Paris—
He had waited in the darkness, eyelids heavy with desire for rest. Shivering, he wrapped his thin arms tighter around his legs, keeping watch on the shadows.
She had been gone since the night before, leaving no word of her return. His stomach ached with hunger, though he dare not move from his place on the floor. Perhaps she would return with food. Perhaps she would share this time…
He blinked as the door opened, allowing the frail glow of the night into the dark room. The cloaked form entered, pale clouds of breath vanishing before her as she moved. She leaned back against the mottled wooden frame, closing it as her hands went up to her arms to rub them, easing warmth back in. Her gaze turned toward his huddling form.
She never knew how well he could see through the darkness, how he noticed every detail—the tangled, damp blonde strands hanging over her shoulders, how the once flawless white skin was marked with red along her jaw and neck, the ragged tear in the collar of her dress…
Her breathing was rushed, straining against the cold, moist air, mimicking his own. He dropped his gaze away. Despite the negligence, the harsh beatings, the scarce nourishment, he wished for nothing more than to see her content.
After a moment, she pushed herself away from the door, drawing out a small loaf of bread from beneath the cloak. Setting it upon the table, her gaze shifted, finding his huddled form upon the floor.
The air was thick between them, mother and son, angel and demon regarding each other in silence.
Very slowly, she approached him, kneeling, blue eyes never leaving his. She did not smile, she never smiled…and yet, she did not have to, not at this moment.
A tentative hand reached out toward him, disturbing the stillness between them. He held his breath, only the weak beat of his heart heard in his ears.
"Erik…"
He closed his eyes at the sound… unusually gentle, tasting his name. He felt the light touch at the side of his head, running through his hair, slowly tracing around the mask.
No, it had never been like this…she had hated touching him…
The words were drowned out as he relished the foreign sensation, the caress that he had never known…
"Mother!"
Erik's eyes snapped open.
Jaclyn pulled aside the heavy curtains of her room, peering out into the shadows of the evening. Throwing a quick glance at the clock, she smiled as she heard the reassuring sound of carriage wheels against the street, halting under a street lamp before their house. For lacking vigilance, her suitor certainly was punctual.
Shooing away the maid, Jaclyn slipped a hand into her glove, the yards of rich fabric trailing over the stairs behind her. She moved with grace, a portrait of a silk-clad lady, striking to behold.
The house was still, her husband locked away in his study, her son…somewhere. A small pang of regret filled her, quickly suppressed by apprehension. The look in his eyes as he had greeted her those few days ago—he knew. He could ruin her with one word to her husband. Aubert was not a brave man by any circumstances, but he would have little reason to support an adulterous wife. She would be cast to the streets, humiliated and rejected.
Shuddering, she pushed the thought away. Jaclyn's hand wavered just above the handle to the door, her lover waiting in the darkness. Closing her eyes, she drew it back, the silk-covered fingers balled into a fist. With a sigh, she turned, looking down the wide, candle-lit hall. She moved slowly through it, the shadows surrounding her, greeting her. The lady saw the elegant carvings never noticed before, flowers arranged on ornate tables, tall oil paintings adorning the walls. This life, this place was her prison, but a magnificent one, nonetheless.
She paused, eyes falling to the vase of dying roses. Once a brilliant red, they faded to a deeper color, like blood exposed to air. She reached out, several petals falling to the table at her touch. Even deformed, the remaining flower was strangely alluring. All alone, Jaclyn closed her eyes, drawing in the lingering, fragile scent.
All these things would be foreign to her if the pretense were shattered. It was an unfortunate fate that her own son could be the element to bring about her end. For just a moment, the painted lips fell into a grim frown. Letting out a slow breath, she drew herself up, the cool countenance returned. Years spent among the rich and powerful had taught her a brilliant and necessary means of survival: ruin adversity without conscience.
The lesson would not fail her now.
Jaclyn turned back toward the door and the evening's promise.
