Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Especially not the sweet stuff.
Yep, so not so fast an update as before. Have patience! I'm back at school, and there was some trouble – just be glad you've got this now. Also, thanks to all those who wished me a happy christmas, happy birthday and happy new year in the reviews. If I didn't get back to you, or wish you likewise, then I'm sorry, but trust me when i say that i had some big things on my mind. Things that I can now happily forget about, phew.
I'm getting excited now – we're getting nearer and nearer what I have been looking forward to writing ever since I first dreamed the idea up. I just hope I can last that long without blurting out anything important in my excitement.
Want a bet?
Well, anyway, stuff between – wait for it – Raoul and Carlotta. That's right – the Vicomte and the un-diva.
I should write a poem or something with that as the title, one day – but not yet.
"…And he took a bit of marzipan and he just gently put it in my mouth – I remember trying to smile, and blushing, and feeling so foolish – and I fell in love with him just for that, for the gentle way he touched my lips with the marzipan."
As Mary said that, Lyra felt something strange happen to her body. She felt a stirring at the roots of her hair: she found herself breathing faster…She felt as if she had been handed the hey to a great house she hadn't known was there, a house that was somehow inside her, and as she turned the key, deep in the darkness of the building she felt other doors opening too, and lights coming on."
The Amber Spyglass, His Dark Materials, by Philip Pullman
Marzipan
It cost Raoul more effort than he thought possible to drag his cold body out of his room, and walk along the corridors, trying to force some life and proper feeling back into his legs.
It would be funny, if it were not so serious. Here I am, on the morning of my wedding day, and I feel as old as Grandpère.
Movement was better for him, much better. He had learned the morning after Christine had returned from the underworldthat lack of movement led to pain, and a good deal of it. He had experienced few things worse than waking up to discover that his limbs simply would not respond to his will to move, save with stabs of pain, and to lie there growing more and more terrified that he would remain unable to move permanently. It had taken more than a quarter of an hour to nurse some life back into his body, and it had left him afraid of a relapse. No matter how painful it was to move, it was more painful still to remain motionless for too long – and every morning since then he had awoken in agony.
He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt the odd urge to steal one of his grandfather's canes which he sometimes used when his game leg pained him especially, just so that it would be just a little easier to walk along. But his pride scorned that easy way out. He would carry on; he would get up and dress himself and walk to wherever he wished to go, without aid, no matter what pain it cost him to do so.
If Carlotta can endure her condition, I can as well. At least I can still eat. And I can still look in a mirror or at a flame without fear. I am the lucky one.
The lies made it easier, for all of them. It made their torments that little bit sweeter, that little bit easier to swallow. It made it easier for Christine, in particular. All of them knew that, no matter what they themselves endured, Christine had gone through far worse things.
But he could not see her to comfort her, on this day of all days. To see her now would probably call down more bad luck on them than ever, and Raoul was a good deal more superstitious now than he had been a few nights ago. He would do nothing to risk her; nothing.
She would still be asleep, but not for long. This was the most important day of her life, as it was his. It was the final culmination of all the planning of both of their families over the years, and all that had been done since they were children; it would ally his family with the business that Christine was heir to, and a fairly substantial business at that, and it would ensure the prosperity of the de Chagny family for years to come. Sometimes, he believed this was the only real reason why his grandfather had made the match.
But he was never gladder for any decision the old man had made in his life, even now. If he had never known Christine, he would have been the worse for it, much the worse. It was worth it all, to love her and to know that, against all the apparent odds he imagined, that she loved him, had always loved him and would always love him.
And so his wedding clothes were laid out in his room, and far below him he could hear the noise of the servants setting out the last remaining utensils of whatever was needed for the ceremony in the great hall and the wedding lunch afterwards. Before, his stomach would be trembling at the thought that in a few short hours, he would actually, finally be married. Now…he simply felt at peace.
