Chapter Ten
"Christine."
The name fell from his lips sweetly, his tongue forming the syllables with practiced ease. It still brought confused images to his mind, thoughts that twisted her into perfection even more. Christine. Christ. Savior. Christine, my savior.
She stood before him now, her dark curls falling gracefully to her bare shoulders. Her skin was pale - not with illness and self-neglect, like his own. No, her flesh was as white and pure as ivory, almost as if reflecting her terrible innocence. Even now, with a faint blush staining those too-pale cheeks, her wedding dress soiled and torn, her fingers twisting her skirt, she was beautiful. She was perfect.
Christine. I love you.
He didn't even notice that he had spoken the words aloud.
She moved towards him slowly, lifting her wet skirts and kneeling beside him.
"Yes," she said calmly. She raised a hand to his mangled face and stroked lightly, a gentle touch on a harsh terrain. "Yes," she repeated, lifting her head to his and capturing his lips softly. The warmth her mouth created spread across his skin, a stinging heat running down his spine. He reacted carefully, moving his mouth against hers with an infinite gentleness. She slipped a hand behind his head and ran her fingers along the nape of his neck, pressing her lips harder against his.
He broke the contact, breathing harshly and shutting his eyes against the wetness he felt building behind them. She leaned her forehead against his, releasing a sigh. He opened his eyes slowly and gazed at her warm smile. The gentle curve of her mouth remained the same, the dark lips looking just as he had memorized and sketched so many times. But her hair had straightened... her skin had darkened into a sun-kissed tan... her eyes were no longer a vivid blue, but a honey-brown... he pulled back and gazed at her.
When she murmured his name under her breath, her voice was not her own.
Erik's body shook with panic as he awoke.
His hand flew to the right side of his face, shielding it protectively. He stood from the chair he had reclined on, hissing at the pain that shot through his head at the movement. He glanced derisively at the glass of brandy sitting on the end-table. The decanter next to it was almost empty, he noticed. He must have drank more than he thought.
Rubbing his temples, he breathed deeply to calm his thundering pulse. It wasn't the first dream he had woken from shaking - Christine appeared in his mind often, whether he was conscious or not, and her presence never failed to electrify him. Just as it had in reality, he realized darkly, seating himself on the ottoman next to the chair. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he glanced at the tray of food Isabel had left for him.
That woman. He quirked an eyebrow as he thought of her.
She was no great jewel, physically speaking. Tall and lean, she appeared somewhat awkward and gangly at times, tripping over her skirts or stumbling as she entered a room. She utterly lacked the delicate grace and beauty he had become accustomed to seeing in the fairer sex. The ballerinas at the Opera Populaire were truly lovely beings to behold, despite their occasionally wretched performances. Appearance was everything to stage performers, and the ballet rats took it to heart. Hours were spent in front of mirrors, applying coal and rogue to perfect the color of their faces. Barre exercises were repeated ad naseum, shaping their curves pleasingly. Little Meg Giry had certainly grown into a stunning young woman, blonde-haired and fair-skinned, her flirtatious smile commanding the attention of every room she entered. Even her mother had retained some of the gentle beauty of her youth.
But Christine...
Christine was an ethereal creature. Her every feature was in some way surreal... her eyes bluer than any he had seen previous... her dark, cascading curls more voluminous... her skin, paler and softer than silk...
Her mouth. Oh, he remembered. The dark lips had always entranced him, whether they were parted in song or tightly shut in fear.
Or pressing against mine.
He stood abruptly. He picked up the small glass of amber liquid and threw it back, swallowing with a wince. The brandy assaulted his senses immediately, loosening the pressure on his lungs and replacing the pounding in his head with a peaceful lightness. He sank back onto the couch, pressing the glass to his forehead.
Isabel's mouth was identical to Christine's. The same deep color, the soft curves... smiling with nerves, gaping with alarm. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before.
That was really all of his former student that he saw in the woman. Where Christine had been rather easily intimidated by his harsh criticism and angry tones, Isabel seemed to show no reaction whatsoever. He could still detect the moment his words cut through her... those lips would set firmly and her eyes would narrow ever so slightly. Not intimidated, but easily annoyed. He smirked, setting the glass back on the table. Her eyes, he had noted, were a very dull brown, and her straight, dark hair had no character whatsoever. Her appearance was, all in all, rather plain. He would have been able to ignore her completely... if it hadn't been for that mouth. Such a thing to notice on a woman. Two strips of flesh that could bring pleasure or pain with mere words, that could form music to drive you mad with desire... that could destroy you with a kiss.
