Benoît sat alone in the music room, head pressed against heated palms. The light of dawn was just creeping through the curtains, but it offered no solace in the promise of a new day. For all the excitement the evening should have promised, the carriage ride back to Paris had been deathly silent, the weight of the unspoken bearing down upon all the occupants.
Sighing, Benoît sat up, massaging the back of his neck where the collar still rubbed. He had not bothered to change clothes once he stepped into the darkness of their house, ironically enough. He was alone, drowning in the horrid sea of his own thoughts. Benoît wanted nothing more than to forget the Masque, the dark looks between his parents, and most of all, the quiet, almost compassionate gaze of his pseudo brother.
Erik had no trouble garnering attention at the Masque. They were close in age, yet Benoît's presence was a sad comparison to the other. He did not even have to wear a mask to remain unseen…
He gave a dry smile as he looked down at the floor where the discarded painted mask lay. It was such an unoffending, foolish disguise. Never had he questioned Erik's use of one. There had been times he had stared at the flawless black face, meeting the sharp look of his tutors, but never had he dared to remove it. Erik governed that much respect from him, as much as he loathed it.
Yet Benoît could not deny his curiosity, if perhaps by chance, there was some intrinsic flaw in the apprentice to usurp the otherwise ideal character. His mother had been close, so dangerously close to discovering what he wondered all along…
His mother…She failed to look at him or his father for the remainder of the night. There had always been a rift between them—he accepted this long before—but now the chasm was too evident to ignore. Time offered no reprieve for the miserable.
Scheming whore that she is, Benoît thought angrily, rising. Did his father even know? In his fright, Benoît had not dared to tell of her infidelity. It was already enough that he had sincerely lost the affections of one parent. Perhaps, even if dishonestly, he could maintain the attentions of the other.
He cast a long glance at the forlorn piano, and his hands formed into fists. There were other young men his age, now accomplished and off to prestigious schools to perfect their art. Where was he? Left behind, forced to study subjects of no interest while his only passion was dismissed before his eyes.
Erik was never granted such injustices, he seethed. There had always been that terrible strain of jealousy and envy, all entwined with the sure knowledge of his inferiority. He was reminded of it every day as a boy, be it in the tutors' amazed expressions or in his father's proud smile. Music was his only power over the apprentice, his only sad weapon. Yet the way Erik had glanced at the few sheets of music Benoît possessed… it was a fleeting look, but not unlike how the apprentice studied the complex maps of the opera house. There was passion, interest…understanding.
Benoît resisted a frustrated scream, instead collapsing on the piano bench. His head pounded now. The morning promised a beautiful day, and the sun was now well above the trees. Benoît looked down as the light hit the forsaken mask on the floor. Therein lay his only comfort.
Author's note:
A thousand apologies to my readers! I had several chapters beyond this written, all which were unfortunately lost. In addition to having an extremely challenging semester, I must now work from scratch, but I am trying! I will not abandon this story, I promise you. There has been too much time and effort put forth into this to stop now.
As always, your comments are highly valued. Thank you!