Author's Note:
Dear Readers,
Here is the second chapter! It's a bit of filler (so their first meeting will come in the next chapter) but I hope you'll find it to be lots of fun! I don't want to rush things with this one.
I'm going to try this idea of replying to my reviewers of in my chapters. If you would prefer I don't, just let me know. But, I am horrible at thanking everyone and my internet is slow so it usually keeps me from contact. So, we shall see if this is a good way:
Guest: I'm glad to hear it! I do hope the book keeps you hooked. Thank you reviewing!
cotesgoat: You're right there! It is strange! I appreciate your complements very much! Thank you for taking the time to review!
Child of Dreams: *laughs happily*
sarahandmarquis
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Word Count: 2162
"Was" Count: 0
"Were" Count: 0
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CHAPTER 2:
Your invitation has been accepted. You are now connected to the Private Messenger with Christine Day.
Golden eyes stared at the message while their owner's jaw hung ajar. Had he chosen a girl with a tendency towards insanity? Hadn't he mentioned in his biographical section that he wore a mask?
"Erik is insane." He whispered to himself, drawing away from the computer and glancing longingly at his morphine, waiting patiently for him. The drug called to him but he turned away from it and clicked through the link enclosed in the email. The Private Messenger opened moments later and presented him with an empty message box.
What do I write?
His mind blanked for a moment before he began to tap away at the black keys.
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Dear Mademoiselle,
Thank you for accepting my invitation. How would you like to plan our meeting?
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Well, I work part-time at a dinner so it must be on a Thursday, Saturday, or Monday. Perhaps this Saturday?
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Yes, that should work nicely. What time would you prefer? My days are completely free.
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Well, that depends on whether you were planning on a meal or not? Maybe we can just get together for the afternoon?
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A meal wouldn't be an inconvenience. Unless you have someone else entitled to dinner with you, perhaps five o'clock would work?
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Sounds great! And, no, I don't have anybody who'd care if I have dinner. :) So, five o'clock on Saturday. Shall I bring something to go along with the meal? I'd be glad to help even if I can't cook well. Maybe I could pick up something from the store?
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Your offer is appreciated but that shouldn't be necessary. If it should become imperative, I could let you know?
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Oh! By all means! Just message me sometime during the week if anything comes up.
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As you wish. Is there anything in particular to which you are allergic? Or, something you dislike?
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Not really. I have a mild allergy to milk fat but it's very mild and only shows itself after too high of a consumption so please don't worry about it.
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Are you sure? I wouldn't want your day to be ruined by an allergy?
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No, don't worry. I shall avoid it for the rest of the week and nothing will go wrong.
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As you wish. I shall be careful though.
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Thanks! Will we be meeting at your house or somewhere else?
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My house would be most convenient for me. But, if you are uncomfortable, we could find another venue.
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Oh no! Your house is fine! Would you send me directions?
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Slender fingers paused above the keyboard, too many years of instinctual hiding rearing in the head of their owner. Despite the rush of morphine, administered sometime in the middle of their conversation, his heart began to race as his fingers typed away the address and directions.
Years ago, he had built his house as a refuge away from human contact. But, on Saturday, all that would change. A girl would be welcomed into the dark mansion, plans drafted from the depths of his creative mind. The basements held morbid secrets, memories of his prior years. The attic's locks held fast, hiding away his music, piles of creations that would never see the light of day.
Sandwiched between them, two stories worth of living spaces which had only ever heard one foot tread, one voice, one presence.
In mere days, it would change. The laughter of an innocent woman would grace the few rooms he would allow her to see.
Will she run away the moment she sees who has solicited her company?
His eyes drifted downward to coiled fingers, boney, gray-tinted. Purple veins weaved just beneath the skin, and tendons twitched under the pressure. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his soft, black leather gloves and slid them on, covering the gray digits from sight.
Retreating from the computer, he found his way to his spacious closet, the back wall hung with fancy suits and his black cloth costume. To his right, ties in every possible hue of gray and black draped over hooks. To his left, a single pair of black dress shoes gleamed at him.
Above them several rows of masks eyed him, their dead sockets mocking him. Several concealed his entire face while others revealed his mouth. One, crafted of rubber, almost resembled a human's face but the rubber shimmered, even under makeup, and the cheeks never moved properly.
Most of them, crafted of light porcelain or plastic, rounded the sharp bones of his face and gave the nose he sorely lacked.
Lifting one of the full-face masks off the hooks, he removed the soft cloth he generally preferred and slipped it on, tying the ribbons behind his head. Turning up his collar, he hid bits of his gray neck unreached by the edges of the mask.
He couldn't always rely on shadows.
Original instinct had urged him to use the rubber mask, a futile grasp of his at real life and normal appearance, yet the girl had no doubt read his information and would be expecting a man hiding himself with a mask. Her senses would only be disturbed by the abnormalities of the rubber.
No matter the difficulty, she must be at complete ease. Her endurance would already be strained with any mask at all; best she not have to pretend the reality of something false.
The painful plastic mask it would have to be.
Comfortable with his "outfit" for his evening, he removed the hard mask and donned the cashmere one, the soft material far more gentle on the delicate skin than the cruel plastic.
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The pen scratched at the paper, ink following the trails which the hand guided it. When complete, the writer capped the pen and tossed it into a drawer, examining the address before her eyes.
Granted, her whole life hadn't played in this town. She didn't know every nook and cranny of the countryside, yet she had prided herself that, during the last several years she had familiarized herself with most of the important roads.