Erik lifted his hand slowly and slipped the mask off, rubbing his sore flesh. He opened one eye and gazed at the tray of food on the small table next to the piano.
Perhaps it is time to live.
Isabel stared at the empty tray for several moments. The sight of it, bare, save for the plates and a few crumbs, had startled her completely, and she hadn't quite recovered yet.
Not bothering to suppress a pleased smile, she lifted the tray and sped down the stairs, almost flouncing into the kitchen. Picking a saucer up and placing it carefully in the washing basin, she idly wondered if it was the particular dish she had prepared that had tempted him into finally taking a meal. The roast had been particularly good, the bread had come out of the oven crusty and moist, and the canned vegetables had been seasoned to perfection, complimenting the meat with their light sweetness. Even a man as stubborn as Mr. Bertrand could not resist the call of such a delectable feast.
Or perhaps he was simply hungry after having fasted for several days.
She washed the dishes slowly, prolonging this delightfully simple chore. She would need to make the journey into town again today, and she scowled at the idea. Her legs still ached from yesterday's trip and she had no wish to cause them more pain. But Mr. Bertrand wanted his materials from the metal shop to finish his ridiculous stable, and perhaps Thomas' trousers were ready to be collected. She would have considered asking Mr. Bertrand if she could borrow the funds to get a carriage home from town, but a voice in the back of her mind told her it would be unwise. Her own purse was almost empty, and spending what remained on a cab would be decadent and foolish.
Wiping the last of the dishes dry, she ran a finger along the edge of the chipped porcelain. The dishware, like everything else in the house, was aged and ill-cared for. She placed the dishes in the cabinet carefully and turned back to the basin, glancing out the window.
The blue sky was streaked with dark gray clouds, casting an ominous shadow over the house. She groaned at the idea of being caught in a thunderstorm during the trip to town. Wrapping her arms around herself tightly, she shuddered. Please, don't let it rain.
A yawn sounded behind her and Thomas stumbled in blearily, rubbing his eyes. He blinked up at his mother and smiled tiredly, his eyes still unfocused with sleep.
"Good morning, Mama."
"Good morning, darling. How did you sleep?"
"Not well." He sunk onto a chair by the kitchen table. "The ghost kept me awake."
She raised her eyebrows. "So you're acquainted with him now, are you?"
Thomas shook his head. "I heard him. Through the walls. He was moaning."
"He was moaning."
Thomas nodded.
"Darling," Isabel walked over to her son and seated herself on a chair next to his, "I was in the room across the hall from yours, and I didn't hear any moaning ghosts."
"Grown-ups don't hear them. They never do."
"Why is that?"
"Because grown-ups have too much sense to listen."
Isabel stared at him for a moment. "I see." She stood, wiping her damp hands on her apron. "Are you hungry, dear?"
"Yes."
She nodded. "I'll make you some breakfast." She strode over to the cupboard and opened it, taking out the remains of the loaf of bread. A faint rattling coming from the open window startled her, and she looked out it again.
Mr. Bertrand was leaning over a board, examining it carefully. Once again, he looked rumpled, and the sight still caught her off-guard. His dress shirt was smeared with dirt and rust, a smattering of color among the crisp white of the lawn. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and Isabel noticed, with a touch of annoyed concern, that the bandage on his injured hand looked damp and red. She glanced at his face. His brow was set in lines of concentration, his lips parted slightly, his tongue between his teeth. The mask was smudged with dirt and blood. She turned away from the window, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of the house. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she smiled at Thomas, who was eyeing the bread with eagerness. She cut through the loaf and spread some butter on the slice, handing it to her hungry son.
"We need to go back into town today."
Thomas grumbled through his food.
"I know it isn't fun, but we have to do it. Your trousers may be ready, and Mr. Bertrand's supplies need to be collected."
"I'm sure the trousers fit, Mama."
"You're coming with me, Thomas."
"But I don't want—" He cut himself off at the look Isabel shot him.
"I don't either, dear, but we must." She folded her arms impatiently. "Eat up. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return."
Sighing loudly, Thomas bit down on the bread with all the tragedy he could muster and cast his mother a mournful look.
