AN: HELLO READERS!
Sorry it has been awhile since my last post. Real life has gotten insanely busy-and it looks as if it will continue to be that way for at least the next week. But I just wanted to post this next chapter, so you can see what all our characters have been up to.
CH 53
"I am not so very little!" The words played over and over in his mind—words he had heard so many times in the past but this time spoken by a different voice. The girl who came to tend to him—she had recited those very words just this morning, trying to show a bit of bravery in the face of his admitted attempt to frighten her.
It had taken a very short time to get the guards to give up on him. He had simply rejected the contents of his tray, and they were content to let him. Soon, they considered him to be nothing more than a waste of their time, since, in their eyes, he could no longer possibly be any kind of threat. They assumed he was sluggish and frail from starving himself—and only a step away from death's door. He was too much of a weakling to be worth their effort. That was why they had transferred his care over to the girl.
Erik actually wished he were as weak as they assumed, but his traitorous body had never had much need for food, and it stubbornly held onto a life for which he had no use. Of course, he wanted nothing more than to die. Existing in this hellhole, so far away from his life's only comfort, was a torture greater than any he had known at the hands of the gypsies. Most of the torment they had heaped upon him had come before he'd known that there was light and beauty in the world—that there was love so strong, so pure and so very passionate—and only for him. That love—that light—had smoothed his rougher edges—illuminated his darkness. But the glow had begun to fade in the distance—the embers' heat too cool to warm him from so far away. Erik had been left to wallow in the cold. But then he had heard those words.
I am not so very little his caretaker had said, and he suddenly saw Annie with a flush in her cheeks, and fire in her eyes, her chin turned up at him in irritation. I am not so very little—and he could hear her shrieking laughter, as he lifted her high in the air and swung her around in circles. I am not so very little—and he could feel her enveloped in his arms, as he captured those very words with his lips, showing her in no uncertain terms that there had never been anything little about his love and desire for her.
He had wanted to escape the pain—the loneliness—wishing that his body would simply give up its ghost and let him expire. But when the slave girl spoke those words to him, he remembered his life—and his only true reason for living—his beautiful rose—his Annie.
"Hello," he heard the tentative call, as the door to the dungeon started to open. It appeared his not so little keeper was back to check on him.
She bravely entered the room, yet another tray of food held out before her. She immediately knelt on the floor by the narrow opening under the bars to check on the status of his previous meal, and by the soft light from her lantern, Erik could see a smile spread over her face.
"You ate your breakfast!" she exclaimed.
He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the youthful exuberance in her voice. "I did," Erik said quietly, from his place in the darkness. "Did you also hold to your end of the bargain?"
The smile faded slightly from the girl's face, as she reached inside the folds of her skirts and fiddled around for something. "I am not much of a seamstress, sir," she informed him. "But I brought you a mask." She held up a piece of light colored linen in front of the bars. "Of sorts." Then, without being asked, the girl stuck her hands through the bars, and tossed the mask into the darkness.
Erik caught the fabric with ease, his keen vision having no trouble seeing it in the dark. Carefully unfolding the small garment, he found that it had been cut to cover only half of his face—and it was long enough to easily go from his forehead to his lips. The eyehole was a bit crudely fashioned and the stitching along the edges was crooked. It was nothing like the handmade masks that Annie had lovingly made for him. Still, it would serve its purpose, and Erik busied himself with tying it quickly behind his head, feeling at once more secure when it was in position.
"I…is it alright?" the girl asked in a timid voice.
"Yes," Erik answered simply. "Thank you."
The girl stood there quietly, as if she expected something more. After the silence had stretched on long enough, she asked, "What do I call you, Mon…monsieur?"
"Why must you call me anything?" he asked sardonically, studying her face from his concealed vantage point.
"Well," she began uncertainly. "It is my responsibility to take care of you—and now that you are eating, it is doubtful that you will die…"
"Sorry for the inconvenience," Erik said dryly.
"No, monsieur," the girl exclaimed, flustered. "That is not what I meant. I just would like to know who it is I meet each day when I come down here."
"I am a criminal," Erik returned, "so dangerous that I must remain locked in a cage. Is that not all you need to know?"
Taking a deep breath, the girl replied. "I…I would like to also know your name."
Erik had to admit, he had not expected the girl to stand her ground. She was obviously shaken, and he thought he saw her hand trembling just a bit—but she had not crumbled or given up on her demand. She remained firm and did not flinch away from his vexing words.
