A/N: As always, thank you for the lovely reviews! They really do make my day (especially when everything is falling apart around here - ha!) A bit of useless trivia found in my research - the Scotch spell it "whisky" on the label, other countries use "whiskey" - I have no idea the reason for such differences, but since this takes place on the border of Scotland, I used the first (it's not a typo). ;-) And now...
Chapter XII
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Once in the parlor, Christine reclaimed her glass and took a reviving sip of the golden libation she now knew must be whisky. She preferred wine or even brandy, but after the first bitter scourge to her throat, this warmed her well enough and eased the stiffness in her bones from the trying night. The Count motioned to the throne-like chair in the room, and she reclaimed that as well.
He poured himself a drink from the same crystal bottle and returned to the fire. She watched as he stared into the flames, casually tilting the glass back and forth with his fingers and thumb, having yet to take a drink. A long moment passed, and she wondered if he had forgotten they shared the chamber.
She cleared her throat softly. "Will he live? Is he out of danger?"
He snorted what could almost be called a chuckle, if it weren't so derisive, and took a drink from his glass. "You have done all you could. Take comfort in that."
She hardly had done a thing – the Count the true saving grace for the wounded priest, but she held her tongue, sensing he had no desire to hear those words. He was the true hero in this, but seemed to want none of the credit.
As if he discerned her thoughts, he looked her way.
"Let us return to our initial greeting upon your arrival. Why are you here?"
"To seek your aid, of course, and I'm grateful to you for giving it."
He shook his head in impatience. "That is not what I meant and well you know it! Why are you gallivanting about like some damned fool in this perilous countryside in the pitch black of night?"
She scowled. "I was not gallivanting, my lord." Harsher words burned, and it was only the knowledge that he was unaware of her situation that kept them from flaming from her tongue. "I have left Montmarte. I shall never return to that awful place."
He narrowed his eyes and took a step toward her. She swallowed hard.
"For what cause did you leave?"
"I had no choice."
"Did the earl harm you?"
His voice came quiet but lethal, and she shook her head.
"No. Unless you count entrapment into unwanted marriage as damaging." Which she did, to her soul, but if he possessed the mindset of most men, he would scorn her idealistic preferences as pure foolish fancy.
He nodded slowly as if at last his question was answered. "So. Your great uncle has found a match for you, and you would rather not have him."
She did not forget that this man had made clear his disinterest to court her, despite his scandalous advances, and she lifted her chin with grim resolve.
"I won't have him. I won't have any man if I don't wish to."
"Your uncle must have taken great delight in hearing that," he said dryly.
She said nothing.
"And so your solution is to flee from his manor in the dead of night, when you know there are wild beasts lurking in the forest?"
Must he keep bringing that up? She stuck her lip out slightly in exasperation at having to constantly explain herself, when her reason should be quite clear.
"I had no choice. I had to wait until the household retired for the evening, didn't I? And ran away before they woke."
He narrowed his eyes at her brusque remark - causing her to feel badly for taking out her frustration on him, when he had been nothing but helpful.
"I'm sorry," she lowered her eyes to her glass and took another small sip.
He studied her a moment before speaking. "Where exactly is your planned destination, Miss Daaé? I assume you have one."
"Paris."
A glimmer of something familiar shone in his eyes but in the next instant his expression was shielded from her curiosity as he turned again to look into the fire, and Christine felt she might have been mistaken.
"Paris," he said softly. "That is where you are from?"
"Yes, I have friends there. And a home, should I wish it." She was certain Madame Giry would give her back her place in the chorus, if it had not already been filled. And if it had, well, she didn't think Madame would send her to live out on the streets as one of the destitute. Surely, there was some task Christine could manage at the theatre.
She tried again to appeal to the kindness in his nature, a glimpse of which she'd seen before. "Now that I seem to have lost my horse, I need transportation. If there is any way that you might see clear to, if not loaning me your horse, helping me return to France?"
"It is impossible."
And with those clipped words, he punctured the fragile sheen of her hope.
"Impossible?"
"I have duties to attend that require my presence here."
"Oh, I wouldn't need an escort. I have traveled alone before – it's how I got here…" At his black glower, her words trailed off and she tried again. "Perhaps if you could take me only as far as the village and loan me money to hire a stagecoach -"
"No."
"I will repay you," she said, a bit desperately. "It's just – I don't have any money with me at this time."
Those golden eyes became formidable. "And it was your plan to travel hundreds of miles across this rugged countryside – how?"