So he trod a familiar route, one that he had taken often before now, to meet someone he was used to meeting. Nevertheless, as he plodded slowly and steadily along the corridors, he wondered if she would be there today. It was, after all, the morning of her friend's wedding day…
Yes, Carlotta was definitely in the music room today; he could hear the sound of the piano even from the end of the corridor. Before he had found it amazing that she found it in herself to get up every morning at such an early hour and make her way to the music room to practice her pieces, ever since she had first discovered that there was a music room in the house. Now, he was glad of her presence. Of all the girls, save Christine, Carlotta was the most level headed, the most sensible. He had enjoyed the talks he had had with her, in the days before his fiancée and her adopted family had arrived. He should have kept them up; Carlotta always had something interesting to say.
He reached the door, and knocked on it loudly, so that she would hear above her playing. At once the music stopped, and Carlotta's voice came instead, "Come in."
It took a bit of fumbling at the door handle, but Raoul managed to push the door open and step into the music room, just in time to see Carlotta swivel around on her seat to stare eagerly at the door, though her slightly waxen face fell a bit when she saw him.
"Oh, Raoul! I am sorry, I…I thought that you were somebody else."
"Somebody that you would infinitely prefer to talk to?" he joked, as he limped nearer to the piano and the girl who sat at it. "Have I been ousted from my position in your early morning recitals?" He had hoped fervently that this would cause her to smile, laugh, anything but stare calmly at whatever held her attention at the moment. But Carlotta simply nodded listlessly in reply, and turned back around to the keys, beginning to pick out a more melancholy tune.
Oh, drat. I shouldn't have said that.
Raoul somehow made it to the settee positioned near the piano, and collapsed on it in profound relief. "Carlotta? How is your condition?" he prompted gently, as he sat back against the blessedly soft cushions.
Carlotta banged out a chord. "It is not so good. It does not let me sleep anymore."
What can I say to that? Nevertheless, he tried. "We'll find a way to solve it. Defarge asked Nadir last night, as you know. He'll have an answer for us, I'm sure. You'll be better soon, I promise, Carlotta."
"Perhaps." He saw Carlotta cast a glance at…he sat up straighter. What was on the side of the keyboard, near Carlotta's hand?
"Carlotta? Is that…is that a box of sweets you have there?"
The Carlotta of a few weeks ago would probably have snatched it out of view hastily, determinedly not looking at him. The Carlotta of today simply nodded, and went on playing. Ignoring the agony already surging through him again, he slowly pulled himself up once more and limped back across to lean upon the piano, looking down at the box and what it contained; square pieces of some sort of pale sweet.
Marzipan.
Oh…
Raoul, along with the kitchen staff of the mansion, had learned early on in her stay that Carlotta loved almonds and anything that contained almonds, to that point of obsession that the cooks had taken to making almond cakes especially for her. Most of all, he had found out, in the days when they had been the only associates of the same age in the house, Carlotta adored marzipan. She had a sweet tooth for many things, but marzipan was a definite favourite.
And now there was a whole box of exceptionally delicious looking marzipan in front of her – it was all he could do not to reach out and sneak a piece for himself - and both of them knew full well that she couldn't eat it. It was the sweetest and deepest of tortures that he could imagine for the poor young woman.
"Who gave you this?" he asked slowly, still wondering why she should set it out in front of herself in plain view. Did she want to punish herself?
Carlotta sighed, and even her sigh was drained, truly unlike the dramatic sighs she was prone to giving beforehand, complete with the back of a hand raised effectively to her brow. "The person that I was expecting instead of you. You remember the harlequin I danced with at the ball? Well, he has been coming here in the mornings to listen to me play, ever since then. He says that he enjoys my music and my company. And yesterday, he gave me this," tapping the box with a finger as she spoke. "He went all the way down to the kitchens to ask them what I loved to eat, and they told him. He brought me a box of marzipan, and he smiled at me as he gave it to me, and told me that he hoped I would enjoy it. How could I tell him that as soon as I tried to eat it, I would vomit it all up again while hardly even tasting it?"
"And so you brought it back here again?" It didn't make sense to him at all. Wouldn't the young man take offence if it appeared his gift had been rejected?
Carlotta suddenly glared at the music in front of her. "I will give it back to him. I should have refused it anyway. It is not proper, not proper at all. Would you do such a thing with Christine, Raoul, such an uncouth, improper thing?"
