Christine had been dreaming; she knew that much to be true. Yet when she woke, it was as though she was dreaming still.
Music, like the tinkling of water over glass, floated toward her, and she let her eyes flutter open to search for the origin of the sound. Her gaze immediately fell upon a curious object.
A figure of a monkey, with calm eyes the color of coffee, seemed almost to be smiling from where he was perched atop a box. He held a shining cymbal in each hand, and tapped them together in time to the music that came from the box beneath him. He was dressed in the fashion of the Orient, in silken robes of rich colors and patterns. A turban swathed his head, a jeweled and feathered brooch in the center of the headdress.
Christine, her eyes locked on the music box, reached instinctively for the tassel next to the bed and tugged it gently. The dark lace curtain that surrounded her slowly rose even as the music box wound down, the tune fading into silence. A dizzying sensation of curiosity washed over her, but like a March snowfall, the feeling melted away without a trace.
The covers on the bed she lay on were lush and inviting, but held no power over the thoughts that were gamboling through her mind. She swung her feet off the bed and to the floor, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she rose. The stone floor was chilly beneath her bare feet, a welcome shock that helped dissipate the fuzziness in her mind.
She could neither place her surroundings, nor how she had gotten there. Memories, teasing and mocking her in their dimness, slithered to the surface of her mind, and she sang, her words slow, hesitant, distant.
"I remember there was mist, swirling mist across a vast, glassy lake…" She watched the water, ebbing and flowing against the far edge of the grotto in which she stood. What was it about the water?
Another memory tickled her as she glanced around the cavern. "There were candles all around and on the lake there was a boat…" Like a door latch sliding home, the memory clicked inside her head. "…and in the boat there was a man."
Her gaze was pulled over to where he lingered silently over his organ. As though he could feel her eyes upon him, he turned slightly, showing her his masked side. The smell of ink permeated the air, and a quill rested in his hand, forgotten for the moment. Something flashed in his eye, and he straightened as she left the bed chamber and crossed to where he sat.
"Who was that shape in the shadows?" she sang, her voice delicate with its questions. "Whose is the face in the mask?"
She approached him, drawn to his form, a tingle starting in her stomach. He wore a heavy black velvet robe that draped across his broad shoulders. His hair was neatly combed back. She drew closer to him, and, unable to stop herself, ran her fingers along the left side of his jaw. His skin was smooth and unblemished. When she spread her palm across his cheek she could feel the strength of the muscle and bone structure that lay beneath their flawless covering.
The tingle in her stomach spread through her entire body when he tipped his head back and pressed into her caress. His shoulders pushed against her in delicate resistance.
She could feel the mask beneath the heel of her left hand, and a notion, foolish and impulsive, seized her. Without further though, she curled her fingers around the edge of the white leather mask and pulled.