A/N: I thought about holding onto this so I could get more ahead of the game. BUT... given the stretches between chapters, you all deserve a little extra for being such faithful readers! Please repay me with some reviews! Y'all know I'm a review junkie! Just be patient for Ch. 17! I don't even really have it started yet! (Luckily I do not think it will take another MONTH.)
If Arabella knew how often he'd sat, stood, or lay nearby watching her sleep, Erik was sure she would be disgusted with him. This was especially true tonight, after he'd had the beautiful young gypsy woman crawl into his lap and snuggle against his chest like a contented kitten. He was never unaware that she was beautiful, and that he was physically attracted to her; but he could usually ignore any hint of those thoughts when they came to the surface. Tonight, though, after holding a lovely and full-bodied girl in his lap with her weight gently settled close to the most intimate parts of him … It was not nearly as easy to do.
It was so much more than his reaction to unexpectedly having a lap full of woman, though.
Arabella proved herself day after day to be an attentive, compassionate, and caring person. She had more compassion than was healthy for any human being – never mind one that had suffered so much pain and betrayal. He still could not understand how her goodness had survived. He never could have blamed her if she was as bitter and skeptical as he himself was; but she was the same vivacious and caring girl her grandfather had probably known.
She deserved a man that loved her with all of his heart and soul… someone that didn't have the kind of damage he did. She deserved a man that worshipped her, and wasn't torn to bits at the very thought of a completely different woman. She deserved a normal life!
What had he ever done to prove himself to her? He could understand why she felt safer around him - because he made no physical demands. He'd even protected her to the best of his ability in the past, and chosen to take responsibility for the predicament she'd found herself in while pregnant with Aria. He could understand her gratitude. What he couldn't fathom was her unending loyalty; and her patience when it came to sitting and comforting him as he mourned another woman. Ever since her return, all he'd done was tell her that he did not love her as she wanted or deserved. All he had done was pine for Christine Daae and try to keep all but emotionally detached from her.
He had not been lying when he told her that if possible, he would tear his love of Christine out of himself and destroy it.
Because he loved Arabella! He loved her very much!
He just… he couldn't tell her! He couldn't put those words out into the open that way! If he did, it would be like tempting fate to come in and rip her away again. And he did still love Christine! He did still want her back! Loving two women simultaneously was a predicament he would never have imagined himself in. Absolutely never! But... here he was.
Christine was the beatific idol he'd worshipped – at first from afar. Even when the Vicomte had appeared, Erik had never once believed her capable of outright, direct deception. He had not thought her capable of longing for Raoul de Chagney in any way that wasn't pure and virtuous. In spite of the rage he'd felt, and the clear manipulation she had tried to work on him, he still to this day found it impossible to believe she could be guilty of any crime or sin. She was blonde, pale skinned, blue-eyed, soft-spoken, demure, obedient… She was everything a proper European lady ought to be. Her voice was high, and crystalline, and technically perfect.
Arabella was almost precisely the opposite. He didn't think she was capable of crimes or sin, exactly… and she certainly wasn't disobedient or loud… But she had a waterfall of beautiful dark hair, olive-toned skin, and eyes like caramel. She was more brazen and opinionated. She was curious. She was passionate. Her voice was low and husky in sound – the voice of an alto rather than a coloratura soprano. Both her voice and her dancing were raw and creative and spontaneous – just like the rest of her personality.
The only thing they had in common was their inability to believe in themselves.
Christine had lost her father and had needed someone to make her believe in herself again; to fill the hole her father's death had left in her heart.
Arabella had lost her innocence and her self-worth due to her father and tribe. She'd been beaten down – but never quite broken – until finally she'd made a decision that ultimately took her life. She had broken – just not in a way that made her unable to mend. She had needed a way to feel safe again. She had needed to feel genuinely loved for who she was and not what someone else wanted her to be.
Neither woman was more right or wrong, or better or worse than the other. They were just polar opposites…
It was no wonder he was so drawn to them.
There was just one important difference that he had to take into account.
Arabella was here. She was with him. She treated him as though he were a completely normal human being. She looked at him unmasked without flinching or grimacing. She saw exactly who and what he had been and would continue to be. And… best of all… she didn't judge him harshly for any of it.
