A/N: At last, the result of my never-ending quest to write a longer chapter! Gahhh, took me forever to churn out. Hope its good.
Just FYI, I changed the title of this story from Let the Dream Begin to One Love, One Lifetime. Just thought it would fit better. :)
Sango-2099: Lets just say that good things lie in store!
The Singing Fox Demon: Right now the girl is just a random guest at the inn, but she may become important later on. We shall see…
Chapter 12
Christine walked along the spacious gardens, grateful to be out of the confines of the carriage and out under the mid-afternoon sun.
A kindly old maid had taken her to a tidy room, where she'd sprawled out on the bed in a quite unladylike fashion, eyes closed and unmoving for ten minutes. She'd then cleaned her face and hands and run a conveniently placed comb through her curls.
When she'd ventured out into the unfamiliar inn, she'd bumped into a friendly young Parisian girl about her age. "I'd just been about to take a stroll through the gardens," she'd said – Annette was her name – and had invited Christine along with her.
Now they walked along the little pathway leisurely, with Annette talking animatedly about her aunt.
"She'd come down with pneumonia, quite serious, but she recovered quite well and the family doctor said a nice stay in the country would do her good. She's my legal guardian so I have to take care of the poor dear, accompany her and care for her and all that; so here we are." She turned blue-green eyes on Christine. "How about you?"
Christine blinked for a moment. "I... I'm here with my father. He's been sick too. He's quite elderly, and he was injured just recently, so I'm taking care of him…"
She was surprised at how easily the lies rolled off her tongue, and felt a pang of guilt when Annette nodded her head sympathetically, a wavy lock of brown hair coming loose from the neat bun. "Yes, I know just how that is. I do love my dear aunt, but sometimes taking care of her can be such a chore…"
Christine couldn't focus on Annette's idle chatter, good though the girl's intentions were. She felt bad about the lie, even though she knew it was necessary. More than that, she felt sudden worry strike – would she be forced to lie about Erik forever? Always telling people he was her injured father? She felt a surge of love for him – she didn't want to keep him hidden away like dangerous secret.
As she and Annette meandered farther along the pathway, heading into a grove of trees with tiny white buds on the bare branches that would soon bloom into fragrant blossoms. A stone bench sat underneath an overhang of branches, shading it from the bright sun.
"I've been coming here by myself sometimes," Annette said, "Just to relax, away from my aunt."
Christine joined her on the bench. The shadows of the branches cast a dappled light on her face, and she closed her eyes and let the sunshine wrap a web of warmth around her, a sharp contrast to the cold of the stone bench and the traces of snow on the ground.
"We've been here nearly three weeks now," Annette was saying, "I do wish we were back in Paris, I've been hearing some quite scandalous gossip from Madame Dubois."
Christine opened her eyes and glanced over at Annette. "Who's Madame Dubois?"
"She's staying across the hall from Auntie and I," Annette said conspiratorially. "She arrived just earlier this morning with her husband. Oooh, have you heard the rumor about the Marquis de Belmont?"
"No…." The ballet girls often gossiped, but this was one topic she hadn't overheard.
"I don't know too much about the matter," Annette continued enthusiastically, her freckled face excited at the thought of a juicy piece of gossip. "But what I did hear from Madame DuBois was…"
Annette continued to talk amiably, obviously deprived of conversation with anyone else her age. Christine also was pleased to have someone like her to talk with. Although she had never really been interested in who was seen with whom and who was just disinherited, it was good to have somebody to chat with, no matter what the subject. She thought wistfully of Meg – if only she was here, then Christine could tell her everything, and she knew Meg would understand.
x x x
The guests of the inn met for an early dinner in the tastefully and elegantly decorated dining room. Christine smiled and chatted politely with the others – the notorious Madame DuBois and her husband on her left, Annette and her aunt on her right, a pair of elderly yet spry sisters sitting across, and a multitude of others all down the long oak table – but noted Erik and Monsieur Nadir's absence.
She puzzled over it as she ate the delicious roast chicken. Who exactly wasthe foreign innkeeper? She recalled the expression on his face when he saw Erik – not surprise at a man in a strange mask, but the pure shock of unexpected recognition.
Who was he? Her natural curiously wouldn't leave the thought alone. She knew next to nothing about Erik's daunting past, but she wouldn't have guessed it included country inn owners. She couldn't figure out where he was from – little evidences here and there hinted at an obviously non-European background, such as the rich tapestries and intricately designed rugs, but she had absolutely no knowledge of any country beyond Europe.
