A/N: Sensuality ahead. Sensitive readers be warned, as always.
I apologize for the delay, especially to my most devoted readers, though hopefully this satisfies (along with Chapter 39, which is on the way). Lilly has been home for about a month now and, incandescently wonderful though this is, she occupies almost all of my time and energy (not to mention depriving me of much of my sleep). Also, the internet here isn't the greatest.
Tora awoke in darkness. She panicked, briefly, and then realized that there was no way of telling the time. Was it morning or still night?
Fumbling for a match on the bedside table, she struck it and quickly lit the candle, wondering briefly if he had put electric lighting in this part of the abode.
I will have to get him to teach me how it works.
Memory assaulted her then, and she shivered, glancing at her still-locked door. After a moment, she suddenly realized the theoretical futility of what she had done. If he had wanted to get in, he could have simply used a key. This place was his, after all.
That thought gave her a slow, creeping feeling, though it brought with it a sense of relief, for he obviously hadn't followed through on such a brash impulse, if indeed he'd had any.
Slowly she rose from bed and glanced briefly (and disdainfully) at the closet. She would--there was nothing else for it--have to wear Christine's things. Her own clothes were still ruined from the night before, sliding down that terrible hole. Her skin crawled at the remembrance of it, and then her stomach rumbled.
Tora's hand reached out to undo the locks and open the door, but then she deferred, remembering herself and wanting to look respectable. She certainly didn't want to stumble out into the hallway with hair mussed, clad in her nightgown--particularly after...that.
Besides, her internal clock (and her protesting belly) gave her an inkling that it was morning, and so it was time to greet the day anew.
Going to the wardrobe and picking out a simple blue dress on the spur of the moment, she trudged wearily into the bath-room to freshen up.
There was a creak of hinges, a light footstep. Erik continued turning the bacon in the pan and pretended not to notice, even when the footsteps sounded close behind him.
There was silence, and Erik thought he might go mad with it. He winced as a tiny glob of grease spat out of the pan and landed squarely on the back of his hand.
"Content to stare at my back and say no word?" he queried lightly, shaking his hand a little.
There was still silence, although he heard the nervous shift of feet from side to side.
"You might as well forget about what happened last night," he said dismissively. "I told you it wouldn't happen again."
"You also said another time that you didn't always keep your word," said the small voice behind him.
Erik flinched. He said nothing.
The bacon was done, six pieces of it. He transferred those to a large plate and turned around, suddenly hissing sharply between his teeth.
She stepped backward instinctively, a vision of periwinkle loveliness. The dress didn't quite fit her properly, however—it sagged just a bit on a frame slightly shorter than Christine's, and beyond that, he wasn't quite sure the color suited her exactly. He would have to rectify that awkward situation of Tora being forced to wear clothes not meant for her, and quickly.
"If you wish," he said, setting the plate in the middle of the table next to the bread, "I will buy you cl--"
Tora interrupted him. "I'm going back today," she said.
Erik stiffened. "Very well," he said smoothly, and sat himself at the end of the table, picking up only a small piece of bread and buttering it.
He glanced at her. She seemed to be struggling with something. "I…if I come down again…I can bring my own clothes," she said half-heartedly. "You don't have to..."
"Are you going to come back down again?" he inquired, stifling his own surge of negative emotion which threatened to spill forth at any moment.
She was very still. Then she took a piece of bacon and put it on the small plate in front of her. "Yes," she said abruptly, and then blushed and began furiously buttering a piece of bread.
Her hair, damp and just beginning to curl limply, was swept behind her like a long, dark shroud. A mass of it fell over one shoulder, and he found himself longing to bury his face in it, to inhale the rich, deep scent of it, all freshly clean.
She might have allowed that, before. He was certain she wouldn't allow it now.
Abruptly he got up from the table and took the piece of bread into his bedroom with him, feeling her puzzled eyes follow him out of the kitchen.
Jamming the bread into his mouth and swallowing it in one irritated gulp when he sat down at the organ--he never let anyone watch him eat, if he could help it--he looked over a sheet of recently written music and attempted to concentrate studiously.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her standing in the door, and gritted his teeth. She was plaguing him—on the other hand, he felt somewhat gratified that she had followed. Perhaps too gratified.
"Your cooking surprised me at first," said Tora, "what with your being male, but then I realized that you've had to cook for yourself for years, so naturally you would have gotten good at it."
It took Erik a moment to realize that she was purposely giving him the same sort of chauvinistically twisted compliment he had given her the night before. Sarcastic little beast.
"Was that a veiled jab, perchance?" he queried, keeping his eyes on his music to give her the impression of being generally ignored.