Christine had not been able to do any of that.
What was he doing, continuing to pine for her and mourn her absence? He had already promised himself multiple times that he would open his mind and heart to Arabella. He'd thought he was doing well… but the obvious sorrow his grief over Christine had caused tonight made it clear he was not doing so well at all. He'd known his secrets would hurt Arabella – which was why he'd tried to hide them from her. But he had not expected her to ignore them in favor of comforting him!
She thought it was the perfect way to cover her discomfort and pain. But Erik was beginning to realize just how well he had once known her. He knew that she was hurt more deeply than she pretended. It was probably why she'd chosen to comfort him by making such bold physical contact.
This had to stop. He had to stop longing for Christine. He had to put her behind him and turn to the future … maybe one with Arabella. He had to show her how much he appreciated her presence, and how happy she generally did make him just by being there.
Sighing, he tentatively reached out and brushed his fingertips along the side of her face.
Arabella hummed and shifted slightly on her pillow, making him draw back in quick embarrassment. But she didn't wake.
"I love you." He breathed – more experimental than anything else. He tasted the words and the way his body reacted to them. He was surprised to realize it almost felt like a cloud of fireflies had begun to swarm in his body – all of them giving off a soft rosy light. Clearing his throat quietly, he tried one more time. "I love you, ma belle."
It was true. He'd already known it was… but he was surprised just how strong the surge of emotion was when he said the phrase to include his special nickname for her.
Well then… He was going to have to try even harder to open himself up to her when she was awake – wasn't he?
Sighing, he nodded and closed his eyes.
It wasn't his intention to fall asleep. He only wanted to inspect the emotions warming him from the inside out. But Arabella's breathing was so hypnotically even… the faint smell of her was so comforting… and he could even at that moment still feel the heat her body had left imprinted on him when she sat in his lap.
He hadn't wanted to sleep… but he did.
He had been dreaming...
He was back in his childhood home, watching his mother as she slept.
This was not something he'd ever made an actual habit of as a child in real life; but he had certainly done it once or twice. Part of it had been the challenge of breaking into his mothers' locked room without waking her up. Another part of it had all been about seeing her in such a relaxed state. She didn't look very old at all when she slept, and without being so tense with stress, disgust, and hate, she looked even more beautiful. He liked to glimpse her in that state.
Unlike in reality, however, a young dream Erik crept close to his mothers' bed and covered her hand with his.
"I love you, maman…" he whispered.
Then he'd leaned down to press a kiss to her cheek – something that would undoubtedly have resulted in a near-deadly beating if he'd tried it in real life.
The sensation of something brushing his lips was far too vivid, though, and Erik awoke to the sight of two catlike caramel eyes staring at him only an inch or two away. He gasped, rearing backward and rolling away. Before he could even register who the eyes belonged to, the bed disappeared from beneath his back, and he went tumbling to the floor with a cry of surprise and dismay. The landing didn't hurt - but he felt the instant sting of wounded pride.
For a long moment, gasping for breath, he stared at the dim and distant ceiling. He blinked rapidly, feeling heat infuse his cheeks as Arabella tentatively crawled to his side of the bed and peered at him over the edge. She looked a little pale, her caramel eyes wide with astonishment and anxiety.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered. "You seemed so peaceful. I didn't mean to wake you. I just… I thought I could steal a tiny moment…"
Having caught his breath and slowed his heartbeat, Erik slowly sat up and began to grasp his way into a standing position.
"It's all right…" he sighed. "I was dreaming… that I gave my mother a kiss… "
"How flattering..." Arabella rolled her eyes and turned away, reaching for where she usually left her dressing gown; before realizing she still had it on due to their midnight encounter by his secret shrine. "I kiss like your mother."
"That is not what I said!" he objected. "Bella – I wasn't pulling away from you! I was still partly in that dream! My mother would have whipped me for that kind of audacity! I … I wouldn't draw away from you like that - ever!"
