Gah—what a terrible cliff hanger I left you on! Sorry for the delay in updating. I walked into an unusually insane work week, hopefully it will calm down soon. In the meantime, here's our next update!
If the Blessed Virgin herself had appeared to Nora on Friday morning and said, by two o'clock this afternoon, you will have kissed your Erik—and stop neglecting your rosary! Nora would have not only laughed, she would have converted.
Kiss Erik? Her Erik?
What a ridiculous idea.
Yet, somehow, the idea did not seem so wholly preposterous as it was happening. Unexpected, certainly. But preposterous? Absurd? No, at this point it seemed more inevitable than anything else.
Inevitable, but still awkward.
It was not difficult to ascertain that Erik was not an experienced kisser. He held his hands rigidly at his sides and as soon has Nora moved to pull him in closer, he abruptly backed away. He blushed; his cheeks turned a mottled red.
"Forgive me," he mumbled, putting his mask back on. His odd, suicidal bent seemed to have disappeared, replaced with abashment. "Forgive me—"
Nora stared at him for a moment, as the (not entirely unpleasant) shock of the kiss wore away. Forgive him? For what? Dragging her along to witness a very uncomfortable tête-à-tête with the former object of his affections? Running away from her immediately following? Haranguing at her for God knew how long about how his vileness would contaminate and kill her?
Unmasking himself? Kissing her?
Perhaps that did deserve an apology. At the very least, he had taken liberties. And why had he done it? He did not know that she had spent the last several weeks acclimating herself to the idea of his face—he expected to, intended to scare her.
Perhaps she deserved to be angry, but somehow his kiss did not seem to warrant such a reaction. In fact, it rather wiped away her desire to be angry at him at all. It managed to fill her head with a curious assortment of thoughts, such as poor Erik, he really does worry too much and oh, yes, now I remember what is feels like to have someone come and sweep you away…
He continued to apologize, trying to walk past Nora and out the door. She blocked his way without really knowing why. Wouldn't it be best to simply walk out? Perhaps, but the thought was unbearable.
She searched out his shaded eyes. He averted his gaze immediately. "No," she said.
He clutched melodramatically at his chest in a way that Nora would have found comical, had he not been serious and she had not been so overwhelmed. "Oh, Nora, please. Please, do not allow one act—base and degrading though you must have found it—"
She found that his words stung in a way that she would not have expected. It had been some years since her last romance—to have a word like degrading thrown around was disagreeable, to say the least. "Erik," Nora rested her hands on his chest, trying by force of will to draw out and cast away some of the miserable tension that racked him. His heart beat was erratic. "Erik, what are you apologizing for?"
He tilted his head in that way he always did when he thought she was being inane. "I should have never dared…"
"Why not?" Nora asked, "Why shouldn't you have dared?"
When Erik turned away from her, his posture sagging as if he had just taken over the duty of Atlas, Nora realized that his answer was important to her. What a terrible place to be, and at her age! Had she not had enough of this in her life? Was she not yet finished with letting other people rule her happiness?
"How can you pretend not to be… upset?" He asked.
Nora managed to have Erik to sit down. She sat next to him, closer than propriety would have allowed. "I am upset," she said.
His face was downcast and he sighed deeply. "How could you not be?"
"Do not mistake me," Nora took his hand. Such hands, capable of bringing forth such music! "I am upset because you seemed—" about ready to throw yourself off of a bridge, snap my neck, forever foreswear the use of 'I' in favor of 'Erik—' "so terribly distressed."
"Ah," he said, "pity. Pity and a strong stomach. I commend you on that, Mademoiselle."
"Don't you dare," Nora said. She cut off a cross word that would have undoubtedly have ended in a tirade. That was behavior she flatly refused to indulge in. But how could she possibly resolve this situation? How could she possibly answer all of her questions, negate all of his anxieties?
You are being ridiculous, Nora's mind echoed, reaching for the impossible, as always. Let him go. Keep a pretty little memory of Sunday mornings and one flustered kiss. Don't make this any more difficult than it already is.
Ah, the voice of reason. Nora ignored it.
She set her hand on Erik's mask. It was cold, as she already knew from all of the careless, friendly kisses she had set on that sculpted cheek. Erik stared at her, eyes unspeakably sad. Nora carried on in spite of them.
She removed the mask and Erik flinched- but he did not run away or rail at her.
He really was wretchedly, unnaturally ugly. She felt herself grimace, and was glad that Erik had not been looking at her. She could not pretend that his face did not bother her— but in the grand scheme of things, it simply did not seem important. Erik was important, his face was… insignificant.
For the longest time, she simply held his hand, looked at his face and tried not to resent the trail of tears she saw there. She did the only thing she could do—she leaned over and kissed Erik.
When he finally managed to kiss her back, she found that it brought up more questions than it answered.
Erik could not recollect how he arrived home. Nora had walked him there, which made Erik chuckle. Wasn't that rather backwards? Wasn't the gentleman supposed to escort the lady?