"My name is Erik," he said, finally giving in to her request.
"Thank you, Erik," the girl said, her shoulders relaxing just a bit. "My name is Yasmin."
"Yasmin," he repeated slowly.
"Yes," she nodded, shivering slightly at the silvery sound of her name on his lips. His voice was like none she had ever heard before. It was beautiful, to be sure—but dark, and cloaked with mystery. She found herself a little anxious to be conversing with him when he was still hidden in the dark.
"Monsieur Erik," she asked.
"Yes, Mademoiselle Yasmin?" he answered, affording her the same respect he would a young French maiden.
"Now that…" she looked down, flustered again at the sound of that voice. She could feel those strange golden eyes boring into her, even if she could not see them. And it was very disconcerting. "Now that you have a mask, must you remain hidden in the shadows?"
"I do not have much choice, Yasmin," he retorted, rolling his eyes. "I'm in a cage."
"You could come into the light," she countered. "Into the light of my lantern—so that I could see you."
"Why ever would you want to see me, Yasmin?" he asked her incredulously, wondering why this girl demanded so much of him.
"Well," she swallowed hard. "If you are to be my charge, I must make certain that you are in good health. I cannot know that if I do not see you."
Silently, Erik stepped forth into the small pool of light from the girl's small lantern. His long lanky form, as well as the shadows cast by the soft glow, made him an intimidating sight, even with the aid of his mask. Yasmin found that she had to look away.
Erik smirked while admonishing her, "Be careful what you wish for, little girl."
Yasmin's head immediately shot up, as if to argue, but Erik held up his hand to stop her. "Pardon me," he said, wrestling with a smile. She was so much like Annie as a child! "I know. You are not so very little."
Yasmin looked at the prisoner Erik with narrowed eyes, and thought she could almost detect the exposed side of his mouth rise into a grin. "That's right!" she nodded, her voice still a bit tremulous as she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin in a show of strength.
"So, here I am, Mademoiselle Yasmin," Erik said, "Does your prisoner meet with your approval?"
"You…" she nodded. "You look fine. A bit thin, but that is because you hadn't been eating. Which you will be doing from now on," she added, arms crossed in front of her.
"Shall I?" he asked, still fighting with the first bit of true amusement he had felt since arriving in Persia.
"Yes, you will," she informed him.
"I see," Erik nodded, again thinking this girl must be his beloved's kindred spirit. The similarities would earn her much cooperation from him.
"So," Yasmin asked, not exactly certain what to do now that she had her prisoner standing before her. "Who is Annie?"
The slight signs of amusement left Erik's face, and a flash of anger shone in his golden eyes. "Do you truly think that a piece of cloth has bought you such a great return?" he spat. "What gives you the right to speak her name?"
"I…" Yasmin's tough demeanor faltered as she saw Erik's entire countenance change, the mask making his face seem suddenly menacing and dangerous. "I meant no disrespect, Erik. It is just that I heard you calling her name…"
"She was my reason for living," he said wistfully, the eyes that had just been so angry taking on a look of great sorrow. "My heart. My soul."
"Was?" Yasmin questioned, feeling sorry that she had brought up the name that obviously brought him much pain, but still wishing to know the truth. "Why do you say was, Erik?"
Erik silently contemplated why he had used the word was. Annie remained his reason for living. She still held complete dominion over him—both heart and soul. But he was locked in a Persian prison, where he knew he would stay until he either wasted away or the shah decided to kill him. Even if he could escape, how could he ever return to her? He was a murderer—a torturer. He had committed heinous crimes. How could he touch her with hands stained by blood? How could she ever love him now?
"Is she dead?" Yasmin pressed, her youthful curiosity demanding to be sated.
"She is but a dream," Erik said sadly, his head falling low to his chest. "A fleeting memory of days when this monster was yet a man." And without another word, Erik turned from her and retreated back into the darkness.
Yasmin watched him go, and sensing his sorrow, did not protest. "Please eat your lunch, Erik," she called out after him. "I will be back later." And quietly, she walked out of the room.
"Wonderful news, Ladies!" Madame Delacroix announced, leading Giles, who was carrying a large box, into the rehearsal room, as the dancers stretched their legs at the barre. "Our generous manager, has seen fit to buy us all new tutus." Reaching over she threw open the lid of the box in Giles's arms, and tufts of light blue tulle immediately started poking out.