More heat rose into his unmasked cheeks and he glanced around, anxiously wondering if she was annoyed at his strong reaction. He was very afraid that if he wasn't careful, she would soon grow tired of all his reticence and leave him alone. The last thing he wanted was to be alone again. Any company would suffice … but he particularly didn't want to lose Bella! Even thought he wasn't entirely certain that he could keep true to those words ... he new that losing Arabella could very well be almost worse than losing Christine. It would be the second time he lost her, if he was not careful.
"No, I understand." She said with a flippant wave of her hands, as though shooing away a cloud of moths. But she seemed agitated. Her face was blotchy with her own hot blush as she left the room and headed across the parlor towards the kitchen. Erik glanced briefly down at the bed, where he mask still lay beside his pillow… then hurried after her without it.
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the kitchen door, and saw him coming.
"I didn't mean to wake you! You should go and get some more rest!"
"I didn't mean to sleep in the first place." He admitted, continuing to follow her as she rushed into the kitchen to put distance between them. Trying not to crowd her, but not wanting her to think he didn't care whether or not she was distraught, he remained by the door as she bustled about preparing tea. "I don't know how I managed to drift off before, but I am wide awake now."
She finally stopped pacing, and stood over the stove staring down at the kettle. Her shoulders were tense, and her face was still bright red with embarrassment.
"Bella…"
She glanced away from him, and he stepped cautiously towards her with a sigh. He hated the thought of her being embarrassed. She had willingly tried to kiss him, for heaven's sake. That was all!
As if anyone being willing to kiss him - even while he slept unaware - could ever be put so simply. It wasn't 'all' to him; but he understood it might be to a majority of the world. The point was that she had no reason to be embarrassed. He hadn't caught her stealing, or trying to molest him. He'd just been in the entirely wrong state of mind to be able to process what she was doing in a way she could find flattering or even promising.
"Ma belle…" he tried again, keeping his voice carefully low and gentle. "Please… look at me…"
The nickname certainly caught her attention. He tried not to use it on most days, worrying about leading her on. But he used it quite deliberately now, and she knew it. He watched as her caramel eyes lifted towards his own golden ones.
He stepped close enough to reach out and gently take her shoulders.
"I know I didn't react well." He admitted. "But being awakened with a kiss…" he let loose a surprised chuckle. "… It is the best way I have ever wakened in my entire life! And if it ever happens again - if you ever decide to kiss me again - I promise that I will react better. I will not shy away from you. Perhaps my reaction still will not be what you want... but I will not make you feel so clumsy or unwelcome again."
"Don't tease me, Erik. " She sighed, pulling gently out of his grip to again stare at the kettle. "We are both people who cannot seem to stop living in the past. Only … the past I live in is different from the past you live in. You don't have to worry about me kissing you again any time soon. I was foolish..."
"I would never tease you." He insists. "And it wasn't foolish. Bella-"
"I have my first fitting tomorrow." She changed the subject abruptly, clearly uncomfortable with his sudden openness. She didn't seem to know how to react to it, particularly after he had been so bereft the night before over a different woman. "The seamstress and I are going to begin trying to plan my masquerade costume."
Erik took a reluctant step back, deciding to let her change the subject. He could not press her, and force her to believe in him or hope for his love. He had not proven himself to her. She had every right to doubt him after what she'd seen the night before. It pained him that he had hurt her so deeply. He had made her doubt him so thoroughly that she didn't even trust what he said. It was a quiet kind of agony to realize just how much of a trial opening himself up and winning her over was going to be. It did not help him any that she was still thinking about that damnable masquerade. He still wasn't comfortable with the thought of going. Too many memories... But she was so excited about it... and often found ways to speak of it during her "lady" lessons ... he couldn't deprive her.
"Do you already have something in mind?" he asked curiously.
"Well… I had been thinking about a peacock." She admitted. "But lately I've been thinking of the Shakespeare you've been reading to me. I was thinking… maybe Ophelia."
"Oh, mon dieu! Please do not wear that." he entreats instantly. Cold sweeps over him, and his stomach churns sickly. "Ophelia drowned herself! It would… it would just… be … too close to …"
"To reality?" Arabella whispered, raising an eyebrow at him. He could scarcely believe how easily she read his mind, and how comfortable she appeared to be with the parallels.
