Clara, you are the blessed flood after the drought, and having never experienced such a flood before, I scarcely know what to do with myself. I question your affections at every turn, but at the same time I am haunted by the sheer number of ways in which I could lose you and so I throw myself at your feet. But without my safe and beautiful underground, this place, this pastoral nightmare, feels like a cage—a bright, exposed cage!"
Clara looked up at him, stunned. "Oh, Erik," she breathed. "I never meant to—I do not want—" She felt the tears coming, but then he was stroking her hair, the thin pads of his fingers dragging reassuring trails along her scalp.
"Hush, little one," he said. "It is hardly your doing."
She bit her lip, hard. She refused to let her body dictate every reaction. "I will not keep you here for the rest of the summer," she said. "Stay for a while, if you want, and let Nadir enjoy some time away from the city, but no more than a week or two." He opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but she cut him off. "We survived six weeks apart, and then recently another stretch. We can handle a few more weeks of separation if it means restoring your sanity."
He emitted a low chuckle. "Far too late for that, my dear. But I will consider your proposition."
"And you will stop meddling in my affairs?"
He sighed. "I do not deny that I make it my business to know everything," he replied. "But as far as my future with you is concerned, knowing everything does not seem possible. I am plagued by unknowns! My only solace"—and here his voice dropped—"is when I touch you." He brought her knuckles to his lips. "When I do that, my fawn, I know that you are safe and whole and real under my fingertips." He turned her hand over to plant a kiss to her palm, to the underside of her wrist. "You are an escape from the unknowns," he murmured into her skin. "I know you."
She lifted his hand, placed it over her heart, and held it there. "Yes," she said, peering directly into his widening eyes. "You do. And that is why you should know better than to doubt my affections, you ridiculous man. But you mustn't take advantage as you did just now."
"I am so sorry," he said, breathlessly. "I meant it, you know, when I said that I did not deserve you."
"How fortunate for you, then, that life is hardly fair," she teased, but then she fell somber again. "Will you tell me what you and Nadir kept from me at dinner?"
Erik's jaw slackened, and she imagined that if he'd had an ordinary countenance without a mask, she would have seen the blood drain from his face. She waited for him to retreat into his hard shell and snap shut against her.
Instead, he opened himself up.
"There was a harem girl," he said, "in Persia. Younger than you. The shah sent her to me as a...as a gift. A wife."
Clara's chest constricted, but she stayed silent.
"I promised her absolute freedom, Clara—freedom to leave the harem, even the country, with a full purse—if she would only remove my mask and come to my bed, willingly, for one night."
The contents of her stomach churned. There was no possible end to this story that could satisfy her, she realized.
"She was all too aware that to refuse me meant certain death," he continued, his voice seeming to strain against the confines of his larynx. "And do you know what she chose, Clara? Death! Death over her own freedom!" He laughed joylessly. "She had not even seen my face by that point."
"Did—was it you who—?" She could not even voice the question. She did not want to know the answer, but she needed to know it.
"I was not there for her execution, no. But it may as well have been by my hand, for I created the torture chamber that facilitated her demise." He pivoted to face her, and she could barely meet his eyes. "I have seen and done many terrible things in my life, Clara," he said, "but few haunt me as much as that incident does. And now I expect that it will haunt you as well."
He turned back and rested his head against the wall. "This is what happens, I am afraid, when one becomes entangled with a monster. But there is still time to escape, if you wish it."
Her head felt thick with fog. She hardly knew what to do with his confession; it was not all right, not by any means, and it would take more time to process. At present, however, she was so very fatigued, and a very broken man had, against all instinct, just made himself vulnerable as a sacrifice to her.
"No," she said. "None of that tonight. I have missed you, Erik, and I am tired." She wrapped his nearest arm in both of hers and set her head against his shoulder, glancing up at him to add, "Do not assume that that terrified young girl spoke for all women. I would come to your bed willingly. And I would stay."
His eyes seemed to expand and pulsate in the darkness, and she realized that what she had meant as a reassurance sounded like an offer. She felt warmth flooding to the surface of her face, but she found herself biting her tongue, waiting to gauge his reaction.
Erik let out a soft moan. "Little fawn, you are going to be my undoing," he murmured, pressing his lips to the crown of her head. "But this is not Persia, and you are not a harem girl. I do have some sense of propriety where these things are concerned, and you, my Clara, ought to retire to bed."
He got to his feet, pulling her up with him, and he led her by the hand to his quarters, where she was to sleep. He gathered up what he thought she might need, as best he could—including one of Nadir's dressing-gowns, which he pilfered as the daroga slept. "I imagine your current ensemble to be uncomfortable for sleeping," he explained, sheepishly, as she stared at the garment with surprise. "The daroga will not mind."
"Thank you," she said, smiling as she addressed him through half-lidded eyes, and he kissed her goodnight before leaving her to her own devices.
He was right, in the end; she could not stand the idea of wearing her full dress to bed, especially given how warm the second floor was. She stripped down to her undergarments and put on the maroon dressing-gown. It was too large and hung strangely from her shoulders, but she was grateful for the tie with which she was able to cinch the fabric around her waist.
Clara slid under the sheets and buried her face in the pillow, revelling in how wonderful everything felt against her tired muscles, her weary skin. The bedding smelled like Erik, she realized—wool and starch, mostly, and soap: fresh and pure, with the tiniest lingering scent of something snappy and herbal. Rosemary? Thyme?
The more she breathed in his scent, the more she could not sleep.
It was nearly an hour later when she padded back downstairs. She was surprised to find Erik lying directly on the floor, on his side with nothing beneath him but rug and pillow, a light blanket pulled tight around his sleeping form. He wore no tailcoat but otherwise appeared to be in full evening dress.
Even in repose, Erik's figure looked stick-straight and proper, and somehow even invulnerable. But she could see a difference in his mouth and jaw, the way his muscles relaxed enough to make him look as though he did not carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. She was struck by how handsome he appeared despite the presence of the mask.
She did not notice until too late that his breathing had lost its measured heaviness. "It is impolite to stare," he murmured, and she jumped, her hand flying to still her hammering heart.
"Sorry," she whispered. He opened his eyes then, and she felt uneasy, looming over him as she was. As he watched, eyes widening at an exponential rate, she lowered herself to lie next to him, inching her way onto his pillow until he shifted to allow her head more space. They faced each other, as close as they could possibly be without actually touching.
"Clara," Erik said, warningly. "What are you doing?"
"I could not sleep," she replied, "and something was bothering me."
"What is bothering you, my dear?"
"That night in your home, after I—after we—" Goodness, she could not even admit aloud that she had kissed him! "I told you that I thought I might be falling in love with you."
There was a beat of silence. "Yes," he confirmed. "I certainly do recall that."
"I just thought I ought to inform you that...that, in fact, I do. Love you. In case you were...wondering."
He said nothing. His eyes, trained on hers, burned bright in the darkness. Then he shifted, his arm encircling her until she was sufficiently ensconced in the blanket with him. His arm came to rest draped over her torso, and his hand flattened against the space between her shoulder blades.
"Goodness," he murmured. "You are a goddess." He eased his lips onto hers, gentle and seeking, and somehow it was within the soft folds of his protracted kiss that she finally fell asleep.