III. Aperitifs
Christiansen had arrived punctually, without getting lost on her way to the Great Room from the Roosevelt Bedroom--no easy task--and accepted the cocktail he offered her, making no special order or request for one on her own. She was always very amenable in this way on any point, never asking or requiring anything beyond what she was given--yet. Yet somehow she left him feeling as though she desired more of him, some greater expectation she would never reference, but he would always feel the lack of. It irritated him, but he chose not to let it show. He would puzzle it out sooner or later.
She had set her hair into an elegant twist, and Irons found himself wondering if she believed the restrictions he had assigned to her for Nottingham's lessons extended to this occasion as well. She was dressed in what he recognized as an original Vivianne Westwood, elaborately embroidered; the pale cornflower blue of the strapless gown, and the way the color and fabric played against her skin, did not go unnoticed by him as she arrived through the massive bas-relief doors. And his only-slightly veiled attention to this detail did not go unnoticed by her.
"I apologize if I am somewhat over-dressed for the evening," she said, what might have been demurely if he had been paying mind to her words.
Instead he noted the way the gown's color seemed to reflect light (of which there was precious little in the Great Room), giving the hollow at the base of her throat--bare of necklace or ornamentation--an unusual, almost crystalline glow. He narrowed one eye, slightly, thinking of Ian, and Ian's reaction when he would first see her, standing like a prismatic illusion set against the dark wood backdrop of this somber space, her existence as seemingly impossible to explain as had he brought home a mirror ball and hung it festively from the library railing.
"My things," she was explaining, unaware of his train of thought, "for the most part--save what was needed for the last concert--were shipped home from South Africa several days ago."
He reproached himself. He should've thought to have sent out for something more appropriate she could have worn, something less distracting, less--charming. He should have anticipated this. If there were any way he could release and save Ian from the evening without raising her suspicions, he would do so. "You look," there was little reason to skirt the truth, "very beautiful, Christiansen." He dismissed her apology and re-directed their exchange. "It is more likely that it is I whom am underdressed. If you will excuse me?" He needed a moment to think, and pointed her to the section of the library where his collection of sheet music was shelved, executed a gracious bow as he left her, and changed into an appropriate-to-her-gown dinner tuxedo--instructing young Nottingham be told to do the same.
Looking at his newly-dressed self in the mirror, Irons saw instead the reflection of the graceful slope of Christiansen's neck, and found he was unable to concentrate fully on fabricating a satisfactory story to explain Ian's absence.
It would be only one night, he promised himself, he would keep things brief and colorless, and Ian would be left thinking more of the unpleasantness of the tie about his thirteen-year-old throat than the memory of social interaction with his captivating piano instructor.
When Irons returned at several minutes to seven, he found Christiansen in one of the more-distant aisles of the library, settled on the floor among the many yards of her diaphanous skirt, quietly scanning an original Grieg manuscript. When he turned the corner and saw her she did not hasten to stand up, but rose slowly, returning the manuscript's pages to the shelf she had found them on, referencing neither any pleasure nor any wonder at finding them there.
"Shall we go in?" he asked, alluding to the meal and meaning to extend his arm to her, that he might escort her to the dining room.
But she moved to pass him before he could, and in his surprise he paused before stepping clear of the stacks and making way. She did not linger, though, and as she slid by, her slight frame unencumbered by the lack of space, her shoulder--without intent--caressed the sleeve of his coat, gliding along it like breath on silk.
"Ian will arrive momentarily," he answered before she could ask, thinking the sooner they began the sooner he could announce an early end to the myriad dangers those such as Ulaauq Christiansen constantly presented.
...to be continued...
2002 (c) Neftzer