How had she missed this road and this house?
Admittedly, if his biographical information told the truth, he didn't have many visitors and likely had chosen his home as far away from traffic as possible.
After tucking away the information inside her purse, she added the date and time to her phone's calendar before walking to her closet, nothing more than an intent into one wall of her bedroom. Equipped with a metal bar and collapsing door, the space held her small collection of shoes, lined perfectly against the back of the closet, a few work uniforms, washed and pressed, several pair of comfortable jeans, one with a few tears, and two tops to be worn interchangeably with the jeans when t-shirts wouldn't suffice. Against a wall, hung her two elegant dresses.
"Should I wear black?" She asked herself, looking at the black dress sheathed in plastic to keep the dust off and preserve the cloth. "No, that is far too morbid and might look like a date. Maybe red?" Shaking her head, she disregarded the red dress for the same reason.
Once she had given up finding a dress and determined to make a pair of jeans looks as nice as one possibly could, she noticed the edge of a night-blue skirt, hiding behind her other dresses. Pushing her two nice dresses and work clothes to the side, she unhung the antique dress.
Sixty years behind in style, the dress had been her grandmother's pride and joy, used for her prom then her wedding during the forties before stored away because of changing styles and modest weight gain. Upon her passing, Christine's aunt had found it and gave it to her, aware that no one would ever dream of wearing it except for her.
Running her fingers over the soft material, she slipped off her sweats and slid on the dress. The cloth hugged her slender figure, clinging to her waist and flaring off her hips. The neckline dipped low, revealing a thin line of skin almost to her navel, a problem solved moments later with a thin white tank top.
A string of blue beads and white calf-high boots later, Christine turned in front of a full-length mirror, admiring her outfit. The boots slimmed her feet and calves, the low heels accenting their lean elegance. The flared skirt narrowed her waist, encircled by a thin white belt. Blushing happily, she chose the outfit and hung it carefully once more in closet.
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Food – who knew it could be so troublesome?
Mademoiselle Day has mentioned a mild allergy to milk, something he paid great attention to while crafting the meal. The evening after their initial conversation, he had drilled her for information on said allergy and discovered, much to his relief, that she could consume cooked milk harmlessly.
Only, cream cheese, sour cream, alfredo sauce, as well as real butter, had to be expunged from the menu, removing multiple things from his lists of dishes.
After scouring the cookbooks, unopened for years and dust-covered, he found a recipe for Matelote, a classic fish recipe from his home province of Normandy. She hadn't mentioned a dislike for fish or onions.
With the fish sent for, he prepared detailed instructions for Saturday. In-depth cleaning of every surface would be done throughout the week but final touches would be made during the afternoon. At four-thirty, he would prepare the Matelote and greet her. A glass of wine and some crackers of some sort would make a fine appetizer.
Nerves knotted his stomach and he nearly dropped the pen clutched in his spindly fingers. No one had ever told him that a relaxing evening could provide so much stress.
Perhaps I should call it off?
The thought lingered long in his head, it's simplicity appealing. Ten years would stretch into eleven and on into twelve and twenty.
I don't need people.
Hanging his head, he dropped the pen and pressed fingers into his eye sockets. The pressure relieved a building headache and brought him back to reality. A freak of nature he may be but a coward he refused to become. He would face Beauty and see if she ran from the beast, not that he would blame her for it.
The tips of his fingers trembled and the siren call of the needle lured him, promising relief from the stress. His list now complete, he gave in, drawing a syringe and sending himself into the euphoria that the seductive drug offered.
His violin would appreciate the attention for a few hours.
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Dust proved a formidable adversary.
Tenaciously clinging to every horizontal surface, the particles triumphed over the duster and subsequent vacuum used to remove them. Only the spray of polish followed by a rag tore them from their moorings and cleaned the surface they had inhabited.
The previously gray couch gleamed white once more. The dark hardwood floor reflected the sunlight streaming through the windows. Coffee tables, end tables, even his dining room table once swathed in dark shadows welcomed the light of the sun through the wide-open windows and relished in the touch of the summer evening breezes.
Waxing followed mopping and unused rooms shone.
Between cleaning rooms that might be used during the evening, Erik researched female preferences, proper conversational subjects, and current etiquette behavior. His private library proved unable to aid him so he consulted the town's public library's online resources.
The more he read, the more he panicked.
In the end, he slammed the computer shut and snatched up the dusting rag, concluding he would try to manage on his own.
If Beauty found him old-fashioned, he would endure her stares and discomfort. It would be nothing compared to what the mask would cause. He refused to believe that she might find it the least bit endearing.
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Her fingers, trembling, fluttered over the skirt of her dress, smoothing the contours and pleats. Her eyes closed while her lungs gasped for breath. Chest heaving, she fumbled with the clasp of her necklace and the zipper on her boots. Standing shakily to her feet, she peered into the mirror and brushed at her hair, pleased that the blond strands obeyed the brush.
A blue clip held back her cowlick and pieces of her bangs, still not long enough to tuck behind her ear. Her blue eyes, caught by the colors of her outfit, shimmered beneath their blond lashes. A pinch later her white cheeks blushed pink through the thin layer of concealer. A red tongue nervously licked pink lips before she turned away from her image and rummaged through her purse, finding her keys and the directions.
Taking one last deep breath to strengthen herself, she left the small apartment, head high and shoulders tight.