Raoul stared at her. What was the matter with her? Had her starvation finally soured her? "I think I would. It would show my appreciation for her, if not quite significant of how much I loved her."
"Sí," and with that, for perhaps the first time since he had met her, Carlotta's shoulders slumped just a little. "I probably should not be talking about this to you, Raoul. You are not a woman, as well we all know. I need a confidante." She looked up at him, a ghost of a smile playing across her lips. "But I cannot bring these worries to them, not when there are far worse ones than a box of marzipan given at the right or wrong time. So, you will do. I know that I cannot choose who I love." She tapped the box again, rather wistfully now, he thought. "This is all too strange. I do not understand love very well, I think."
Raoul stood in silence, and then he walked carefully around to the front of the bench and painfully bent his knees. Carlotta obligingly shuffled along, and he sat down beside her, unable to stop a groan of pain at the action. "I don't think many people do, really," he admitted, when he was seated once more. He had more than half a mind to suggest reading material for her; the book that Christine had given him. Love poetry would surely give her confidence about such matters, and it was not as if he needed it anymore to practice from. He had overcome his stage fright in perhaps the best way possible, by saving the one that he loved most.
But then again, he didn't even have the book any more, did he? He hadn't been able to find it since the night of the ball, when they had rescued Christine. It had been in his room, he was certain of that – maybe one of the servants took it out by mistake? Curious that, very curious.
"But you love Christine?" Carlotta said, bringing his mind back to earth with a rude jolt, and indignation.
The look he gave her at that was no doubt all the answer she needed. She nodded. "So, you love her. That is good for you. I am happy."
They sat there for a time, in silence, their arms barely brushing each other as they looked stolidly at the box of marzipan. Then there was a sniffing sound. Raoul looked round in time to see Carlotta's fingers dart to her eye, to quickly wipe away a little dampness.
She…she's crying. Carlotta…is crying.
"I am sorry," the Spanish girl said quickly, catching his eye, as if her weeping was something to be ashamed of, when she had such good cause for it. "But I…I just want for it all to stop. I want to be happy again, as we were before all this happened. I want Meg and Cecile's fears to go away, and for Christine to become warm again, and not feel like ice whenever we touch her. I want your hair to be brown not from dye but for real, and for you not to walk and talk and breathe with pain all the while. And I want to be able to eat, and I want to be able to eat marzipan, and I want to be able to eat marzipan that someone gave to me as a gift!"
He longed desperately to put his arms around her and comfort her, as he would do to Christine, but he knew that both her pride and her belief of what was proper would never condone it, so instead he put his hand upon her free one and squeezed it. "We will find a way to break this curse, or whatever it is, Carlotta, I promise you that."
"I know. I know." Carlotta sniffed slightly, and mopped her eyes again. "I wish that my mother were here. I wish that I could tell her about all of this. I think that she would know what to do."
"About our curse? Or about your admirer?"
She said nothing for an instant. "Not so much about any of that, really. It is just that, I remember that she once said that the worst death that a girl could die was one without her mother…"
She tailed off into silence, closing her eyes. Raoul stared at her, only half aware that his mouth was open.
"Carlotta?"
Carlotta said nothing, pulling her hand away and bunching both of them in her lap.
"Carlotta. Carlotta, you aren't going to die. Of course you aren't. Don't be so morbid. Don't even think such a thing."
Carlotta did not open her eyes. "How can I not? I am not afraid of death, Raoul, or at least I do not think so. But dying…I do not know if there is pain worse than I have now, but to die of hunger…is it very painful, do you think? And if it does happen, I wish that I could see my family again. There are so many things I want to tell them, now, so many things, and I might never have a chance."
Oh, for-
"Don't be…" he began, full of exasperation, but a knock at the door behind them cut him off, and by the time he looked around to the far door a voice was already speaking beyond it, in French but with a definite air of the Mediterranean. "Signorina? It is I, Piangi. I am sorry for being later than usual."
