Chapter 25

For the third morning in a row the sun rose before I did. Each day I had awoken to the rays of refracted sunlight blazing into the room. I wondered if Christine drew the heavy brocade curtains back with the intention of creating a cheery room for me… she couldn't possibly have known how slowly my eyes took to adjust to the light. Of course, I suppose I could have told her. With a sigh I squinted in the morning light, wishing it had been an overcast rainy day. This wasn't something altogether new. Years of lurking in a low light environment, shielded from daylight, had conditioned my eyes. It had been one of the many reasons I conditioned myself to sleep for short periods of time, rising before the sun to allow a gradual adjustment. The sleeping draught never had this effect before. Typically I would rest roughly eight hours, to wake up from a dreamless sleep. I was exceeding that amount of unconsciousness be several hours. Several hours I missed! The past days, as I shifted through the shattered remains of my laboratory, cataloging what could be repaired and what would need to be replaced, I began to suspect that the last batch of sleeping draught I had brewed must have been flawed. An ingredient too strong, or perhaps the batch was old enough to have concentrated itself within each vial. It did not matter, I had no choice but to take it until I could repair the laboratory sufficient to brew a new one.

Lying on my right side under the covers, I let my blurry gaze stare at Christine's side of the bed. I knew she was no longer abed, having already begun her day. There was an odd shape on her pillow. Rubbing my eyes to clear them, I observed a familiar sight. One of my music boxes glittered where she had set it. The bejeweled golden clockwork nightingale perched upon his rose. At rest, the closed rose bud gleamed with its white opal petals. However, in the beak of the shimmering little bird a small piece of folded paper rested. As I plucked it from its messenger, I could tell that Christine had used a piece of paper from my draw. Her neat lettering filled the paper.

Erik dear. Don't be late to the Symphony Society's rehearsal. Remember, you promised Damrosch you would try to return today. I am at the morning Oratorio rehearsal, in case it slipped your mind. Please promise me you will listen to your ribs to prevent further injury. I know how eager you are to resume activities as usual. I love you. Your Dearest Christine.

I chuckled, how incredibly sweet. Since that bad day, she had been watching me very carefully, trying not to reveal her intentions. I found it endearing. Snapping the paper between my fingers I watched it vanish in a puff of flame and smoke. My eyes shifted to the little nightingale who perched upon his thorny branch. Deliberately, I leaned over and stroked the golden throat. Instantly the mechanism activated and the bird began his insistent song. Leaning on one elbow, I observed the lifelike animations of the nightingale. His song evolved and intensified within each segment as he attempted to coax the rose to open her petals and turn to him.

But there were new notes … notes I had not placed within the mechanics. What was this?

I turned my head just in time as the real nightingale landed upon my raised knee. His head twisted and turned as he called out his vibrant song to the mechanical counterpart.

"Well, good morning to you." I stayed as still as possible, trying not to startle him.

Flicking his tail, his eyes spared only a passing glance at me before he hopped down onto the coverlet and made his way in a little dance towards the automaton. The rose was opening, the opals sliding back to reveal the red garnets beneath … the white rose stained red by forbidden love. When the mechanical bird fell silent and still, my real visitor sat up straight, cocking his head with curiosity. Flapping his wings, he perched upon the rose's thorny stem before bursting into a lusty tune. When there was no reply, he ducked his head, eyeing the silent bird with one eye and then the other.

Sliding my finger beneath the beak, I triggered the bird once more. The mechanism reset and the complex song began its cascade. In a remarkable chorus, the flesh nightingale poured his heart and soul out, joining his voice to my music.

Taking flight in mid song, he hovered over my head for a moment before I felt his tiny claws rest on my scalp. His weight was so slight, it almost didn't register. Only the tiny prick of his claws as he hopped about betrayed his presence. His song ceased for a moment. A sting almost caused me to swat my head before the little nightingale fluttered back to the bejeweled rose stem. In his beak, a single strand of my silver hair.

"Ouch!" I rubbed where he had plucked it. "What are you planning on doing with that, my little Don Juan? Feather a love nest?"

