Supper ended up being a fairly brief affair.
The banquet hall, or rather the oversized cavern set up to emulate a banquet hall, was vast and mostly empty. Cobwebs, both inhabited and not, occupied every corner and most of the ceiling in between; dust clung to several and weighed them down, adding to the creepy, Gothic feel of the room. Eight, multiple-armed candelabras stood strategically around the perimeter, bathing the area in soft light. The table was long and polished to a high sheen, bare save for a single place setting directly to the right of the head of the table. More than twenty upholstered chairs were tucked in around it on all sides save for one, which was pulled out in anticipation of its guest. The wide soup bowl on the charger was filled with a delicious smelling stew of potatoes and vegetables in a rich, dark gravy. Another plate held a few small rolls; nearby sat a small jar of honey, a teaspoon sized wooden dipper standing in it. There were two crystal goblets standing to the right, upper-hand corner of the place setting, one filled with water and the other with what she assumed to be red wine.
She felt horribly under-dressed and opted not to bring to attention the fact that she was clothed in nothing but a rather thin, white nightdress and a pair of crotchless bloomers, though she made a mental note to ask for a robe next time.
Erik gently set her in the chair, then stood behind and gave it a gently push to slide her closer to the table's edge.
The first bite of stew was so flavorful that she almost purred when it hit her tongue. So much better than Campbell's! She was positive food didn't taste this good back home; to her memory, it was as if everything was bland in her time compared to where – when – she was now.
It was only after a few more bites of the soup, a piece of bread, and several sips of wine that she noticed Erik standing apart from her, hands clasped behind his back, watching her, waiting, like some glorified butler.
"Aren't you hungry? There isn't another place setting, but I can share if you—"
He held up a hand to interrupt. "I have already partaken in supper. This is for you."
Ang lowered the spoon back to the bowl then. "So, you're just going to watch me eat?"
"Does it make you uncomfortable?"
"No, not uncomfortable. It's just a little weird, that's all. You, watching me eat; me, eating alone." It was coming out all wrong! "I feel bad that you aren't eating with me. That's all."
He said nothing, but gave a subtle nod of his head before turning on a heel and departing stiffly from the room.
Ang's heart dropped into her stomach and her appetite vanished. She'd offended him. Conversing with him felt like dancing on eggshells, and she'd apparently cracked another one.
Forcing down a few more bites of stew, she turned her attention to the wine and happily finished it. She was just setting down the goblet when her host reappeared, a small tea service on the tray between his hands. He set it on the corner of the table, then took hold of the silver teapot. Steam escaped the spout in wispy ribbons before pale tea spilled into a delicate china cup, the same one she remembered from before. A few servings of honey were added to the depths and he used the wooden dipper to swirl the tea, dissolving the viscous sugar. The stew was removed and the cup on its matching saucer were set in its place before her.
"What's that? More... um, Valerian root?" she asked, leaning forward to sniff at it.
He nodded. "You seemed to respond favorably to it the first time."
Ang blew across the scalding surface a few times before taking a tentative sip. It wasn't what she would drink given her preferences; she woefully eyed the empty wine glass. But if it helped her headache, she'd drink the entire pot.
He collected the dishes of her unfinished meal without remark, and a pang of guilt assaulted her. Ang hid behind her teacup for a few more sips until it was half-way finished. "I'm sorry I didn't eat it all," she finally apologized. "It really was very good. I'm just not real hungry yet, I guess."
"It is understandable, given your injuries, Mademoiselle," he replied, reaching to take up the empty wine glass.
"Monsieur, please," she pleaded, reaching out to touch the bare spot of naked skin between the top of his glove and the cuff of his jacket.
At her touch, he wrenched his hands back, dropping the empty goblet as he did so. Fortunately, it was only a few inches off the table and so didn't break. Her tea sloshed over the sides of the cup as one hand flew out to catch the goblet as it rolled toward the edge.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to-"
"If you are finished with your meal," he interjected gruffly, "you should return to bed to rest." He stood at her side expectantly, and she had just enough time to set the teacup down before he scooped her into his arms again.
She was silent all the way back to the bedroom, her stomach twisting the entire way. She felt awful! Ang didn't even know what to apologize for – she'd been trying to connect with him, get him to stand still long enough to look at her and talk with her. She kept forgetting that his had been an existence devoid of any sort of human affection, even something as simple as a touch to the arm.
Recollecting, she realized it had taken her a while to become accustomed to the touchy aspect of being part of a theater family. Many were extroverts, most were pretty affectionate, and pretty much everyone touched their co-workers in some aspect: a high five, a slap on the back, surprise hugs from behind, a reassuring press of a hand to an arm or a knee. They were second nature to her now, but at the time she'd found it bizarre and unnatural.
Her mind was made up: she had to find a way to not force contact with him.
Erik climbed the steps to his bedroom and twisted to slip through the doorway. He bore her directly to the bed and gently laid her at the head of it. He didn't fuss, didn't tuck her in; instead, he set her down unceremoniously and instantly turned to leave.
"Monsieur," she called out to stop him.
His shoulders squared and he paused a moment before slowly turning round to face her.
She lost her nerve. "Um, thank you for dinner. It was wonderful."
He nodded and moved to withdraw. It was now or-
"I was wondering..." she quickly continued to halt his departure, "do you have any crutches? Or something I could use to get around? I feel bad about making you carry me everywhere. I'm sure you have plenty of other things to do besides carting my useless self around."