Squeals of surprised delight filled the room as Giles bent to put the box down on the floor in front of him. He saw Annie turn and look over her shoulder to catch his eye. When she raised a questioning brow at him, he returned a sheepish smile.
"But I thought you said new tutus were out of the question!" Nina asked.
"That ours were in perfectly good repair," added a young ballerina named Mimi.
"Oh, I love them!" shrieked a girl named Vivienne. "They're blue!"
"I knew you all would be surprised," Madame began with a smile, gesturing toward Giles, "But Monsieur Giry—in his wisdom—agreed that a set of blue tutus would complement the white and pink ones we already have rather nicely. It hardly even took much convincing!" Madame stated, turning her face to Giles to give him the opportunity to speak.
"That is absolutely correct, Madame Delacroix," he told the ballerinas with a charming grin. "I am certain all of you ladies will look beautiful in blue."
A chorus of "thank yous" and delighted squeals rose up from the other girls, and Giles smiled and told them all they were welcome while his eyes still wandered to where Annie leaned against the barre. When she smirked at him from across the room, he shrugged his shoulders in defeat. Now she knew how he had arranged her afternoon off all those weeks ago.
Chuckling to herself quietly, she turned back to her exercises and Giles knew it had been worth it. That day in the park had brought a flush to Annie's cheeks and a spring to her step, and for even one of her lovely smiles Giles would have purchased a rainbow's array of tutus. There was no sight more beautiful, in his opinion, than Annie when she was happy—and knowing how much sadness she still felt deep in her heart, Giles had taken it upon himself to bring her as many moments of joy as he possibly could. If it meant being blackmailed into re-outfitting a ballet corps that was already richly appointed, then so be it. The Garnier could afford it.
He knew she would say thank you later—since they had grown accustomed to taking their noon meal together on one of the benches outside the opera house. Still, as he received the other girls' shows of gratitude, he could not help but glance past them to watch Annie's elegant arms extend out to touch her toes, her back curving gracefully over the length of her leg. Her long black hair was gathered at the top of her head in a ballerina's customary tight bun, but little wisps of curl had eked their way out of the elastic to graze the nape of her neck, a few strands falling down into her eyes as well. He felt an almost undeniable urge to go brush the curls away from her face, but then Madame called the girls to order.
"Monsieur," she addressed him, "we are about to start rehearsal."
"Wonderful," Giles said, not moving from his spot. "I believe I shall stay and watch," he informed her, unable to pull himself away, "—at least for a little while."
"Be our guest, Monsieur," Madame Delacroix retorted with a shrug, by now familiar with Giles Giry's inordinate interest in the ballet. "As long as you stay out of the way." She added, grumbling as she got her girls in line and began to run through the choreography.
Giles leaned against the wall as he watched the new dance routine take shape. Truly, the Corps du Ballet deserved the reputation they had earned of being the premier dance company in the country—and perhaps all of Western Europe. Even in the early days of rehearsal for the new opera, they were well synchronized and seemed to move as one entity of style and grace. Of course, Madame Delacroix found things to criticize, but it was her job to do so, in an effort to make the dance even better.
Annie started the routine in the center of the long line of girls, dancing in unison with their moves. Before long, however, she stepped a bit out to the front, and her lead dance began. Delicate steps on pointe were following by dizzying twirls and breathtaking leaps across the floor. She was focused on the dance, but every now and then, she would catch Giles's eye and give him a little smile, making his heart skip a beat.
Giles knew that right now her heart still belonged to Erik, and that it would be a very long time before she could put the loss of her fiancé behind her. Still, he could not deny the feelings that Antoinette Laramie inspired within him. He had tried to suppress his desire, knowing all along that she belonged to another man. But it was no use. The most fulfilling moments of his day were ones spent with her—just talking as they walked down the hall, sharing a meal on the bench, or even now, just watching as she rehearsed for the dance. When they were apart, thoughts of her plagued his every moment, and he found that he dreamt of her when he closed his eyes at night. In those dreams she smiled up at him, her eyes shining, and when he bent low to kiss her, she enthusiastically kissed him back.
Giles knew that he was in trouble and that he should try to pull himself together. She had just been through a terrible trauma, which had reshaped every expectation she'd had about her future. Still, he could not help it. He was falling helplessly, hopelessly in love with Annie. And one day, he prayed, she might even find it within herself to love him back. He knew it would take time—and he knew there was a great chance that it would never happen—but Giles was willing to be patient. Antoinette Laramie was a woman worth waiting for.