He swallowed thickly.
"Yes…" he admitted. "What about Senta, from Wagner's 'The Flying Dutchman'? I think it seems very fitting. Senta was a woman who saved The Dutchman-"
"-who also killed herself." Arabella pointed out.
"Yes…" he agreed. "But The Dutchman was willing to sail away and set Senta free. When she killed herself, it was for his salvation – proving herself faithful to him unto her death so that the curse on him and his men was finally broken. Her death was a sacrifice - not a... a waste..."
"She still killed herself."
"In doing so, she saved him even against his own will." Erik pressed. "They go to heaven together. You are far more like Senta than Ophelia. You try to save everyone - even from themselves. Everyone, that is, but yourself."
Arabella bit out a harsh, bitter laugh.
"Me? Save you – against your will?" she challenged. "No one can make you do anything you don't wish to."
"That is not true. I have many memories of-"
"-You are not the Dutchman, Erik." She interrupted a little angrily. "You have to want to be saved. The Dutchman tried to save Senta - not continue on as damned due to his own self pity."
Erik froze, blinking in astonishment at the beautiful and heated woman before him. Coldness spread through his gut for a moment, and he swallowed the bile seeing her pain brought to his throat. He hated when she felt so … so…
He reached towards her, but didn't dare touch her. He wanted to comfort her, knowing that this was a reaction to how he had been behaving towards her as of late… and hated himself for it.
He wanted to be saved… He just didn't know how to confess this to her. He also wanted to save her in turn… since she was so clearly floundering in the uncertain waters of his regard. But how was he to prove this to her? He didn't even know where to begin. He was not the more-or-less reasonably confident boy who had been able to court Arabella - consequences be damned - in the past. He had known too much pain and loss. As much as he wanted to open himself to her... that meant more vulnerability than he thought he could ever be truly comfortable with. He would have to trust her as much as he wanted her to trust him. How was he supposed to do that?
"The water is boiling." He finally managed to mutter lamely.
He watched as she made two cups of tea before passing one to him. The fine china felt scalding on his fingers and against the top of his palm. He scrambled desperately for something to say; a way to open the door his strange reaction to her kiss had apparently closed.
"Bella… perhaps… perhaps I can play for you today."
She glanced at him a little uncertainly, and he took the moment to pounce on her offered attention.
"I will play whatever pleases you." He offered swiftly. "And, if you would like, you could dance while I play! I can be just as it used to be."
She took a thoughtful sip of her tea, lowering herself into the chair at the kitchen table. He saw how tempting this idea was to her, but did not physically pursue her across the kitchen. He did not need to be physically overbearing to draw her out again.
"You never did play that song all the way through for me." She finally stated. "Your 'Phoenix Arise'…"
Again, moisture clogged his throat. This time it was more salty than acidic. He remembered how strange playing had felt that day. It had actually startled him to hear that tune come pouring out of the piano. He hadn't even realized what he was playing for a few seconds. He'd locked the memory of that song up so tight in his head that he had never expected it to escape. But... it had felt right. Now? Now... he wasn't entirely sure he had the strength to open that door again.
"You told me that you wrote it for me." She pressed, seeing his obvious hesitation. He wasn't sure if she was trying to be convincing, or if she was annoyed with him. "Shouldn't I be allowed to hear the song written in my honor?"
"Of course." He agreed with a strained smile. "I will go and tune my violin right now."
"Violin?" she reared back ever-so-slightly in confusion. "You played it for me on the piano before. If you wrote it at Giovanni's, as you said, then you would have composed it on the… the… What was that instrument?"
"A spinet." Erik smiled nostalgically. "It's old-fashioned… it predates the piano. But I always used to play for your dances on the violin. It simply will not have the same effect if I play it on piano instead of how it was meant to truly be played. And it is entirely wrong for the organ."
He had won her over a little. It was obvious in how eagerly she trailed him from the kitchen to the parlor. She didn't even bring her tea – but left it to grow cold on the kitchen table. Erik placed his own tea on the mantle above the fire – a space barely large enough for such a purpose. Then he opened his violin case, tuning the instrument as Arabella meandered around the parlor and watched him with eyes that should have been in the head of a Siamese cat.