She lifted her chin. "I would have found a way."
He expelled a disgusted breath and shook his head.
"I can give you shelter, this one night, until it is again safe to return to Montmarte. I have instructed Gregor to prepare a room. You will find it two doors down from where the priest resides. But that is all I can do for you Miss Daaé."
She frowned at his implication that she would return to the manor that had brought her nothing but woe, but felt a little thrill of shock at his grudging invitation, though she should not be surprised at his gallantry, reluctant as it came. He had made it patently clear that he would not let her go until the dawn, and nighttime in Berwickshire was anything but tranquil. Regardless, she felt a bit apprehensive to realize he meant for her to stay the entire night at his castle.
The connotations of the gesture were given as a courtesy, but should anyone discover that she slept the night there, what little reputation she was considered to have in this shire as a thespian would be entirely ruined…but surely, no more appalling than striking out in the night, an unmarried woman alone, to flee across foreign lands so as to return to familiar turf.
What did she care what these people thought of her, since she would soon never again see any of them? Never again see him…
A strange sadness prickled inside her heart as she regarded the golden eyes that so steadily regarded her and realized he awaited a response.
"Thank you, my lord. I find myself at a dead end, and must accept. If it's alright with you, I would prefer to sit here awhile, by the fire. I still feel a bit of a chill."
He nodded slowly. "As you wish."
A congenial if uncertain silence stretched between them. Christine's attention wandered to the entrance of the adjacent chamber she discovered hours ago.
She realized she risked his anger by her next words, but curiosity wouldn't let them rest.
"Earlier, while you were gone, I, um…" She hesitated when he turned the full power of those eyes of fire and gold her way. "In order to remain awake, I wandered the room and found the chamber with the instruments inside."
He narrowed his gaze until his irises were flickering points of light. She nervously cleared her throat of her lame confession solely fashioned to learn more.
"I, um – do you play any of them?" When seconds whispered past without an answer, she added, "Or do you only collect them? I remember in the maze you told me that you have studied music and its composers, which is why I ask."
"You have a remarkable memory … when it suits you to remember."
The glow of his unexpected compliment faded with his last sardonic words.
"Meaning?"
"How often have I warned you not to wander about the countryside at night?"
She sighed in wearied exasperation of his tiring mantra. "I told you, I had no choice. What is confusing to me is why you pretend to care. You made it explicitly clear that you wanted nothing more to do with me, ordering me away -"
"And yet, here you are, in my home."
Unwelcome tears pricked the back of her eyes at his detached, cold words and his clear displeasure with her presence. A mistake she would not make again.
She rose from the chair and held out her glass for him to take.
"Thank you for your kind invitation, my lord Count, but I will have to decline. I have no desire to stay where I am unwanted."
"Sit down, Christine."
Again, with his soft use of her familiar name, she felt unarmed. Wounded offense had spurred her into action without thought – truthfully, where the devil could she go in this wild stretch of forest without a horse to carry her far and fast? She was trapped here, without either of them wishing it, and could do nothing but wait for the morning to crawl in.
She felt frustrated and angry and hurt and sank back to the chair, gathering the tatters of her battered pride around her like a flimsy shield. Pressing her lips together, she stared hard into the fire.
"I have found that music is the catharsis for a weary soul," he said quietly, shocking her as she acknowledged his response to her earlier question. "I both collect the instruments and play them."
"I wish I could have learned," she said wistfully after a moment, a trifle more at ease now that her accidental host had initiated easy conversation. "Meg and I would sometimes sneak backstage when it was empty and play the upright piano there, or try – as well as two little girls with no training could manage." She shrugged with a despondent little laugh. "Actually we were rather awful."
He studied her intently, as if confronted with a puzzle. She wished to know what he was thinking but didn't ask.
"What music do you like best?" she inquired, wishing to fill the new silence.
"Opera."
"Oh," she breathed softly. Another thing they had in common, though she shouldn't be surprised. He had uncovered her scheme of Gounad's fictional characters for her ghostly dance partners.
"Have you been to many of them?"
"I have attended operas all over the world."
She was quite surprised to hear that – the reclusive Count traveled? And yet, had she not been told that he only arrived at this castle two years ago?
"Is there one opera you prefer over others? Perhaps a composer you favor? "
Beneath the full mask, his lips flickered into a half grin. "You ask many questions."
"I love music. It's nice to share that love with someone. The earl nor Lucy had any real fondness for it, and Raoul regarded music only as an occasional entertainment."