She did not return until that morning, but with the rampant evening parties, her absence could hardly be viewed as amiss. The house was as quiet as when she left it, the air heavy and damp. A chill lingered along the base of her neck. Had the foolish boy spoken?
She moved slowly to the music room, her gaze condemning even while her pulse throbbed wildly beneath the pale skin. She could almost see her son seated at the piano as he had been so many times before, intent on solving a difficult passage while his father seethed upstairs with every passing note.
Pausing at the doorway, a quiet sigh escaped past her lips. The youth's long form was angled over the settee, chest rising and falling softly under an open book. Jaclyn stepped forward, moving silently until she was only feet away from the sleeping figure.
Benoît paled in comparison with this boy.
She had made a point of ignoring his presence over the years even while her husband adored him, unnerved by the watching eyes, his silence. Jaclyn watched the youth steadily, admiring the flawless mask and its handsome counterpart.
Dressed in all the gentlemanly spender of the times, he truly was a remarkable sight. Gone was the filthy youth Galen must have brought in, replaced by a youth appearing to have far outgrown his limited years. Sleep had slightly ruffled the normally pristinely slicked dark hair, leaving a few unruly strands hanging across his forehead, brushing the thick eyelashes. Broad shoulders tapered into a lean waist, long legs resting against the plush material of the settee. She had never been a more willing intruder as in that moment, standing over him.
The apprentice's hands lay protectively over the book, uncommonly long and pallid. The hands of an artist, she mused, entranced by the twisting of the blue veins beneath the skin, almost like a portrait in their perfection. Heart pounding, she pulled off a glove, her hand perched above his own.
He shuddered, the side of his face looked almost pained for a moment. Jaclyn pulled her hand back a degree, watching for signs of waking. After a moment, he was still, lost again in sleep's illusions. Her boldness returned, Jaclyn brought her hand forward again, brushing the arched brow, the smooth cut of his cheekbone and jaw covered by light marble skin.
He was so young…so terribly young, but his enigmatic presence weighed upon her like no other had before. In a life filled with such dreary, mundane creatures, the apprentice was a rarity.
"Erik…"It was an unexpected admittance, spoken with forbidden desire. Erik's breath was cool against her hand, relaxed, relishing the unseen touch. Her fingers moved almost of their own accord, greedily, bypassing the curved lips until they reached the cool surface of the dark mask. Jaclyn paused. In all his years within their home, she had never seen him without it. Aubert had mentioned no word as to its necessity. The mask was not a questioned thing, merely accepted.
Her fingers rested at the mask's smooth edge.
"Mother!"
Jaclyn drew her hand away, the hazel eyes upon her at once. Erik reared back, the book fallen to the floor, his hand reaching for the mask. Jaclyn closed her mouth, smiling weakly at Benoît before hurriedly exiting the room. Erik's fingers rested against the black surface in a reassuring action, his breath quickened.
Benoît looked back the disheveled apprentice, a frown crossing his features.
He did not say a word, but the message was clear.
Beware…
Author's note:
That scene was rather fun to write. Once again, I must thank my Mom for playing beta for me. And now for some responses to readers:
I am the Angel of Musicand AislingSiobhan —When I initially posted the chapters, I completely forgot to add in locations for that bit with Raoul and his siblings, something that I have now amended. I hope sheds light on your question.
Angels-Sleep-In-Hell—Thank you very much for your reviews! Yes, I very much enjoying foreshadowing in this story.
Maggie—Thank you for reading! I am gratified that you like this version of Erik.
Wendela—Thank you for your wonderful, thoughtful review. You brought up several questions/comments that I think readers deserve to know on a whole, which I have answered in my profile.
Modesty--As always, thank you for being such a loyal reader and reviewer!
—Readers, thank you for putting up with the numerous ambiguities of this story and my failings with it. This is my first attempt at writing something of this scale—and while it will not be perfect, I will do the best I can. I appreciate you all.