"That is all right, Señor," Carlotta called over her shoulder swiftly, forcing a smile into her words, as she grasped the box of marzipan and shoved it under a pile of papers. "Please wait and excuse me for one moment. Please," she added to Raoul in an undertone, "I would rather that you would go. I would prefer…"
He understood, and slid off the seat, wincing as he stood up, grasping her hand. "I am going to Defarge now," he muttered. "I will ask him what he has found out. You will be cured, Carlotta. We all will be. I give you my word."
Carlotta smiled, and now there was a little warmth in her face – is it because she believes what I say? Or she is pleased to see me go? Or she is pleased that he has come? "Go," she repeated, softer than before, and let go of his hand.
He hobbled to the door at the other end of the room, opening it with some effort and drawing it to behind him. As he did so, he heard Carlotta call out, "Sí, I am listo!" and the other door open.
Unpleasant thoughts swirled in his head, where there had only been pleasant ones before. This is serious now, truly serious. For Carlotta, and for Christine, and the others, for all their sakes, we have to know how to break this spell on us. Carlotta's words on the continuing iciness of Christine's skin in particular were very horrible to him indeed. The thought of her heat slowly draining from her, just as something had been drained from him by the mirror, was unbearable.
We wanted to set her free. But we are not free yet, none of us are. He is still touching us, he still has some power over all of us. We must break his spell, or none of us will ever be free again. And my darling, my Christine…
I won't let him harm her, he thought, as he stamped along the passage way that led to Defarge's room, defying the pain that he felt in all his limbs and his head and his heart. I'll never let him hurt her ever again. I hate to even think it, but…Christine was lying when we first spoke after she woke up. He did do something to her, he harmed her in some dreadful way. But never again. And if he tries anything…
…then there won't be anything in earth or heaven or hell to stop me from destroying him.
He knocked on Defarge's door. Defarge will have answers, I know it.
But he was shocked by the sight that met his eyes, when the door eventually opened after two more knocks and some aching fingers on his part. If he had looked bad at the end of their retrieval of Christine, then Defarge looked little better. The pastor, still wearign his clothes of the night before, leaned on the door frame like a man twice his age, supporting himself with a slightly trembling hand as if he had ague; his skin was waxy and pale and his face, Lord, his face looked as he had looked into the abyss, and the abyss had looked back.
"D…Defarge?"
The priest nodded tiredly at him. "Raoul? What can I do for you at this hour?"
"You said that you would ask – Defarge!" All other questions disappeared from his mind, as he became aware of something else. "Your wrist! What happened?" He stared in horror and not a little disgust at the bandage wrapped heavily and clumsily around the pastor's wrist, stained more than a little with blood. "I…I thought that you could seal your wounds while summoning? What happened?"
"I could, once." Defarge rested his head against the door frame, as if acknowledging a defeat. "Raoul…I am cursed, too."
"Oh, Lord, no," he whispered, his throat suddenly dry. "Did you not ask Nadir what to do? Could he not help?"
"I did not have the time to ask anything. My wound bled too freely – I nearly bled to death; I still don't know what saved me, even now. I dare not summon Nadir again, or it really would be my death." Defarge show his head slowly, in deep sorrow. "I am sorry, Raoul. There is…nothing that we can do."
Raoul hardly heard him. The future which had seemed so bright only a little while ago, full of the prospects of his wedding and hope for their affliction, was now dark and horrible indeed to behold, as it leered at him alongside the blood splattered, raging, savage past.
But instead of cowering he glared back, at nothing in particular. He wouldn't let this go on. He would stop it.
"No," he said softly, reaching out and grasping Defarge's shoulder, noticing that they both winced at the contact. "There is one thing we can do. We can be prepared."
Valiant Raoul, go! You save the girls!
Why was Carlotta crying just then, for those of you who can't tell?
Well, put it this way; what can you think of that's worse than seeing something in front of you that you really, really love, but you know that you can't eat it?