"Perhaps," she replied, and she grew suddenly quiet. Erik glanced up to see her staring dizzily at the curtains which hid the sleeping-coffin.
"It's quite comfortable, you know," he said with a dark bit of caustic humor. "You should try it."
Tora let out a faint shriek, quickly covering her mouth. She tottered a little and held onto the doorjamb for support. "You," she said between gritted teeth, "are impossible. You know I hate coffins." The very mention of the word seemed to make her sick.
Erik grinned horribly—he was wearing the mask that showed his mouth, a habit he'd grown rather fond of in recent days—and Tora's cheek twitched.
He remembered something very intriguing, all of a sudden, and was suddenly apprised of a way to gain nearness to that seductively tumbling hair. "Come here," he said, and she hesitated, though she put one foot forward.
"You said once you wanted to learn to play," he said, gesturing toward the piano that sat next to the organ. "Organ is too complex for now, I daresay, but perhaps today I am inclined to give you a piano lesson."
Immediately he saw her tension and distrust dissipate, giving way to uncontrollable curiosity. Yes, yes…come closer, cherie, you want to sit down at the bench and put your hands on the keys, and hear the notes come forth…that's it, move closer.
Her eyes were locked on the piano, and he rose from the organ bench so that he might stand next to it. She shot a glance at him, laced with suspicion, and then, apparently fighting an inner battle, finally sat down and stared at the keys.
"I wouldn't know how to even begin," she said. "I haven't any experience in even the most basic…"
"Middle C," he said, touching the key. She leaned backward a bit to avoid his arm—was it from fear or mere politeness? He couldn't be certain.
Now, the plunge. He must be mad to do this, but his reason had fled and all that remained was the scathing need to be close to her, to breathe her scent without frightening her away.
"Copy me," he said, coming around behind her. Putting an arm out, he leaned over and did the scale, slowly. "Thumb under middle finger going up, middle finger over thumb going down, that's the secret to the scale," he murmured, his mouth close to her ear, and she shivered noticeably, although she didn't recoil or move away.
Awkwardly she put her right hand on the keys where his hand had been and slowly, clunkily tried to copy his graceful, fluid movement. Erik winced, but was rather preoccupied with the intoxicating smell of her skin mixed with that of her still-damp hair. Torturous heaven, this.
"The thumb, the thumb," he bit out, reaching his hand out again and demonstrating while headily inhaling the sweet aroma. "It's very simple, you know…"
"You needn't be so impatient with me," she said, sounding slightly hurt. "I haven't your musical prowess, by any means…"
"Thumb, forefinger, middle finger, thumb, and then the remaining four fingers in order," he said. "The thumb crosses underneath going up. Then you go backwards--little finger, ring finger, middle finger, forefinger, thumb--then the middle finger crosses over, and you finish with the forefinger and thumb. Try again."
She sighed, and did it over, this time doing a little better. He supposed this absolute travesty at piano playing was to be expected, as she was a beginner, but really, this was child's play!
Forcing down his irritation at the awkward notes erupting from the elegant instrument, he instead imagined putting his hands all over her, running them down her hair and over her slim waist, splaying themselves in the curvature of her spine, his fingers trailing over her succulent young breasts and thighs...
He let out an involuntary groan, and Tora stopped, jerking a little. "Am I really that bad?" she asked, and Erik shoved his fist in his mouth to choke back a scream of ironic laughter.
"You'll improve," he said stiffly, and then, compelled by his hunger, did something a little more daring.
He covered her hand with his own and slowly, very slowly manipulated her fingers so as to produce the correct notes and positioning. He absently hummed the scale as it progressed, and he thought he heard Tora sigh a little.
Her hand was at first rigid and taut beneath his own, fraught with tension, but gradually yielded to softness, allowing itself to be guided. He felt a little thrill of exultation, and very cautiously put his other hand on her shoulder, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, as though he were inadvertently needing a place to lean his weight while parading her fingers beneath his own.
She stiffened again, but—oh, joy of joys!—relaxed visibly within no more than half a minute. In fact, she had begun leaning backwards, just a little, almost so that her back was molded to his front, and Erik thought he might die from the heady thrum of pleasure coursing through his veins.
"Good," he said in a bit of a gasp, "you're getting better. Now try it without me."
She seemed almost disappointed when he withdrew his hand, and Erik felt a jolt of satisfaction. He was frightened to allow himself to hope for anything, but there had been so many things worthy of hope this morning.
