Soup was the antithesis of a phantasmagorical existence. But he had realized that soup was the only thing the girl would be able to eat for a while.
Carefully carrying the covered bowl of steaming beef broth through the passages, he wondered if she'd still be sleeping when he returned. Just as he convinced himself she'd be lost in dreamless slumber, he doubted, thinking of the pain she must be enduring.
It wasn't like him to think of anyone else's pain. His own had been enormous enough to engulf his every thought and feeling for…oh…all his life. Except for Christine, of course. But how could one not respond to the pain in that child's angelic voice, pleading for some sign from her dear dead papa?
He steadied the hands that held the bowl and firmly dismissed Christine from his mind for the present. It wouldn't do to spill the soup and have to make a second, dangerous and degrading trip back to the kitchens.
As he approached his home – and he used the term loosely – he ran over in his mind everything that had happened since he had reached an unwitting and unwilling understanding with the girl that their secrets were their own and not to be shared.
He had bidden her to stay put while he moved about the place. He was sure his movements had seemed graceful enough, but he could tell the difference. It was as if each joint was stiff, creaking like old hinges. Confusion, embarrassment and an underlying fear made his fingers thick and clumsy. But somehow, he had managed to draw a bath for the girl in the small bathing chamber to the back of his lair, laying out a loose nightshirt for her to wear. It was one of his, actually. He had stolen it on a whim from the laundry room, thinking it would add one more element of suave civility to his absurd existence. But he had never worn it. What was the point when he fell asleep and woke up either at his desk or his organ?
The girl had accepted his aid in moving toward the bathing room, then given him a crisp nod as if to indicate she could handle the rest without him. He had been momentarily mortified, thinking that he would be suddenly called upon to aid in the undressing and washing of a woman – a nude woman, naked, absolutely bare…but…but…thankfully, he had been spared.
Suave he might be, he grimly thought to himself, but secure he was not.
As he went down the steps into his abode, he caught sight of the little figure curled up under the thick pile of blankets on the swan bed. It was to be Christine's bed, really. But she wasn't here…yet. And at least the girl was clean.
He saw the straw-colored top of her head peeking out, but by the rise and fall of the blankets knew she still slept soundly.
Silently, he approached her and carefully set the bowl down on a low trunk next to the bed. He paused for a moment, as if debating with himself, then sat down on the edge of the bed.
The girl stirred then stilled, as if clinging to sleep.
"Wake up," he said, making his voice as soothing and smooth as he knew how. "You need to eat."
The girl's eyes fluttered open and darted about for a moment as if in confusion. Then, as she seemed to realize where she was, she drew in a long breath and sat up.
Not a lady, was his first thought when he saw how she failed to hold the sheet up to her chin to cover herself as was proper. This one is poor.
"I brought you soup," he said.
The girl's eyes flicked to the covered bowl he indicated, then back to him. He didn't know what to make of the expression in them. It was weary and worldly, but it was thoughtful, as if cruel circumstance had not completely milked human kindness from her yet.
Her eyes settled on his mask again, and he felt a burning, tingling shiver of panic in his throat that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. But she made no move to touch the mask – luckily for her, or she'd have been dead in less time that it would take for the soup to cool.
Steeling himself, he brazenly studied her back. Bruises swelled and distorted her face, ringing her eyes and discoloring her cheeks. That long, thin scar on her cheek that he had first noticed was old – a testament to a hard-lived life, he guessed. She was tow-headed and pale and far too thin.
Just as he was losing himself in memorizing the minutiae of the shape of her nose and curve of her lips, he noticed she was looking at him intently with a small smile. Once she had his attention, she turned and looked meaningfully at the bowl of soup.
Quickly, he picked up the bowl and brought it to her, producing a spoon from the capacious pockets of his cloak. He removed the lid of the bowl and noticed how she inhaled deeply of the aroma that rose up in steamy plumes.
Hungry for longer than one night, he surmised. She raised her hands as if to take the bowl, and for a moment, he thought he'd hand it to her. But that would mean he'd have no reason to sit there any more. Without examining why he suddenly had developed this strange taste for company, he took the spoon, dipped it in the soup and brought it, brimming, to her lips.
The girl looked uncomfortable for a moment, and he watched intently as hunger got the best of her struggle. She opened her lips just enough to take in the liquid.
Suddenly, she choked, her face turning red as she tried to clear her airways, coughing hard enough so that her small body shook. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes as she recovered and looked longing at the soup.
He understood, and with understanding came a measure of a sentiment he had only ever reserved for himself and, of course, Christine – pity.
"How long since they cut out your tongue?" he asked quietly, rendering his voice soothing, conveying tones of safety and comfort.
A hard, angry look crossed the girl's piquant little face. She held up her hands to show all her fingers.
"Ten days?" he asked and saw the girl nod. He thought for a few moments, then brought a spoon of broth again to the girl's lips. "Take a much smaller sip this time," he said.
The girl sighed but obeyed and managed to get the nourishing soup down her throat. He repeated the procedure until they were engaged in a steady rhythm that was slowly replenishing the girl's famished frame.
He found as he watched her that he was beginning to have many questions about her. What was her name? Why did she not act scared of him like everyone else? What had she done to deserve such a punishment? Did she have any family who could care for her?
When finally the bowl was empty, he put it down and stood up. Again, she caught him by surprise by reaching out and taking his hand and pressing it to her cheek – a gesture he now was sure was one of gratitude.
"You are welcome," he replied softly, a small smile tugging at his lips without realizing it. "Rest now," he added. "I shall not be far."
Indeed, he'd be spending the rest of the morning sitting at his desk composing letters – for Lefevre, La Giry and Carlotta. Lefevre's retirement was to be announced in the next day or so, and he wanted to be ready.
He saw the girl nestle herself down among the covers again, and he watched in fascination as her body slackened as exhausted sleep once more claimed her. It occurred to him that he'd have to do something about her soon, and he found the thought…unsettling.
La Giry would help him – that would be a separate note he would write and deliver to her later that evening. The girl couldn't stay there indefinitely. Christine was coming, and this was to be her home…unless…
A brilliant thought struck him, and he smiled in sardonic appreciation of his own cleverness. His beloved Christine would spend her days in music and her nights in love. And for all the things that could intrude on such an idyll – laundering, cleaning, cooking, tidying – he had found the perfect resolution.
A small, silent servant girl – the very best kind.
It was indeed an excellent plan.
A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers - Mrs. Gerard Butler, Scratching of My Quill, and Emmanuelle Liselle Grey. I appreciate your feedback and encouragement tremendously!
Kate