The pieces from the metal shop weighed down Isabel's satchel, and she tried to ignore the ache in her shoulder. Thomas trotted behind her gloomily. A pout had taken residence on his face for the past hour and he was making his impatience known.
"Honestly, Tom, all you have to do is step into the trousers, make sure they don't slide over your bottom to the floor, and be done with it. It will take all of five minutes."
He grunted.
Isabel looked over her shoulder at him. "You're beginning to sound like Mr. Bertrand."
Thomas' eyes grew wide and he scrambled to keep in pace with his mother. "I'm just tired, Mama."
Isabel stopped in her tracks. Turning to face him, she sank to her knees in the middle of the road leading through the town, placing her hands in her lap.
"My darling," she said gently, "I know very little for certain, but I know that our new life will be difficult for us. I know that there will be times when we are sad and just want to go back to our old lives. But we can't, Tom. We have to be here. This is our path." She looked around herself and raised an eyebrow. "Literally." She faced him again. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama," he said quietly.
Isabel stood, wincing at the satchel strap digging into her shoulder. "Let's get it over with, then. Come." She held out her hand for Thomas, and he took it quickly, squeezing his fingers around hers.
Mr. Sanders' door opened with a faint creak as Isabel stepped inside, pulling Thomas next to her. "Mr. Sanders?" she said softly, glancing around the shop. She let go of Thomas' hand and passed a rack of cloaks and shawls, all marked down for the season. Reaching the counter, she knocked on it, clearing her throat. "Mr. Sanders?" she repeated louder. "Are you in?"
A scuffling sound came from the backroom and the black curtain separating it from the storefront was pushed aside as Mr. Sanders rushed out. "Mrs. Bauer!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands together joyfully. "What a delight! Your little boy's trousers were just finished this morning! Let me collect them!" He spun around and ran back into the backroom.
Thomas made a sour face. "I'm not a little boy."
Isabel patted the top of his head. "He's old, darling. You're little compared to him."
"Is he older than you?"
"I would say so." She smiled politely when Mr. Sanders appeared again, unfolding a pair of dark wool trousers and grinning merrily.
"Come around back here and we'll have a try-on, alright, Mr. Bauer?"
Thomas, never having been addressed this way before, shot his mother a perplexed look. She shrugged slightly, silently urging him to get on with it. He nodded and went behind the counter, taking the trousers from Mr. Sanders.
"There's a changing room just in the back. Yes, back there... go straight, you can't miss it." And Thomas disappeared behind the black curtain.
Mr. Sanders turned his full attention to Isabel. "Mrs. Bauer, how are you on this truly beautiful day?"
"I'm very well, Mr. Sanders. I trust you are the same."
He rolled back and forth on the balls of his feet, his smile taking up most of his face. "Absolutely the same. Spring always brings out the best in me." He chortled.
Isabel's fixed smile wavered. "Is that so?"
"Oh, yes! The fresh air, the new buds, the insects crawling with renewed vigor. It's a wondrous time to be alive."
"Indeed, Mr. Sanders. I can only hope to someday achieve your level of... enthusiasm, for the passing seasons."
"And if I may say so, Mrs. Bauer," Mr. Sanders leaned in closely, giving a conspiratorial wink, "you are as lovely as a fresh-cut flower."
Isabel felt her face warm. "Mr. Sanders, surely such flattery is not necessary. I am already a customer."
The short man gave a loud chuckle. "Your wit is impeccable, ma'am! No, I do mean it sincerely." he strode around the counter and to the rack of discount items. Plucking a shawl off of it, he held it out to her. "That cloak you were wearing the other day looked a bit woebegone, Mrs. Bauer. It will be too warm to wear soon, but perhaps you could do with a new shawl?" He waved it open, admiring the stitching. "A particularly fine wool, ma'am. You'll notice the lace trim? Imported from Paris, you know. I'm partial to this burgundy color, but perhaps you prefer the emerald." He tossed the shawl on his shoulder and picked a green one off the rack, examining it for flaws.
Isabel had backed into the counter. "I have a shawl, Mr. Sanders, but I thank you very much for the offer."
He shrugged and put the shawls back, coming around the counter again.
"Do you know, Mrs. Bauer, I haven't asked--"
"They fit, Mama." Thomas appeared next to the counter, the new trousers hanging perfectly on his frame.