He bobbed his head below the diligently singing automaton. My heart sank as I realized the cruel truth.

"Poor, poor little soul." I sighed, my hand hovered just above the base of the automaton. "That bird will never truly sing for you. It is but a clever illusion, just gears and springs. I am sorry, my friend. Deeply sorry that you have been the victim of such deception."

The performance having run its course, the room dashed into silence and the metal bird resumed his stony watch. Brushing his feathers against the metal breast, the real nightingale tried to coax this shimmering bird to take the strand from him.

I could take it no longer, cupping my hands around the tortured little bird, I was forced to pry his tiny claws from the branch as he protested.

"Shh, shh. That is enough." Blocking the music box from his view, I watched as he cocked his head back and forth, beady eyes transfixed. "I once knew that feeling. You cannot coax affection from an automaton no matter how much you try. Do not break your heart in any vain attempts."

My fingers stroked his little throat. As he relaxed into my hand, I opened my fingers and drew them over his back. He pushed up into each caress.

"Smooth out those ruffled feathers. There we are, my handsome little friend." I started to hum a little snippet of melody he had once bestowed upon me in the study. In a trice, he added his voice to mine, singing gleefully. I admired his spirit. How easily he had overcome his painful folly. If only I had been so resilient ….

"Erik? Are you awake yet?" Nadir's voice called out from the other room.

Startled into silence, the little bird darted a glance over his wing before taking flight out the open window.

Flinging back the covers, I leapt out of bed in pursuit. "Wait! Do not leave!" My hand stretched out beyond the sill, the daylight illuminating the pale skin of my bare arm.

"Erik?" Nadir stood in the door, his eyes widened as I lowered my arm and turned back inside. "Who were you talking to?"

Oh no! He must have thought … hastily I stuttered., "It was a bird! Honest! It was just a nightingale … it flew out the window when you scared him!"

Stiffly he shifted his gaze to the open window.

Darting to the coverlet, I plucked a plain brown feather from the fabric, holding it before the Persian triumphantly. "See? See? Here is the evidence there was a nightingale in this very room!"

He released the breath he had been holding. "Thank heavens!"

Dropping the feather on the nightstand, I put my mask on before grabbing my robe. "I promised you there would be full disclosure, did I not? Entirely too many hours I have been spending in slumber. Yes, it seems to have made a difference and lulled the little beast to his own sleep." Eyeing Nadir I tied the sash about my waist. "But that is not why you have come up to my bedchamber."

He held out an envelope without a word.

Snatching it from his hand, I grumbled. "Carnegie. What does he want now?" Tearing it open I skimmed the telegraph while translating the doublespeak.

"What is it?" Nadir asked as I frowned.

Sliding the letter back into the envelope, I swallowed. "He wants an update on how the studio tower project is coming." Casting my eyes to the ceiling I confessed, "I honestly have no idea. What good fortune that I will be attending the Hall today. Looks as though the rehearsal will not be my only task."

"Take care not to over do it." Nadir chided.

"Yes, yes." I muttered, shepherding him towards the door. "Thank you, Nursemaid."

He was about to speak up as I closed the door on his face. "Erik!" His muffled voice broke through. "What are you doing now?"

"Meddling with the forces of evil—what do you think I am doing?" I snorted sarcastically. "Let go of the doorknob, Daroga! I am merely getting dressed for the rehearsal. You panic entirely too easily these days."

Despite my better judgment, the month of October became a whirlwind of activity. Rotating between my construction sites I was forced to limit myself to dictating from the ground level, not risking the chance of stepping onto the scaffolding. There had been no recent visible suspicious activity, a sign that left me glancing over my shoulder nearly constantly. Aside from that fact, though I was not being honest in my disclosures Nadir and Christine, sporadically the unexpected whispers reduced me to spin around in sudden alarm. It was becoming more difficult to conceal the effect. More than once, I failed to suppress my shouted reply in the presence of one of the workmen. It annoyed me to no end that it was impossible to completely control my faculties. Every contract my company had taken had fallen so far behind schedule in my absence there was no chance at making up for lost time. It had not been for lack of effort on my crews, they had been toiling away earnestly. The majority of the tasks that were incomplete required my attention. At the Hall, resuming my duties as a musical tutor and concertmaster around the frantic days at the construction sites, I found my temper strained to the breaking point.

