Help, I need somebody, Help, not just anybody, Help, I need reviews, would you please, please help me?
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Erik watched Adrian through the mirror, with no little puzzlement. What was she praying over? They did not look like any deities he had ever seen, but he had to admit that whoever had carved them was more than skillful. The person was an artist. He could make out every detail, from the texture of their clothing to the individual hairs on their heads. The detail was amazing, and in the flickering candlelight, one could almost imagine the figures breathing.
Adrian's face was tired, hopeless, as if she didn't really believe the prayers she spoke. Even as the words left her lips, the truth was in her eyes: she was praying to an empty sky.
Yet another similarity between them. Both were hiding behind masks, both had no one to believe in, both were lonely.
He could not say how he knew these things, but they were solid facts imprinted in her face whenever she was alone.
He drew back from the mirror.
She was an interesting animal. Finding out what made her brain cogs run would add a little interest to his dull existence. Jules hadn't been bringing any new projects lately and the boat was done. He was officially bored.
Jules. JULES! Why hadn't he thought of it before? Why not ask Jules to dig up any and all information he could find on Mlle. Adrian Cartier? A quick search of her room while she was at work would probably turn up something to give him a starting point, and Jules would take it from there!
Of course he would have to be careful. Erik had a feeling that she was the sort who would notice if even a single speck of dust was moved; a stupid mistake would reveal that someone had been searching her room. He might leave a single scuffmark with his shoe that would lead her to the mirror, where she would no doubt find the place where it opened, leading her to his underground lair. He did not want to reveal his presence to her so suddenly. He wanted to give both of them time to get used to the other. Maybe he would leave a note, or better still, an anonymous gift. Choosing such a gift would take thought, but if he chose wisely, it would neither scare her away nor go by unnoticed.
He had only to wait till morning.
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When Adrian woke up, there was no light outside. She stretched and quickly curled into a fetal ball. The pain had hit her out of nowhere. It coursed over her skin like liquid flame, and she bit her tongue to stop herself from crying out. When the sharp lance subsided to a dull ache, she got up gingerly. Sometimes the pain was there, and sometimes it wasn't. It came and went like the tide. It was all His fault really. He had cut the patchwork and then sewn it back up while she lay on the table like a gasping fish being gutted. The tears had not come then, and they didn't come now, but He had left his mark. That was why His death did not merit a single prayer on her part. It was His fault really that she had fallen under Isobel's hands. But then, whose fault was it that she had ended up in His house at all?
Adrian waved the question away for later, and proceeded in getting dressed.
The brush went quickly down the golden mane, untangling the unruly locks mussed by bed head. She carefully braided her hair and began to coil it, but as she did, her shoulders protested loudly.
Probably there was going to be rain soon. She always hurt most before the damp.
When she was fully dressed, she strode down the stairs to her mistress's door, preparing herself for another day of living hell.
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Erik stepped through the mirror and closed it behind him. The room was gloomy, but the candle he had brought along would give all the light he needed.
His search of her dresser revealed the little figures she had been praying over. On closer inspection, they were even more detailed than he had previously thought. It was as if real people had been shrunken to the dolls' proportions and painted with the colors of wood. The only figures that could possibly be saints were the friar and the scholar, but to think so would require a stretch of the imagination.
He was just putting the little figures back, when he felt a hard shape press against his knuckle. It felt a little like a book. He pushed the second dress (another drab, brown affair) in Adrian's collection out of the way to reveal a small book bound in green leather. On the front in gold letters was A Study of the Female Anatomy, Volume III by Dr. Henri DuBoise.
He opened he book to the first page. It was handwritten. The writing was neat and precise and proclaimed: Marseilles, 1855-1870. After was an introduction explaining the doctor's long running career and studies in the effects of surgery on the human body. On the whole it was rather boring, but Erik read it through just the same. The stanzas kept referring to the subject of his experiments, but never gave the individual any identification. Not even a name was mentioned.
Erik flipped through the book, his green eyes skimming the pages lazily. It was only a series of sketches with detailed notes. The subject was portrayed without a face, but it seemed to grow from childhood to maturity as the book went on. The volume ended quite abruptly and there were several blank pages.
Curious. Very curious. What was Mlle. Cartier doing with a book like this? As far as he knew (and he made it a point to track the literary market; life was that dull) this book had never been published. He had heard Adrian tell Madame Bufont that her father was a doctor. Perhaps the book was his. Perhaps he was dead and she kept it as a memento of a beloved guardian. This would explain her withdrawn attitude. Loss of a parent had been known to affect people mentally. Wasn't Christine an example?
But for some reason, this new theory didn't seem to fit. He couldn't say why.
At any rate, Erik had a starting point for Jules. A little research on the book's author would reveal any ties to the point of interest.
Satisfied that his presence was undetectable, Erik let himself out of the room.
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D'you like it, mine comrades? If so, please review. If you can make any guesses about our heroine's mental state, please drop me a personal message so I know if my writing is too obvious! Je 'taime Mon Amie!