"Oh, wonderful!" She opened her reticule quickly and dug through it. Selecting some coins, she plunked them on the counter and gave the tailor a warm smile. "Thank you so much, Mr. Sanders. They're perfect."
Mr. Sanders waved a thin hand jollily. "Not at all, ma'am, not at all. 'Tis my pleasure." He bowed.
Isabel shot him one more grateful smile over her shoulder as they left the shop.
"Isn't Papa Mr. Bauer?"
"What?" Isabel looked down at her son. His brow was furrowed in thought.
"Mr. Sanders called me Mr. Bauer. Isn't that Papa?"
"Oh. You're Mr. Bauer, as well. Because you're Papa's son."
"If he had a daughter, would she be Mrs. Bauer?"
"No, she would be Miss Bauer."
"But you're Mrs. Bauer."
Isabel nodded slowly. "Yes, but I'm Papa's wife, not his daughter."
"Oh." Thomas kicked at the dirt ground as they walked on.
A peaceful silence settled over them as they continued the journey back to the house. The sky was still touched with gray clouds, but the sun shone through them, illuminating the road with a ghostly paleness. Rubbing her shoulder gingerly, Isabel sighed contently, reveling in the warmth of the breeze.
"Are you still his wife?"
Isabel stopped. "What?"
Thomas looked up at his mother innocently, his brown curls falling into his eyes. "Are you still Papa's wife? Even though you never see him?"
"Of course I am."
"And I'm still his son?"
Isabel grabbed Thomas' hand and pulled him along the road, quickening her pace. "Yes, darling, you're his son. You will always be his son." She swallowed. "Come now, keep up. I want to begin work on that parlor before nightfall."
The rest of the trip was silent, save for their footfalls. Isabel released a slow breath in relief when Mr. Bertrand's house appeared. Feeling a sudden surge of energy, she lifted the satchel higher onto her shoulder and walked quickly down the road, Thomas struggling to keep up behind her.
She opened the front door and entered the house hastily, walking towards the kitchen. "Put your old trousers in the room next to mine, darling," she called over her shoulder. "We can use them for scrap material."
"I can go upstairs alone now?"
Setting the satchel on the kitchen floor, Isabel peered out the window and saw Mr. Bertrand step out of the gaping hole in the center of the stable's wall. He turned and studied the building closely, wiping a spot of dirt off a board. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
"Yes, you may go upstairs alone." Hearing him move up the stairs slowly, she picked the satchel up and walked to the door, opening it and slipping outside quietly. She strode to the stable and stood next to Mr. Bertrand, waiting to be acknowledged. He ignored her presence and continued to gaze at the wooden building critically. She turned her head to face him and was greeted with the masked side of his face, still soiled with streaks of brown and red. Now that she was closer, she could see that he hadn't shaved that morning - dark stubble colored his pale skin, making him appear even more pallid than before. Isabel looked away quickly, suddenly feeling as if she was intruding, although he had certainly noticed that she was there. She coughed slightly to get his attention.
"Yes, Mrs. Bauer?" His eyes didn't leave the structure.
"The items you requested, sir." She pulled the canvas sack from her satchel and held it out to him.
He glanced at it out of the corner of his eye but made no move to take it from her.
"Hmm." His gaze returned to the building.
Isabel dropped the bag onto the ground, startling herself at the loud rattling that issued from it, and turned on her heel, striding back to the house. The childish desire to stomp her feet flared up inside her.
"Today, Mrs. Bauer," she muttered to herself. "I would be much obliged." Remembering the result of her last imitation of her employer, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Standing, she reached for her apron and tied it on, smoothing the thin cotton over her skirts. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep, but there were several hours of daylight left, and parlor was in need of attention.
Taking one more look out the window, she saw Mr. Bertrand laying the metal pieces in a row, inspecting each item carefully. She snorted. "A stable." She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "Miles I walk to town for materials so a man with no livestock can build a stable. Does he bother to thank me? Of course not." Rolling her shoulders to relax the cramped muscles, she went into the hallway, preparing to hike up those ridiculously steep stairs. Looking up, she found herself face-to-face with a tall, dark-skinned man, twisting an astrakhan hat in his hands nervously.
My word, whoever could that be?
Warm, gooey thanks to Chat, the grammar-checking plot-helping bar-keeping ballerina. Yes, she's as cool as she sounds.