I know there are worse things, but in terms of desire, it's pretty hard to think of more than one or two. This is why I secretly feel terribly sorry for hungry ghosts in all types of mythology, whether food turns to ashes when they try to eat, no food can satisfy their hunger, they're driven to eat only disgusting things or reliant on their living relatives to provide them with food to sustain them – as well as all the poor people who don't have enough to eat, and are, in a sense, hungry ghosts themselves. Food is one of the great pleasures of life, so long as you don't overdo it, and dying from lack of it must be agonizing. I can relate to this in a mild way, since when I was much younger I had tonsillitis at Easter (at Easter, of all times!) and my throat was too sore to eat anything, let alone my Easter egg or any of my chocolate goodies. I lay in my bed crying – or rather whimpering, since my throat wasn't really cut out for sobbing like a baby at that point - because I couldn't eat my Easter egg. Isn't it pathetic?
Probably the only thing worse than having something in front of you and not being able to eat it is not having anything to eat and thinking incessantly about food. This I can to relate to as well, since in Mongolia last year we had enough to eat on our journey, but we felt that we never ate often enough, and what we did eat was alternations of beans, rice, pasta, tomato sauce and chili sauce. Naturally we began to fantasize about all the things we did want to eat, rather than the things we didn't, egged on by our leader during our long, tiring, hot, boring hours of walking along with 70-litre back-packs on our backs in order to 'take our minds off things'; with the result that about half of us nearly went mad with wanting food from home. I think it was hard for me in particular because my mum's such a good cook, and we…weren't very good at it, though we got much better as time went on. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I myself got a craving and a really bad craving at that. And guess what that craving was for?
Fish pie.
I kid you not. In the middle of the Mongolian plains, who knows exactly how many miles from the sea or any substantial water source likely to contain fish, (I rule out the Great White Lake nearby because I couldn't really see myself hiking over loads of mountains to try and catch anything) let alone any potatoes, I was seized with such a yearning for my mum's fish pie I nearly started crying. That's just how bad it was. I hadn't even eaten fish pie in months before then, but the moment I thought of it, I wanted fish pie then as I had never wanted any food before. I wanted it so much that I wrote it down in my diary, and as soon as I got back to the capital I went straight to the internet café nearest to our resort, emailed my mum, and told her just what I wanted to eat the evening I got back home. And guess what? When I came back, she'd made me the biggest fish pie I'd ever seen, and she even put bread crumbs on it!
It was just like Hercules having a craving for pea soup in Aristophanes' play The Frogs, and Dionysius going down to the Underworld to get a writer for an epic. Only without the singing frogs, of course. (I am impressed. About three thousand years ago, the Ancient Greeks had already invented drag! With all their astronomy and democracy and philosophy, you'd think they had better things to do than go to watch a man playing a god wearing a yellow dress and women's sandals. And then again…maybe not.)
All this is yet another reason why I'm dicey about the idea of having kids. I've heard pregnant women get odd urges concerning food, and if they're any odder than wanting fish pie in the absolute middle of nowhere i.e. Mongolia, then they are pretty darn odd.
Surprise! One last thing. You might be thinking that, judging by the title of this chapter, the nature of the quote used, as well as the content of the chapter, I am making a statement about one of my favourite treats. Well…no, I'm not. I don't like marzipan. I can never remember a time when I was overly fond of it, and now I like it not a bit. It's odd, because I love almonds, and marzipan is made primarily from almonds and sugar. Then again, I did eat a bad almond once, and aagh, I tell you, it tasted like really rancid, bitter, disgusting marzipan. I think I lost whatever enthusiasm I had for the sweet at that point. Now I can't even taste it without shuddering.
Mind you, marzipan has a jolly interesting history. No one can tell exactly where it was first made. Some people said it started in Persia, others in Italy, others in China and yet more others in Toledo in Spain. Did you know that there's an EU law saying there has to be a minimum almond oil content of 14 and a maximum moisture content of 8.5? And that it was eaten during Ramadan as a special dish? And that it was regarded as something of an aphrodisiac in One Thousand and One Arabian Nights?
Seriously; who needs a life, when you can sit and read about all this stuff?
Reviews for the half-Irish, spinster, marzipan hating seamstress! (Wow, this sounds more like a lonely-hearts ad than an honorific title. Back to normal next time, me thinks.)
