Disclaimer: I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. It might get
changed later. Perhaps.
~Ch 7~
Diana stepped back in shock as the angelo---Erik straightened up rage. His eyes turned from the dark amused amber to a shocking, almost evil, yellow. "Not that bad?" he repeated. His voice this time was not the enraged shout, but a cold chilling murmur that was somehow almost worse. "Please elucidate."
"You're, ah, not dead," Diana said, straightening up. "Had you really been a ghost, it would have been much worse, such as, er, moldy and rotting. Bodies get rancid after a few days, and while some ghosts tend to mirror the shape they were in when they were killed, some do go all...icky." She glanced down at her hands, amazed at the man's ability to make her feel nervous. She hadn't felt like this since she was a child. Then she straightened her back and looked at him, and saw the self-mockery hidden behind the anger. She realized that no matter how much other people insulted him, he would always be insulting himself as well. "No matter how bad you think it may be," she said, "it's not that bad." Trying to ignore the fact that moments ago she had almost been racing out of the room in fear, she gathered up the shreds of her dignity and left the room, leaving the food behind.
Erik tried to turn her remarks over in his mind as the anger drained from his mind in confusion. Why had she said such things? She probably pitied him. A cold chill ran through him at that thought. Christine had pitied him----and then betrayed him. This girl was a gypsy; what she could do would probably be much worse. He would watch his step around her and make sure she left as soon as possible. But...she was also very pretty, and she had looked upon him without the habitual wince or glancing away that other people did. There was something about her... Erik shook his head. She had to leave. That decision taken care of, he turned over the porridge with his spoon and began to eat. It was a good thing that there wasn't much left in the bowl, because by the time he was done, his hand was shaking badly. He carefully set the bowl on the side table and lay back against the pillows.
He might have dozed off, because he didn't hear the girl enter when she came in. His sensitive hearing should have picked up her movements; there was no way she could be that silent---but then his eyes slid over to the knife on the other side table. She certainly was an interesting person. He glanced back at her, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw that her plain brown skirt had been wrapped around her legs---it was split in two! While it was less scandalous than most riding skirts, the bottoms were tied around her ankles with spare string, and her bare feet were delicate and entrancing. He had never thought of a woman's feet to be attractive before. He met her eyes, dancing under her mass of heavy black- brown hair, held back by a triangle of cloth. She looked more like a gypsy than ever.
"Done?" she asked lightly. When he furtively glanced back down at her legs, she explained, "I was moving the fallen wall. The skirt was getting in my way."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Diana Herreras, of the clan Herreras," she replied, picking up the bowl. "I believe we've met before," she nodded at the necklace still around his neck.
"Diana... You are not a gypsy, then?" He took in her stance, the stealthy movements of her body as she crossed around the bed to yank the knife out of the side table. "I know Herreras may be a clan name.."
She had the grace to blush a little as she tucked the knife back in her skirt's waistline. "I am what you would call a gypsy," she said. "My mother..died when I was a babe, but before I was born she and my father quarreled over a name. He wanted to name me after his aunt, Esmeralda, while she wanted to name me after her mother, Griselda. He complained that no daughter of his should ever grow up with a nickname of 'Grizzy', and she said that no daughter of hers would ever grow up named after a cheap floozy. So my grandpapa suggested one from outside the clan, and when an uncle who had traveled to Greece mentioned the goddess Diana, it seemed like a good idea. I hear this story all the time," she added. "They like to laugh about how Father tried to re-name me later, but as a babe I refused to answer to anything else." There was a slight pause. "Are you really the Opera Ghost? Is the story that I was told true, about you and the soprano?"
Erik felt his chest tighten, and he turned his head away. "It is true," he said simply, closing his eyes against the memories. He shut them tight, trying to keep out the tears that he thought he could no longer shed, and felt a weight on the end of the bed. Blinking away the moisture, he glanced up. Diana sat on the edge of the bed, her large liquid brown eyes staring at him solemnly. He stared back, caught in the calm and tranquil gaze, unable to look anywhere else. His breathing slowed and he regained a sense of composure as their eyes were locked. Finally she blinked, a long, slow blink that let her heavy black eyelashes rest on her skin for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then she smiled and stood up, breaking the spell.
"You'll need a few more days before being able to help me with the wall," she said, sending suddenly cool and gauging eyes over his body. "You'd better rest."
The last thing that crossed his mind before Erik drifted off into a strangely calm and even sleep was that he hadn't asked about his cat.