Did it matter? It did not matter.
The only thing that mattered was that she had seen his face and had not looked away. Oh, he saw that she was dismayed, but not disgusted. Unsettled, but not upset. And through it all, there was that under current of tenderness, the likes of which Erik could never, ever recall having been directed at him.
Erik had a natural bent toward curiosity—was it so strange that he had wondered how far her odd affection would last?
It had survived as far as a kiss—no, two—no, three, if one counted the lingering farewell Nora had given him. It survived an afternoon of conversation that was as elating as it was uncomfortable. It survived making plans to see one another on Saturday, and had stayed in her eyes at least until she was out of Erik's sight.
Now, it clung to Erik, shielding him like a fine coat from the chill of the world.
Was that love? If so, how different it was from anything Erik had ever seen from Christine. Oh, Christine had burned his mask, whereas Nora had handed it back to him. Christine had pledged lifelong loyalty and fidelity, whereas Nora only promised to attend another opera in Erik's company. But the one had filled Erik with such a possessive dread, whereas the other made him wonder that there was such light in the world. How could he have ever mistaken the one for the other?
Even his sad little home seemed the better for it. He came home and saw a memory of Nora dancing through the hallway. How could he not be happy?
He sat down at his piano, and there she was, sitting on the far end of his bench. When had she been there? Oh, yes, that Sunday morning after Lakmé. She had been so nervous then, Erik recalled, but still so kind. A consummate lady, whereas Christine had been a consummate actress.
"You are mocking me," Erik smiled at the apparition, casually running his fingers over the ivory keys.
How had she replied to that? Yes, I am. Honest, as always! But I don't mean much by it.
Oh, if only she knew! It meant everything! Her casual, careless companionship had grown steadily more important to Erik—and now?
Despite the warnings of experience echoing in his mind, Erik found that his world was now named Nora, and he adored it.
For the first time, in ever so long a time, Erik sketched out a theme for an opera. He stayed with the project throughout the night and into Saturday morning. After all—he did not have twenty years to while away on a new venture, particularly if he was supposed to be Nora's escort to the opera that very evening.
Nora could not remember the last time she had invested so much time in dressing. She had always been of the opinion that women were obliged to waste too much of their day in doing so as it was—why fuss and drag out the process? Morning robes and visiting dresses, afternoon frocks and walking suits, dinner toilettesand evening gowns… Every once in a while, Nora found herself envying Perrine, who dressed for the morning, the afternoon, and Sundays.
Today, she instead lamented the limits of her travel wardrobe. She had already used three of the four evening gowns she had brought, ending in the ruination of two. The only one that remained unworn was her brown taffeta. That dress always managed to remind her that she was indeed a spinster, even with the adjustments to the sleeves and neckline Perrine had gleefully executed at Nora's request.
There was also the question of would Erik like it? stuck in the back her mind. It was a foreign situation to her. The last time she had cared what a man thought of her dress, she had the impudence of youth. She had not put much thought into howshe was dressed because she had been pretty enough for it not to matter. Now, she only had the sensitive vanity of age on her side.
It shouldn't matter, Nora told herself. She was simply going to the opera with her friend. This preoccupation with her appearance was just silly. Still, she did not hesitate to have Perrine pull in her corset a little tighter than usual. She even let Perrine dress her hair in a more current style, but immediately felt ridiculous and had it redone.
The doorbell rang earlier than Nora would have anticipated. Erik had been adamant that they attended the opera 'properly,' which of course did not include paying for tickets or using the main entrance. But there would be a carriage involved, and Erik would be present to escort her both to and from the Garnier. Nora found his insistence on right and proper endearing, if a bit funny.
She sent Perrine out to deal with Erik has she finished hooking on her earrings. Well, it was not the most flattering costume, but it was serviceable enough. On that score, the woman who stared back at Nora from the mirror may not have been a great beauty, but she was serviceable enough as well.
Perrine reappeared at the door. "Ah, Miss Farley—"
"Yes, yes, I'm coming," Nora said, "bring out the sable cape, please." She moved past her, steps a little too quick. Was it wrong that she was so looking forward to the evening?
"Your sense of punctuality is a source of unending amazement, Erik," Nora said as she entered the parlor. She stopped abruptly when she noticed that Erik's usual spot on the settee empty.
"Somehow, I don't think you're actually speaking to me," a familiar voice came from the wingchair that faced away from the entry, "given that you've always been disparaging over my timetables. Calling me 'Erik' was the second clue."
Nora wasn't sure if she should laugh or cry. Instead, she walked across the room and gently hit the man's shoulder with her closed fan, "Well, I will say you have a remarkable sense of timing, Daniel. But I will not comment on whether it is remarkably good or remarkably ill."
Her cousin smiled cheekily at her, as if he was half of his nearly-fifty years. "Dear girl, I've missed your vitriol."
Nora glanced at the clock. If he kept true to his word, Erik would arrive in just over a half hour. Well, the evening promised to be interesting, if nothing else.