The Evening Before
2019, Riene
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Cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, perhaps...black pepper? She sipped the liquid slowly, the milky tea warming her chilled fingers, the soothing heat spreading slowly through her interior. She traced the delicate border with one fingertip. Sèvres, it would say below. I like beautiful things, he'd said in that soft voice of his, and his glance had made her blush. Beautiful, yes, each piece an exquisite work of porcelain art, but mismatched, like his unusual eyes. No two cups, bowls, plates, or dishes were ever the same.
He'd glanced up in surprise and rose immediately from the bench, crossing the room to her, holding out one long hand, then curling the fingers away at the last moment before touching her arm. "I can't sleep," she said abruptly, and he'd led her over to the chaise near the piano, urging her wordlessly to tuck her feet up and draping the heavy silk shawl about her shoulders.
"Did the music...did I...keep you awake?" His voice had been tight with worry.
"No, no...I am just nervous...for tomorrow."
"Ah." He turned away, fingers working against each other. "You have nothing to fear from the audition. You will have all of Paris at your feet before long."
She shifted, drawing the shawl more tightly about her. The fires had burnt low, the embers glowing. He was oblivious to the chill. "You must trust me, Christine, as I do you."
She nodded. "Will you play for me?"
"Of course. What would you like to hear? No...wait...I will bring you something to drink first."
He'd placed the delicate cup in her hands minutes later, his eyes anxious, watching for her reaction at the first sip. The set of his shoulders had visibly relaxed when she'd smiled and taken a second taste. "This is good, Erik, thank you."
"It should help you sleep." He turned to the piano, those long fingers stroking the keys for a moment, then notes, soft. Chopin, perhaps, and then Brahms. His eyes were shut, swaying slightly on the bench. She placed the cup carefully on the floor, lest it spill a final drop onto the worn but still lovely Persian carpet.
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The last notes lingered about the high ceiling as he withdrew his hands to his lap. She lay curled on the chaise like a sleepy child, hands folded under her cheek, flushed from the warmth. He rose and walked quietly to her room, returning with the bright brass pan and filling it with coals. A few passes beneath the bedclothes, and her bed would be ready to receive her once again.
He hesitated a moment. How could she sleep in his presence? Did she not know what thoughts a man might have, gazing on her innocent, slumbering form? But then, he was not a man, was he? A monster, an angel, but not a man. Stooping, Erik lifted her slight form, cradling her against him, keeping his cold hands from her warmth, and carried her to bed.
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From the "I Can't Sleep" prompt that's going around Tumblr.
Thank you for reading, and please comment!
~R