"Are you going to dance in that night dress?" he asked in amusement.
Arabella glanced down as though only just realizing she was not properly dressed.
"No, of course I'm not." She turned pink once again – only this time the color was gentle and flattering as she hurried into the bedroom. "I must not be fully awake yet…"
Erik knew perfectly well she was really just distracted. They had been having a very interesting time together since her return – but at absolutely no time had they been more unsettled than the past twelve hours or so. They had both had to come to terms with the fact that Erik was no closer to recovering from his heartbreak than he had been a month previous. But… he hoped he could prove to her, now, that he was at least capable of surviving it. He could look forward instead of back. He could continue to live...
All thanks to her.
He finished tuning the violin and ran a few experimental scales on it. He nodded briefly to himself, and then moved on to tinkering with Niccolò Paganini's Caprice No. 24. He was a little nervous about seeing her dance again… about finally playing this incredibly secret and intimate song as it was meant to be played. What if she did not like it? What if it affected her badly? She had always been particularly susceptible to the sometimes hypnotic quality of his music when he put enough power behind it. And for a song that had been written during the darkest part of his mourning process… he could not imagine emotion not coming to the surface…
But considering the relative ease with which he maneuvered himself through the beginning of what was known as one of the hardest violin pieces ever written… he thought he could at least play the tune correctly. It certainly would not demand the same kind of technical skill as Paganini.
Arabella returned … her hair pulled back into a tight braid and her body sheathed in a red dancing dress.
The red dress…
Erik's breath caught a moment, and he had to concentrate even harder on the Caprice for a few moments – just for distraction.
He ought not to have been shocked. Of course she would pick this dress to wear. It was the only dancing dress she possessed. But… every time he'd ever thought of her while writing this song, she had been wearing this dress. She was so graceful and beautiful… even alluring… It was going to be nearly impossible to make it through his song while she wore that dress!
She still took his breath away. Why he hadn't realized this when she first returned, he wasn't certain. Perhaps it was only because he'd been too weak – physically and emotionally – to realize and acknowledge it. But now… after realizing he was falling in love once more with his late wife…
The thought sent chills through him, but he suppressed the shudder it inspired. Never had such a strange line of thoughts come to his mind. It sounded like something out of a Gothic horror story...
"Are you ready?" he asked softly, damning how husky his voice had gone in only a moment.
"Absolutely…" she smiled broadly at him – excitedly.
"This… is not like what you are used to." He warned, wondering if he was trying to convince her to change her mind. Not that it would have mattered. Arabella loved to dance, and he could tell she'd been wanting to for some time since her return. And she could be incredibly stubborn. No doubt she wouldn't back down, even if he splintered the violin over his knee.
He briefly wiped his palms on the thighs of his trousers to free them of a cold sweat before lifting the violin to his chin once again. He closed his eyes, drew in a long and deep steadying breath, and then drew the bow across the strings in a languid array of low notes that sounded to him like tears of amber.
Of course it all came back then. Every single beautiful, agonizing memory and emotion came back in a torrent of sound. He opened his eyes very carefully, watching Arabella as she did nothing more at first than sway to the music, her own eyes closed so that she could take in the full impact of what began as nothing more than a cry of grief. He could tell instantly that she was likely to cry… and he hoped he wasn't doing the wrong thing by playing this for her. He hoped that if it was too much, she would tell him, and that she wouldn't force herself to dance.
He could remember being a widower man when most boys his own age only had a vivid imagination telling them what the difference was between men and women. He could recall every single nuance of what it had been like to lose the single person who had ever looked at his face and seen him as normal. She hadn't been pretending, either. Arabella had seen his deformity, and she had never pretended it didn't exist. But it had mattered so little to her that it might as well not have been there at all.
The music was written almost like a combination of two or three different types of music. It started with what he'd come to understand was a traditional Csardas, a Hungarian Gypsy style that began slow and built up momentum – just as many of their prior dances together had done. There was also a kind of Flamenco flair to it – inspired by the dancing she did on her own when he hadn't been playing. She'd lived in Spain for a large portion of her life, after all. Of course he would want to infuse her essential nationality into her … requiem.