Damrosch had been pressing the Symphony Society hard to learn my composition. In my absence, most of it had gone astonishingly well. The rehearsals within my presence … that was another story. Driven to the brink of exhaustion, my tongue snapped out less than elegant remarks about his approach to directing some parts. One especially irritable day, without any preamble, I seized the baton from his hand and took his place on the podium to the shocked eyes of every musician. The remainder of the rehearsal I staunchly refused to allow the conductor his place back, working through various segments I felt he had misinterpreted. Some hours afterward, as I lie in bed waiting for the sleeping draught to chase me into oblivion, I realized what I had done.

I was fortunate that Damrosch had an understanding and remarkably forgiving spirit. The next rehearsal, he did not acknowledge my rude behavior, despite the sideways glances of the other musicians. Instead he simply directed the movements to my corrections without remark. In his office afterward, when I tried to apologize, he only turned the conversation to the progress of my contracts … he understood. He excused my rude behavior, even though I had not.

One of our most prominent concert series was approaching rapidly. The holidays always provided the community with the excuses for excessive entertainment and festivities. Carnegie Hall was expected to provide the cream of the crop, just as had been intended from the conception of the Hall. Each morning, as I dragged myself out of bed to the punishing light of the sun, I wondered dismally how I was going to manage everything I needed to do. November's icy gales put a stop to any external construction, halting some projects entirely, while restricting me to carving inside the buildings. Ordinarily I would have laid my chisel and mallet to rest for the season. This year I could not afford to.

Grey storm clouds hung low in the sky promising an early storm as I gazed out the window of my study. Glancing at the calendar I noted Charles would be coming home for a short break soon. Too long had passed with words left unspoken.

Erik, sooner or later you will come to see. You cannot deny me forever.

I heard the carriage arrive, the sound of horse hooves in the slush on the street. Christine squeezed my arm before she drifted off downstairs to greet him, a somber expression in her eyes. If the boy thought this would be an entirely joyous homecoming … well. Pacing over to the fireplace, I turned the logs with a poker, feeling a surge of heat as the sparks tumbled in the air.

Voices carried up the stairs. "Mother, it's been a long trip. Have you seen the weather out there? I am tired and more than just a little cold."

"You can warm up by the fire." She replied firmly.

"I just want to go to my … room." He stopped, just outside the study door. I watched as Christine reached through, took his hand and pulled the boy over the threshold. Charles's eyes instantly fixed themselves to the floor. "Oh hell … why this now?"

"Because it is time." I replied with enormous restraint. A moment later a servant I had previously given instructions to hovered in the doorway. I beckoned him to enter, a rare invitation into my private chambers. In his hands he held the case I had requested be retrieved and delivered from the carriage. Handing the case to me with a bow, he waited only long enough for my hand gesture to dismiss him.

Charles's eyes darted to the instrument case briefly before he attempted unsuccessfully to follow the servant. Christine had shut the study door, cutting off his escape. "Father, I can explain."

My fingers undid the latches painfully slowly in the silence. Extracting the silver flute from the cream velvet lining, I cradled it in my hands to study the lines of this instrument my son had fashioned into my enemy. It was a masterwork. Beautiful and well balanced. The valve hinges were of superior quality, each valve cover lined with a red felt pad to seal the air. By its weight I knew it was not truly made out of pure silver, it was the traditional silver-plated brass. Though it showed evidence of having been played extensively, this instrument had sustained no more than two years of use.

Closing my hand around the flute, I pointed at my son with it. "I am waiting."

Swallowing hard, he held out his trembling hands from across the room. He cast a frantic glance to Christine who stood wordlessly by the door, holding firm to the knob. She made no move to come to his aid. "Please!" Charles begged me. "Don't break it! It took everything I could scrape together to purchase it! Mister McClenachan thought you had given me the money with your blessing. It was the only way I could get my hands on the flute!"