"Do you know where the owner is from?" she asked Annette, who seemed to know everything about everyone at the inn, and had educated her about all them.
"The owner? I believe he's from… Persia?" Annette made it a question, pondering for a moment, then nodding decisively. "Yes, Persia. Or some country like that. Auntie asked him."
Persia. So that was the desert-like land depicted in several of the tapestries. She took a bite of the potato on her plate, chewing thoughtfully and musing the new piece of information. Why in the world had Erik been in Persia?
x x x
After dinner, Christine joined Annette and her aunt in cards game, laughing as the several other guests gave loud advice and guessed over who would win each round. She was grateful for an enjoyable and relaxing end to the stress of the day, able to laugh and joke easily in the friendly company.
She had lost track of time watching the two elderly sisters battle it out, arguing good-naturedly about who cheated, and was surprised to hear the clock strike eight.
Annette and her aunt decided to retire for the night, and Christine decided it would probably be a good idea for her to follow suite. The long day was beginning to wear on her, and her muscles slightly sore again after the discomfort of the previous night.
She bid goodnight to the pair outside their room – they were staying in Room 4, just a few down from her own Room 9. It was pitch dark inside her room – she fumbled for the gaslight and it slowly flared to life, hissing softly.
She moved to the small wooden vanity table at the foot of the bed. Her reflection in the mirror looked even paler than usual, but she hoped a good night's rest would cure that.
She reached up to untie the ribbon holding her hair back, the silky length slipping through her fingers as she let it fall to the vanity. She picked up the comb, running it through her curls and letting her gaze drift over the reflection of the room… a pair of gleaming eyes gazed back at her.
She gave a little cry and dropped the comb, the wooden clatter sounding abnormally loud in the heavy silence. "Erik!" she gasped, turning around quickly. "You scared me!"
"I apologize," he replied, not sounding the slightest bit sorry. He was sitting in the armchair in the corner, arranged with an almost languid grace, his elbow resting idly on the plump arm of the chair.
The rush of nervous adrenaline subsided, and Christine let out her breath slowly, turning back to face the mirror and picking up the comb again. "Where have you been all afternoon?"
"I had… things to discuss with the owner."
She paused before querying, "Who is he?"
"Who is who?"
She frowned at him in the mirror. "You know who I mean. Monsieur Nadir. The owner."
Erik pursed his lips for a moment before folding his hands in his lap. "He is an old friend."
"He's foreign… where is he from?" She knew the answer, but her curiosity was running away with her and she couldn't help prying more and more with each question.
"He is from Persia."
"How do you know him?"
Erik sighed exasperatedly, and in one fluid catlike motion, rose from the chair and swept across the room to stand behind her like a black shadow. "Must you plague me with questions?"
Christine blinked up at the reflection of his tall lithe form. "I'm sorry."
A ghost of a grin flickered across his face. "Such an inquisitive little thing…" He tilted his head forward slightly, then stood straight as if thinking better of it.
"We will be sharing a room. Nadir informed me that his inn is… rather busy this time of year."
"Yes… it is," she replied slowly, recalling all the guests at dinner. As if alerted to the situation, her pulse rose in her throat and began its now familiar nervous thrumming. She clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, staring straight into the mirror.
"Are you frightened of me?" Erik's voice sounded slightly amused.
"No! I'm not." The words sounded hollow even to her own ears. She met his eyes in the mirror again. They gleamed darkly in the steady glow of the gaslight, and a little thrill of – of what? – shivered through her, and she looked away from the intensity of his gaze. Seeing the two of them together like this was slightly unnerving.
She looked down from those hypnotizing eyes, and turned to move away but her foot caught the edge of her dress and she stumbled ungracefully, and tried to regain balance but toppled backwards and fell against Erik full force, knocking him to the side, and he stumbled for a moment before coming down after her. She hit the floor a second before he did, hard enough that the air was pushed out of her lungs in a painful whoosh.
She choked for a moment, trying to suck in air. She struggled for a moment, feeling downright ridiculous, but her dress was tangled completely around her legs and she couldn't get free.
Not to mention the fact that Erik was pinning the lower half of her body to the ground.
A/N: Sorry, had to leave ya hanging. Lets see what shall come next…?