She muttered it to herself. "Thumb under middle finger…middle finger over thumb…"
Tora felt a bit dizzy. His hand was not at all cold when it covered hers; on the contrary, it was so uncharacteristically warm it felt nearly feverish. His other hand, the hand on her shoulder, was the same, burning her to her core, where she felt herself pulsating with an answering heat. There was an inexplicable throbbing sensation between her legs when she leaned back, close to touching him, and felt the emanating warmth from his body.
It should have frightened her, she supposed, this obvious ardor, but rather than feeling threatened by it, as she had the night before, she felt as though she wanted to envelop herself in it, to be caught up in the tide and tossed about on the waves. Last night had been different—he hadn't cared, had only wanted to prove a brutish point while satisfying his own desires, but now he didn't even seem entirely aware of what he was doing. It was splendidly torturous, the way he teased her without realizing it. Tora felt as though she were balancing on the edge of a knife, en pointe.
Her hand, now free of his, was beginning to develop a little sheen of sweat as she endeavored to perform the right-handed Middle C scale without error or clumsiness. His other hand was still resting upon her shoulder, beginning to feel heavy as well as hot, and she felt his breath all over her hair.
He expected her to learn and not make mistakes when she was thus distracted? He is madder than I thought…or more ignorant, she thought frantically, leaning back just a little more so that her shoulders were now touching his torso. His heart, she could feel, pumped like a wild bird in his chest, its frenzied pounding echoing through her body like the strains of a drumbeat from Hades.
He could take me now, she realized with a shiver. It would be easy for him, so close, so powerful. But he doesn't do it. Is it because he gave his word, or is it because he is afraid? Or is it both, perhaps combined with some lingering respect for my virtue?
His thighs were pressed against the bench, against her back. They were molded now, one heartbeat joining with the other to form a frenetic duet of pulsation.
Tora's fingers slipped and inadvertently made a mistake, and Erik didn't correct her. She could feel his breathing, fast and heavy, and she felt the fingers of the hand on her shoulder creep over to grasp a handful of her hair to slide it between them.
"So beautiful," she heard him whisper. "Beautiful as a dark night with a full moon, this pale skin, this chestnut hair…"
Tora felt an erotic shiver from her neck to her thighs, and she experienced the rather dichotomic urge of wanting to bolt from the room to escape and wanting to be swept up in his long grasp.
She reached behind her with her left hand and touched his fingers in her hair, still very badly playing the scale with her right.
"I was a little browned when I came back, from being on the ship," she said softly, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek. "But staying inside nearly the whole time since has made me quite white again." Rather like you, she thought, but didn't say it.
Feeling as though she weren't quite inside of her own body, she kissed the palm of his hand, and heard him hiss between his teeth again.
She suddenly realized she was testing him, in a way, and thought she'd better stop before he lifted her from the bench and threw her into the coffin. It wouldn't fit both of them, at any rate...
In spite of herself, Tora giggled, forgetting her morbid terror of coffins and of Erik's prodigious strength, and she felt him stiffen.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, sounding slightly irritable.
"Oh, I was thinking…no, never mind what I was thinking," Tora said, suddenly performing a flawless right-hand scale.
"I did it!" she exclaimed, feeling a bit flustered, and she heard Erik give a strained chuckle.
"Now you're laughing," she said sullenly, and turned around to look at him. "Show me the left hand," she demanded.
There was a kind of tense quiet in the room for a moment, as though the very air were undulating in rhythm with their pulses, and then Erik said, "Perhaps another day."
"No. Today," said Tora, and then, on a thoughtless impulse, "I won't go back until next Thursday if you show me."
Erik seemed a bit taken aback. "I wouldn't want you to jeopardize your dancing career by willfully skipping rehearsal…" he began half-heartedly, though she thought she detected some wild note of hope in his voice that she was being serious.
"I'm visiting a sick relative in Rouen," said Tora. "Or at least that's what I told Suzette to say…I'd better tell her I'm not dead, though, or she might worry." She turned back to the keys. "Show me," she said, wiggling her left hand.
Erik slowly reached over and demonstrated. It was the same scale, more or less, but it went down from Middle C instead of up. "This one may take you some time," he said casually. "The left hand requires much more discipline and control than the right."
"But you're left-handed," said Tora, waiting until he had lifted his fingers from the piano and then clunking out the scale with her own stubborn left hand—which, true to his word, was far harder to play with than her dominant right.
Erik moved back a little. "Perceptive of you to notice," he said with a bit of surprise. "Yes, I am, but that isn't the point, since you are obviously right-handed..."
"I need help," said Tora suddenly, out of both truth and coyness. "Could you…" She looked at his hand, and then at him, and saw a flush on the visible skin. Wordlessly he put her hand beneath his own again, this time the left, and she was suddenly struck by the guilty symbolism of it, her hand moving beneath his in a steady rhythm…
She blushed too, and her fingers fumbled even under the tutelage of his own. He made an angry noise in his throat, and she quickly recovered.