The Count considered a moment, as if deciding whether or not to continue their conversation. Christine had the oddest feeling that he both wanted to stay and wished to go. Another thing they had in common.
"I would assume Faust is your preference?" he asked at last.
She smiled, perhaps her first genuine smile of the evening, of the entire week. She could discuss music for hours.
"I do like it, the Jewel Song especially. But I think my favorite to sing would be La Traviata."
His brow lifted, his mask shifting upward. "Yet another story of a woman fallen from grace?"
She fidgeted slightly, resolving not to take his words as an insult.
"Those operas suit my voice. I also like Mireille. I like that it incorporates folk songs, similar to the songs of my youth, when my parents were both alive." She gave another wistful sigh. "I also enjoy the comedic operettas, though they can be quite bawdy. And you?"
"I tend to prefer the darker nature of a story along with the dramatic."
His admission fit the manner of man he was, and she was pleased he had unbent enough to satisfy her curiosity. Again he seemed to hesitate an extensive time, as if unsure he should speak or act.
"If you are not yet ready to retire for the evening, perhaps you would not mind if I played?"
His words were low and tentative, entirely unexpected, tasty morsels uneasily offered – and Christine grasped them to her with greedy delight. "Oh, yes, please. At Montmarte there was no music and I have missed it so."
"That comes as little surprise. The earl is tone deaf."
"Is he?"
She had lived there over a month and had no clue; the Count had visited briefly with the earl one afternoon, and judging from what her uncle told her, their conversation had nothing to do with music.
He noticed her expression of curious astonishment.
"I overheard others speak of it at the ball." He took a sip of his drink. "Any preference?"
For whatever reason, what came to mind was the first opera her Angel taught her, Médée, though surely the Count wouldn't know it. An opera from almost a century past, the Angel told her it was never again played after its lukewarm reception in Paris.
She shook off the melancholy that always invaded her heart when she thought of him, and chose instead something the Count was sure to know.
"Something from Faust perhaps?"
She wondered if he could also sing, but decided not to abuse his generosity and ask. He inclined his head in an amused little nod, his eyes glowing devilishly with an eagerness to share his craft that, to her knowledge, all artisans possessed.
He turned into the music room and vanished from her sight. With no door to block sound, she would hear him well and remained seated on his throne-like chair. The first silken notes flowed from the chamber and wrapped around her soul. She inhaled deeply of its essence, feeling the melody soothe away the cares of life and bring her a much coveted serenity. He played with expert grace, but it was not his skill that impressed her so much as his art – as if his soul reached out to her, beckoning her to enter his world…
Helpless to remain seated after several stanzas, she rose and moved slowly toward the chamber, wishing to see him caress the chords so tenderly with his fingers as sound implied.
And then he began to sing the first lines of Faust's cavatina: Salut, demeure chaste et pure, an ode to Marguerite as a pure child of nature.
Christine went entirely still, suddenly forgetting how to breathe.
When he had first spoken to her, at the festival, and each time after that, she had a strange sense of awareness, thinking it only the beauty of his deep tenor reaching through to her soul. Rich and full-bodied, like a most excellent wine, his speaking voice was strong, fluid…present. The voice of her past had been vacuous in whispers. Even when raised in anger, it had remained distant…ghostly…often bouncing in waves all around the walls, coming from objects impossible to comprehend.
But that voice…that voice…
Haunting her from her dreams in song…
Whispering to her in memories never forgotten.
She shook away the impossibility and drew closer still until she stood just inside the chamber. Her back to the lintel, she stared hard at his broad shoulders and dark hair that barely touched their tops, the strands not pulled back in their usual ebony silk ribbon. His long, slender fingers picked out the melody as his beautiful voice quietly continued to extol the virtues of the young Marguerite.
"Angel...?"
xXx
Her query came on a pause, causing Erik to go utterly still. After a long moment, he shook off the tremor of shock her innocently-aired word had given, and turned on the bench to regard her.
Her dark eyes were wide and bright and full of incredulity. She stood transfixed.
"Why would you call me by such a name?"
After the harshness he'd shown her, the "monster" and "beast" she had justifiably called him, "Angel" hardly made sense.
She shook her head and blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and appeared quite flustered by his words.
"I'm sorry if I offended you." She gave an embarrassed little shrug of her shoulders and looked down at the glass still in her hand, taking a small sip. "It must be the hour and the whisky and your transcendent music. I wasn't myself for a moment, or rather I was - transported back through time."