But something else was there this time, as the music left sorrow behind and built into something more. It was something he'd never indented to be there… something that hadn't existed when he wrote the song. Somehow he'd managed to infuse it with a touch of Arabian and Indian style… making him think of harem girls performing at the celebration for the new Grand Vizier… of the veiled women and their swiveling hips and undulating stomachs.
As he watched Arabella dance in his underground flat, it was utterly impossible not to remember their past performances together.
Beauty and the Beast, the crowds had named them. In the fairy tale, the love of beauty and saved the beast and transformed that monstrous gentleman into a handsome prince. It was far from the cruel reality – in which the beauty had died and left the Beast to degenerate into a true monster. But while it had lasted… when they had performed together as that titled pair… it had been so glorious! She had been so beautiful, and given him so much happiness! He had actually dared to dream, when they stood on that stage together! For Arabella he'd have lived with the gypsies his entire life; travelling from place to place while living in a tent or caravan. He'd have become a 'true gypsy' in every plausible sense of the word.
He could not help smiling at the memory of how the sweet and relatively shy – but uncommonly brazen, in his gaje eyes - gypsy girl had accepted his foolishly boyish attempts at courtship. She had never really questioned him, or laughed at him. She had never even seemed to truly doubt him – unless overwhelmed by other outside matters, such as her unexpected and unwanted pregnancy. But even then, she hadn't doubted him… she'd just feared him courting her for the wrong reasons at that time. He could recall exactly what it had been like to be a lovesick boy painfully experiencing love and life for the first time.
Long before the music ended, Arabella had lifted her skirts and begun moving in all the graceful ways he could recall from their past. There was more than grace in her movements and the gaze that slowly lost the sheen of tears. There was the fiery heat of a furnace running full blast. There was the passion and love of ages… There was even a sensuality that had never existed before – perhaps inspired by the mere hint of Arabic inspiration. He had never seen her exactly like this… so confident in not only her skills, but with the body with which she expressed herself. It was clear that she might be in a very young body blessed with abundant premature curves… but the soul inside of that body was at the very least the same age he was. Arabella had matured enormously over her thirty years as a spirit.
It was intimidating… enthralling… exciting…
He was breathing heavily, his entire body trembling, as he ended the music and watched her drop into a low curtsey so that one leg stretched back behind the other, and her arms stretched towards the ceiling. Her chest was heaving, sweat glistening over her exotic skin …
No! He scolded himself vehemently. No! You will not think like that only two seconds after a song meant to honor and mourn her! Do not dare it!
It was exactly as it had been when they were both so very young… and he found the corners of his mouth twitching in an amused and slightly ironic smile as he put the violin aside. He and Arabella were staring at each other as she rose back to her full height and stepped towards him.
In spite of how he'd just scolded himself, he couldn't help recognizing the closeness this mutual performance made him feel. It was… intensely intimate. He wanted to rush directly up to her, lift her up into his arms, and embrace her. He even wanted to kiss her. Wanted to-
Stop it, you brute!
There was no need to scold himself so harshly. Yes, he wanted to hold and kiss her. He wanted to touch her. But... that was all. He wanted to feel as physically close as he did emotionally in that single moment.
"I missed our dances…" he admited instead. "So very much…"
Arabella smiled at him tremulously, reaching over to lightly grasp his hand and stroke her thumb across the back of it.
"I missed them, too." She told him. "I missed the passion of your violin. You… you haven't played like that in… in decades. Not since leaving the tribe. Even Don Juan isn't… like that…"
"My Don Juan was a long time in the making…" Erik gently pulled himself from her grasp ad turned to carefully settle the violin and bow back into the cradle of their case. He couldn't keep looking at her like that – flushed ad still panting slightly. She was far too beautiful for her own good! Her gaze was too intense, too tender but passionate. He couldn't face it! "Only a part of it was ever… due to Christine…"
He was surprised by how much easier it was to say that name in this context. Perhaps that was because, in that moment, he was utterly consumed by Arabella instead.