"Perhaps we really should do this another day," she said. "I can't...I can't concentrate."
He said nothing, but she heard his breathing and felt the wild bird in his chest—and then she realized with a jolt what that hard, uncomfortable thing pressed against her lower back was. She let out a faint, unintelligible whimper and inched forward again, trying not to think about it.
It was impossible. His presence suddenly seemed ponderous, as though she were in a great black cage, and she stared at the ebony and ivory bars of her prison as her fingers went inexorably up and down the white keys in a monophonic repeat.
But it wasn't really the keys which held her prisoner, it was the man behind her. The piano was only an instrument of torture, not the mind controlling it. She wondered vaguely if this had all been on purpose, and tried not to think about the disturbing implications of that theory.
That was impossible, too.
"I can't," she gasped, abruptly pushing back the bench and getting to her feet in one swift movement. Erik gave an involuntary grunt as the bench knocked against his knees.
"I…" She put a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. "You were right. Some other day."
"But you are going to stay until Thursday," he said, and it hung in the air like a question awaiting confirmation, rather than a bald statement. "You said…" He sounded like a child, all of a sudden.
Tora felt very foolish. "Yes, yes, I promised I would," she said, mentally cursing herself. She turned to go, but felt his hand grab her arm. She didn't look at him.
"Tora…" he muttered. "Give Erik something…please. Some sign…some acknowledgement. Do we really have…an understanding…or is it mere play-acting on your part?"
She shivered. "I'm not play-acting," she said. "God forbid I should be so callous as that. But…I'm frightened."
He let go of her arm. "Of me," he said, and his voice was low and sullen.
"I don't know," Tora cried, turning a little. "I don't know whether to be afraid of you or not."
"One might say it is wise," he said softly, "to fear Erik…but if that is so, then he would prefer you to be foolish, at least in that regard."
Tora laughed in spite of herself. "Dear Erik," she sighed, turning and wrapping her arms around him on impulse, trying not to feel sick with unease. She rested her head on his chest, feeling the thundering of his heartbeat pounding like a roaring ocean wave in her ears.
His arms were stiff, awkward. They were splayed out to the sides, his hands hovering and shaking but not touching her, unsure of what to do.
"It's all right, you know," Tora murmured, feeling a little surge of endearing pity. "I suppose no one's ever embraced you besides me."
Erik took a long, shuddering breath.
"There are scars on my back from a whip," he said. "And on my left calf there is the mark from a knife-wound. Many signs of hate I carry with me, but none of love or kindness."
Tora wasn't quite sure what to say. She wanted to see those scars, to run her fingers and lips over them so that he would forget that they had ever existed, but she wasn't about to let him know that. Not yet, at any rate.
His fingers gingerly brushed against her clothing, just the barest possible caress. It felt as though butterflies were walking on her skin.
She felt strained, poised as though about to jump into the sea from a high cliff, dared by the taunting of friends but held by the voice of reason.
In one fairly unspectacular moment, she went up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth gently to his, feeling the dry clamminess of his skin against her lips, thin but malleable. He smelled like sweat and the bindings of old books, musty and almost bitter.
No chorus sang. No Vesuvius erupted. There was simply the kiss, and the long, lingering silence.
A/N: And now, a confession.
There is a certain Buffy the Vampire Slayer fic entitled Black Satin Voices which inspired the general idea of the piano-lesson scene (although the one contained in that fic would be enough to make a courtesan blush; mine is relatively tame in comparison). I first read the fic over five years ago but that scene stuck in the back of my head, as those types of scenes are apt to do; however, I didn't fully realize just how many unconscious little similarities my scene had to the one in BSV (i.e. the whole putting-his-hand-over-her-hand-to-guide-it and whatnot) until I revisited it quite recently. So I felt honor-bound to give the fantastic Eurydice11 credit where credit was due.
Kind of great, isn't it, how we almost unconsciously assimilate ideas as writers as we go along and evolve? It's both a sad and wonderful truth, but if we didn't, a lot of us (i.e. Yours Truly) wouldn't quite be able to muster up the creativity or courage to write anything beyond "The." :-D Of course, it's important to make a distinction between unconscious assimilation/adaptation and plagiarism, which has nothing to do with the former--that practice is entirely intentional and utterly abhorrent, and I wouldn't be caught dead trying to pass someone else's work off as my own. This is why whenever I become aware of the fact that I have used an idea from another author I've read, even if that idea has evolved and blended into my own form and style, I always try to acknowledge them in some way.