~Ch 7~
Diana stepped back in shock as the angelo---Erik straightened up rage. His eyes turned from the dark amused amber to a shocking, almost evil, yellow. "Not that bad?" he repeated. His voice this time was not the enraged shout, but a cold chilling murmur that was somehow almost worse. "Please elucidate."
"You're, ah, not dead," Diana said, straightening up. "Had you really been a ghost, it would have been much worse, such as, er, moldy and rotting. Bodies get rancid after a few days, and while some ghosts tend to mirror the shape they were in when they were killed, some do go all...icky." She glanced down at her hands, amazed at the man's ability to make her feel nervous. She hadn't felt like this since she was a child. Then she straightened her back and looked at him, and saw the self-mockery hidden behind the anger. She realized that no matter how much other people insulted him, he would always be insulting himself as well. "No matter how bad you think it may be," she said, "it's not that bad." Trying to ignore the fact that moments ago she had almost been racing out of the room in fear, she gathered up the shreds of her dignity and left the room, leaving the food behind.
Erik tried to turn her remarks over in his mind as the anger drained from his mind in confusion. Why had she said such things? She probably pitied him. A cold chill ran through him at that thought. Christine had pitied him----and then betrayed him. This girl was a gypsy; what she could do would probably be much worse. He would watch his step around her and make sure she left as soon as possible. But...she was also very pretty, and she had looked upon him without the habitual wince or glancing away that other people did. There was something about her... Erik shook his head. She had to leave. That decision taken care of, he turned over the porridge with his spoon and began to eat. It was a good thing that there wasn't much left in the bowl, because by the time he was done, his hand was shaking badly. He carefully set the bowl on the side table and lay back against the pillows.
He might have dozed off, because he didn't hear the girl enter when she came in. His sensitive hearing should have picked up her movements; there was no way she could be that silent---but then his eyes slid over to the knife on the other side table. She certainly was an interesting person. He glanced back at her, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw that her plain brown skirt had been wrapped around her legs---it was split in two! While it was less scandalous than most riding skirts, the bottoms were tied around her ankles with spare string, and her bare feet were delicate and entrancing. He had never thought of a woman's feet to be attractive before. He met her eyes, dancing under her mass of heavy black- brown hair, held back by a triangle of cloth. She looked more like a gypsy than ever.
"Done?" she asked lightly. When he furtively glanced back down at her legs, she explained, "I was moving the fallen wall. The skirt was getting in my way."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Diana Herreras, of the clan Herreras," she replied, picking up the bowl. "I believe we've met before," she nodded at the necklace still around his neck.
"Diana... You are not a gypsy, then?" He took in her stance, the stealthy movements of her body as she crossed around the bed to yank the knife out of the side table. "I know Herreras may be a clan name.."
She had the grace to blush a little as she tucked the knife back in her skirt's waistline. "I am what you would call a gypsy," she said. "My mother..died when I was a babe, but before I was born she and my father quarreled over a name. He wanted to name me after his aunt, Esmeralda, while she wanted to name me after her mother, Griselda. He complained that no daughter of his should ever grow up with a nickname of 'Grizzy', and she said that no daughter of hers would ever grow up named after a cheap floozy. So my grandpapa suggested one from outside the clan, and when an uncle who had traveled to Greece mentioned the goddess Diana, it seemed like a good idea. I hear this story all the time," she added. "They like to laugh about how Father tried to re-name me later, but as a babe I refused to answer to anything else." There was a slight pause. "Are you really the Opera Ghost? Is the story that I was told true, about you and the soprano?"
Erik felt his chest tighten, and he turned his head away. "It is true," he said simply, closing his eyes against the memories. He shut them tight, trying to keep out the tears that he thought he could no longer shed, and felt a weight on the end of the bed. Blinking away the moisture, he glanced up. Diana sat on the edge of the bed, her large liquid brown eyes staring at him solemnly. He stared back, caught in the calm and tranquil gaze, unable to look anywhere else. His breathing slowed and he regained a sense of composure as their eyes were locked. Finally she blinked, a long, slow blink that let her heavy black eyelashes rest on her skin for a fraction of a heartbeat. Then she smiled and stood up, breaking the spell.
"You'll need a few more days before being able to help me with the wall," she said, sending suddenly cool and gauging eyes over his body. "You'd better rest."
The last thing that crossed his mind before Erik drifted off into a strangely calm and even sleep was that he hadn't asked about his cat.