"I could not allow myself to play that… or even like that." he admitted. "I thought if I dared to… the fire in it would consume me… and that I would be destroyed… that the fire would burn out of all control… There was too much grief. I couldn't play even a few bars without seeing you dancing in my imagination. It was all too much for me… I had to stop all together…"
Sighing, he closed the violin and secured the locks.
"But you still wrote this for me…" she said, clear awe in her voice.
"Yes." He agreed, slowly turning to face her again and daring to reach out and gently take her arm just underneath the curve of her shoulder. "It was easier if I did not play it anywhere but in my own mind. It just… it would not leave me alone until I acknowledge it in some way. So … the spinet was my tool… although most of it I only put down on paper before burning it. I couldn't carry that pain with me any more than I could play it out loud… but it stayed with me forever after that… locked away in my mind. Having you here again… it unlocked that door…"
"Thank you, Erik…" She reached up with her opposite hand and covered the one gently holding her. "Thank you for writing it for me… for remembering me… Thank you for playing it for me now. You don't have any idea what it means to me."
"I think I do." He managed a weak smile, and then released her in order to take a step back and create more space between them. "We should do something else now. What would you say to maybe… some reading? You seemed to be enjoying Captain Fracasse."
Arabella blinked in momentary confusion at his change in topic.
"That… that would be all right…" she mused, although she seemed a little reluctant. "I should go and make something to eat, first, though. I think the dancing…"
"The playing took a bit out of me, too." He agreed. "So… we shall have some breakfast, then read. Perhaps we can have some of our more usual lessons? – And… maybe later this evening, if you'd like - we could go out of the house? We could go and sit on the boat… or through the Opera House passages spying on what is occurring…?"
She frowned slightly as they returned to the kitchen.
"I suppose the Opera doesn't interest you much." He interpreted with wry humor. "What would you prefer we do?"
She took a long time to respond; searching for bread and cheese to slice for food.
"The roof?" she finally suggested. "I haven't been outside in … a long time. I could use the fresh air, I think…"
"The roof…" he considered unhappily. "No, ma belle. I'm sorry. Not at any time even close to during the day. It just wouldn't be safe. But… but it is cold enough out where perhaps a walk through the Bois is permissible? Towards evening the place will be nearly abandoned."
He saw her face light up, and he felt as though a fist had gripped him somewhere inside his stomach. It was a radiance he loved to see encompass her. For weeks now he had been keeping her below – consciously forgetting how gypsies needed sunshine and air to truly thrive. She had been raised out of doors! How could he have been so uncomfortable going above that he would forget this and neglect her need of special freedom? He cursed himself for being so selfish and unseeing to how pale her exotic skin had gotten over time. Living in a cold catacomb below the city was no healthy way for a woman like Arabella to live!
"Yes!" she agreed eagerly. "That would… that would be lovely, Erik! I would love to walk the park with you! It would be like… like any normal gaje husband and wife would do!"
Again the breath caught in his throat.
A walk in the park… with … with his wife… It wasn't exactly as he had dreamed it would be… it was not a Sunday morning, and the wife in question was someone who had been dead for over thirty years… But Arabella had picked up on the single time he'd confessed this fantasy to Christine and seemed to remember it. How was she so thoughtful as to remember something so trivial?
Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried very hard not to let her see how shaken he was.
"Then … then we will go to the Bois de Vincennes this evening." He promised. "I… would prefer that over the Bois de Boulogne, if you're agreeable…"
He took the plate of cheese and bread she'd prepared, still smiling as she began to talk about one night years before; when she'd been walking silent and unknown beside him through the gardens of the park very late on a midsummer night. Erik could just barely recall the excursion at first; but the memory drifted back at her excitement.
He didn't quite have the heart to remind her that none of the blossoms would be out this late in the year. But warm and blossoming or cold and bereft… he could make a walk in the moonlight something special for her. Surely he could think of a way by that evening…
A/N: Please R&R! I love hearing from you!
Thank you E.M.K.81, as always! Clearly diverged a lot here but... well... one author writing out one POV vs. 2 of each... LOL. Makes a huge difference.