Her words made even scanter sense. He motioned to a chair that stood near the cold hearth.
"Perhaps you should take a seat before you fall over."
She walked unsteadily closer and sank to the chair, looking down at her glass she cupped with both hands. He did not persist, sensing she would soon continue. He was not disappointed.
"I suppose an explanation is in order. You see, as a child, I believed rather foolishly in fables, that they were genuine. My Papa was a master at crafting them, and your music – your voice – brought those memories back. Of a time when I was newly orphaned, lost and lonesome, in my new home at the opera house."
Thunderstruck, he listened to her quiet words that tendered sparks of revelation inside his withered soul. He could barely inhale to breathe.
It could not be…
"I prayed for an Angel of Music to appear, to teach me. The Angel from Papa's stories…"
His eyes widened as he took in, as if for the first time, her long, dark curls; her glistening dark eyes and creamy, delicate features – that face once pinched and pale, the hair lackluster and much shorter, those eyes having been a lighter shade of brown, but then, as now, so haunted.
"Lotte," he barely uttered the ghost of the name beneath his breath.
"Did you say something?" she asked. When he didn't respond, she went on, "For a time, I did have someone special teach me to sing. I called him my Angel, though I now know he was but a man. I never saw him – he taught me from beyond the chapel wall. At least, I think that's where he must have hidden." She gave a little embarrassed laugh. "There were corridors behind the walls, you see, found years later by some stagehands. But my Angel went away; I think I must have displeased him. And well, there was never anyone after that willing to take the extensive amount of time with me that he did, in teaching me to sing." She frowned and looked back into her glass. "I have tried to recall all of his instructions, but it was such a long time ago. And I haven't always been successful, as you heard the night of the ball. Your voice reminded me of his. He sang with the voice of an angel…as do you."
He should have guessed earlier, when she first mentioned Paris as home and Meg as a friend - indeed, had felt a glimmer of recognition he just as swiftly brushed aside. The same glimmer he'd experienced weeks ago, when he first heard her sing at the ball - how did he not realize? Admittedly, he'd stood outside, hidden away, her voice distant and matured from the sweet child's voice he'd known. Still retaining its crystalline beauty, but not yet trained to its full potential…and in the fog, her song had been whisper-soft and wavering with fear. Much as the frightened child with whom he'd first been acquainted.
By the blood of his ancestors – how could he have not known!
She thought him displeased.
She could not have been further from the truth.
"My lord Count…?" Concern laced her voice. "Are you not feeling well?"
"Never call me by that name again."
His words came sharp, the timbre of them soft.
She winced as if slapped. "I did apologize. I never meant to call you Angel. It's simply where my mind was at the time -"
"I told you once, for you, my name is Erik."
Her surprise was evident by the manner in which her lips softly parted. Small wonder after his chill aloofness toward her these weeks. If anything, he should continue to create distance between them, not invite familiarity. But no longer could he bear the meek way she said his title – as if he was exalted above her, when in truth, he was unworthy to kiss the hem of her garment.
She was pure of heart, like Marguerite…and he was Faust and Mephistopheles combined, the condemned and the wicked – though he would never wish to stain her innocent soul with his darkness, or wound her trusting nature.
Lotte…
Christine.
He shook his head and looked away, still struggling with the shock and the disbelief, that after all these years, after all this time, of all those to come to Berwickshire and to his castle, where none ever visited - she should be here now.
What wretched game did the Fates now play with his life?
"My lord?" she inquired in a gentle voice the moment before he felt her fingertips faintly touch his shoulder. He snapped his head up and sideways to look at her. She inhaled swiftly and snatched her hand back, the uncertain look in her dark eyes now familiar…
"I think it wise if you leave me now and retire to bed." His voice came low but fierce with the determination to be obeyed as he turned back to stare, unseeing, at the ivory keys.
"Yes, alright."
She retreated two swift steps and stopped as if she would say more, but after this discovery, he needed time to think in the dark comfort of his solitude.
"If you do not remember the way, Gregor will show you."
"N-no. It's not difficult to find." Her footsteps hastened to the door. "Goodnight then."
He listened to her hurry out of the main parlor and to the staircase, his keen hearing able to discern the staccato of her footsteps as she ran up to the second landing as if fleeing for her life.
He closed his eyes and hoped it would never come to that.
xXx
A/N: Hope you guys liked the first of disclosures (and the rest of the chapter too - haha). :) Thanks again for the reviews!