Giles found himself so absorbed in arabesques, pirouettes and sissonnes that before he knew it, the morning had passed, and Madame Delacroix had dismissed the ballerinas for lunch. The girls began to disperse, chattering amongst themselves, a few looking in his direction and chuckling. Giles stood against the wall, smiling politely to all who met his eye, until, at last, Annie stood before him, a smirk on her face.
"Do you have an actual job around here, Monsieur Giry?" she asked him jokingly, dabbing her face with a towel. "Or are you paid to stand around and watch rehearsals all day?"
"I was checking on the tutu inventory," he retorted dryly, never missing a beat. "—in case Madame asks for purple ones next."
Annie laughed at Giles's good humor, saying, "Monsieur Giry, you are always ready with a line!"
"And are you ready for lunch, Mademoiselle Laramie?" he asked, extending his arm.
"Indeed," she said, placing her hand on his upper arm and following him out of the rehearsal room.
It was a bright, sunny day and the birds were chirping as Giles and Annie took the first bites of their sandwiches jambon-fromage.
"It is such a beautiful day, Antoinette," Giles said, glancing over at Annie as she chewed.
"Why do you think it is beautiful?" she asked him with a smile.
"Well," he answered, "the breeze is warm and the sun is shining so brightly."
"Indeed it is," she giggled. "It makes you look like Apollo himself, with all your blonde curls glowing in its rays!"
Giles laughed despite himself at the amusement in her voice.
But after a moment, she quieted, and said in a far off voice, "But as much as I enjoy the sunshine, I prefer moonlight. It is softer and gentler than the sun—cooler too. It's more forgiving of imperfections, never thrusting them into focus in glaring relief. It seems to calm and soothe even the most sorrowful of hearts."
Giles watched her, and the sad longing in her eyes was unmistakable. He knew she was remembering Erik. Unable to stop himself any longer, he reached forward and brushed an errant wisp of hair away from her eyes, causing her to turn her head and look toward him questioningly. "It is fitting that you should love the moonlight," he murmured to her, gazing into her rich brown eyes, tracing the outline of her cheek with his thumb. "For your spirit is delicate and soft, like the rare flower that blossoms at midnight. Deprived of sun, it finds a way to bloom, despite the most daunting of odds. In its gracefulness, there is strength—in its tenderness, there is fortitude. It is an exquisite paradox. You are a blossom of the moon—the fleur de lune. So rare. So…beautiful."
Annie continued to gaze at him, finding herself mesmerized by his poetic words. As his eyelids grew heavy with her nearness and began to flutter closed, Annie blinked as he brought his head closer to hers. Just as her eyes had fallen closed too, and her lips parted in anticipation, she heard a voice call "Monsieur Giry!"
Instantly, both of their heads snapped up and they saw Monsieur Moncharmin hurrying toward them. Giles rose to meet him as Annie looked down in her lap, her complexion ashen at the thought of what had nearly happened.
"Monsieur Giry," Moncharmin said, apparently not having taken note of the position Giles and Annie were in. "A messenger was sent for you. There is some trouble at the cottage. Your presence is required."
A look of surprise and alarm spreading over his face, Giles nodded. "Thank you," he said to his colleague, and then turned back to Annie, who was still looking rather shaken. "I am sorry to cut our lunch short, Mademoiselle Laramie," he said to her, using formalities since Moncharmin was still standing right there.
"It is quite alright, Monsieur Giry," Annie replied, in a hollow voice, not looking up to meet his eyes. "I do believe I have had my fill."
"Business calls me away," he continued. "I am not sure when I will return…"
"Go," Annie said, still not looking at him. "I shall see you tomorrow, I suppose. Or the next day."
"Antoinette," he said, pleadingly, causing her to look up and finally meet his eyes, which were full of worry.
"Go," she said again, nodding solemnly. "I will be fine on my own."
With a sigh, Giles broke their gaze and hurried off, to find the coachman to drive him to the cottage. Annie sat alone on the bench for a few moments more, her throat dry, her heart racing, wondering what on earth had almost just happened between her and Giles. Then, rising from the bench, she squared her shoulders and walked back inside—where an afternoon of rehearsals waited for her.
AN: Uh oh! What just happened? And does Moncharmin have the worst timing in the world, or has he just saved the day? More to come...