"You never thought to ask me?" I tapped the instrument lightly against my hand.

A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead which he tensely wiped away. "I knew you would say no."

Oh yes, because you are a heartless monster.

My eyes closed against the cruel whisper. "I never dictated what instruments you might pursue, Charles. I introduced you to the piano, which you excelled at. I painstakingly taught you the basics of the violin— "

He cried out, heat rising to his cheeks, "Which I could never hope to make any grand achievement on compared to you! I had no chance of ever sounding like anything but a clumsy student tripping over his own fingers in your presence!"

From the door, Christine commanded my attention as I caught her pensive gaze. Her hand drifted up to grasp the lacy collar of her dress. The prediction, her own suspicion shared with me some time ago, had come to fruition. I said nothing as my eyes returned to the boy, his breaths now heaving as he fought back the tears I could see threatening to spill.

"I had to find something … some way that I could do this on my own! Without you!" He turned around, grabbing handfuls of hair and tugging them to their ends. "You don't understand, this had to be my dream! My accomplishment! Something I had achieved!"

The instrument grew heavier in my hands. Soundlessly I came up behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder as he stiffened. "This dream … am I to be forbidden from being proud of you?"

He froze in the silence for a long time. Sleet pelted the windowpane in a steady cadence as I waited for his reply. "You … you were proud of me?"

My voice was soft, but no matter how I tried, I could not entirely banish the lingering hurt. "Yes Charles, I was. I had sought you out to tell you when you … well, no sense in mincing words, when you broke my heart."

His head hung lower as he grasped his sides with white knuckled hands. "They know who you are, Father. My classmates, Dario told them last year. It never stops—endless rounds of remarks about how masterful of a violinist you are and how no one alive can match your skill. Talk of the mask comes, they ask over and over again why you wear it! Not only the bejeweled nightingale mask for the performances but the ones you wear all the time off the stage! They want to know why!"

My hand slid from his shoulder. So this was what my reputation brought my son, both sides of it. The idea that he would always be inadequate by comparison as well as the subject of ridicule on my behalf. "What … what have you told them?"

"That it wasn't their business." He murmured heatedly. "It barely holds the questions off for even half a day. But what else can I tell them? That my father is severely deformed?"

I sighed, studying my bent reflection in the silver flute. "If you did, they would only press you as to how to glimpse me unmasked. Once more nothing would sate curiosity … how repulsively familiar."

"I just wanted to achieve something that would stand alone." He sobbed into his hands. "I just wanted a skill I could call my own and I knew that you couldn't play any wind instruments."

"Because of my deformity." I remarked, deflated. "And so, the music I so lovingly shared with you became a shameful barrier between us."

Turning halfway, he shook his head. "Not at first … it wasn't supposed to! I just … I didn't know how … I was stupid in front of them! It came out of me in the heat of a moment and with so many witnesses, I couldn't take it back."

Placing the flute into his hands I turned from him, crestfallen. My steps carried me to lean upon my piano. "One day you will come to realize a lesson no one can teach you. The power of the spoken word — to hurt and to heal. Loyalties are often forged on the character of one's statements. Charles, I am no stranger to careless words escaping me. But a gentleman takes pains to rectify what a rash tongue betrays."

"I wish I could take it back." He twisted his hands around the polished flute.

My eyes gazed out at the dreary, white washed streets. I wanted to forgive him. I needed to forgive him. The words would not come. Taking it back would not be enough. He needed to find a way on his own to rebuild the bridge he had burned.

"Father?" His voice pleaded in my silence.

With a shake of my head, I whispered out, "You are dismissed." It wasn't what I had wanted to say.

Quietly, with painful slowness, I heard Charles pick up the flute case and tread toward the door. It opened and shut before I heard her footsteps across the rug. She embraced me tightly, breathing into my ear, "It is a start, Erik dear. This won't be easy for either of you … but it must be done."