Erik's form stiffened and he gave a curt half-bow in acknowledgment before disappearing through the doorway without a word.
Ang sighed deeply as she settled herself against the mound of pillows at her back. Her stomach twisted itself into knots and anxiety gripped her heart like a merciless vice.
Once again she'd hurt him, or pissed him off. She wasn't even sure how she'd done it, but that niggling sixth sense told her she'd somehow provoked him. That, plus the way he stormed off. It's no secret.
A sudden, angry yell ricocheted off the walls beyond her room and she automatically ducked as if to escape it.
Was he angry because she was asking too much of him? She had hoped that, by requesting the aid of a crutch, he would be relieved not to have to be at her beck and call. As she improved, she would need more frequent meals and trips to the bathroom, and unless she wanted to try hopping her way there, his arms were required every time she needed to go anywhere. She'd just been trying to help.
He's regretting saving you, her anxiety hissed in her ear as tears pooled in her eyes. He's better off without you. Ang agreed; he was better off with her on the streets. At least out there she wasn't a burden to anyone. Lying on her side and making herself as small as possible, she wrapped both arms around a pillow, buried her face into another one, and sobbed, allowing all the hurt, frustration, and confusion to pour from her eyes into the down feathers.
When she finally dragged herself to wakefulness again, an old and dented wood crutch rested against the foot of the bed, and on one of the bedside tables stood a tea service, complete with a still warm pot of tea, a cup and saucer, a jar of honey, and some cold biscuits. While she wasn't hungry, she was delighted to have something warm for her throat. After her shameful emotional outburst, her throat was dry and sore, like she'd swallowed a mouthful of sand. While she sipped the familiar brew that she was slowly coming to enjoy, she sat back against the pillows and took stock of the room.
It wasn't overly large, not like the suite of a mansion or castle, but it was richly furnished with matching pieces in a deep red wood, all polished to a high sheen: the ornate four-poster bed frame, a high chest of drawers, a pair small bedside tables, a towering bookshelf that stretched to the ceiling overflowing with dusty volumes. A large white sheet covered what she assumed to be some sort of vanity table, mirror, and bench, considering its shape. Thick rugs that looked like they'd jumped out of the Arabian Tales covered ever bit of stone, and one wall, if it could be called that, near the door even had an arched brick window that looked out over part of his domain. Half a dozen wall sconces held oil lamps turned high, the overall glow bright and inviting, chasing the gloom that would otherwise overtake the cavernous stone room.
Her brows furrowed in observation. It's like he made a room out of a cave. The walls were rough and uneven, the sconces seeming to be drilled directly into the rock. Twisting round, she flattened a palm against the stone behind the bed, unsurprised to find it cold as ice.
Her eyes drifted back to the table and her focus sharpened. What sorts of things might the Phantom keep beneath that sheet. She was fairly certain this was his own room, so what was he hiding? Did he have more than the one plaster mask? Was there stage makeup on the table? She still couldn't ascertain if she was sometime in history or, more impossibly, in the novel. And there were so many variations of the Phantom of the Opera that there was no way to determine which she'd fallen into.
She set the empty teacup aside and, grabbing the crutch, hauled herself carefully off the bed to hobble her way to the linen-draped table. Ang balanced carefully as she tugged one corner free and tucked the sheet up and over the top of the mirror. Placing the crutch against one side, she sank onto the short, padded bench. The surface gleamed, and upon dragging her finger across it, she found it had been recently oiled.
It was less of a vanity table and more like a secretary's desk – there were drawers and cubbies beneath the framed mirror and part of her wondered if he'd crafted it himself. An antique silver and mother-of-pearl brush, comb, and hand mirror set was tucked safely away in one of the larger cubby holes. A sawdust-filled head standing off to one side of the mirror served as a pedestal for a tawny brown man's wig, and she reached out to touch it lightly. It was slightly greasy, but still smooth; she figured it must have some sort of oil on it so it could keep its shape and style.
An image of Stitch, her theater's lead costumer and make-up artist, came to mind, and she chuckled. What wouldn't that woman give to be seated where Ang was at this moment?
Ang continued her exploration. One drawer revealed a couple of noses that felt to have been made of wax, and she smiled sadly. A great black hole serves as the nose that never grew... Well, I guess that's one more piece of truthfulness in all this. Another drawer held three pairs of soft leather gloves, and with an impish smile, she wiggled one hand into it, laughing aloud at how the glove dwarfed her pixie-sized hand. There were make-up paints in various lidded pots and application brushes both soft and bristly, wide and pencil thin. Wrapped carefully in plain brown paper was a black leather mask, and she lovingly traced the curves with her fingertips before replacing it exactly as it was.
The last drawer held a soft white kerchief folded into a neat square, and upon lifting it up, she discovered a small, flat wood box, about the size of one of his gloves. Gold hinges kept it together on one side, the lid fitted perfectly to its base. Opening it, she was met with four long, gleaming pieces of curved silver, folded in on themselves.
A curious hand lifted one out of the box and pulled at one side – a straight razor swung outward.
These are my friends. See how they glisten. See this one shine, how he smiles in the light. My friends...
Ang's breath caught in her throat as she turned the razor over in her hands, captivated, watching the lamp light glint off the polished metal, winking back at her each time she moved it.
Speak to me, friend. Whisper, I'll listen...
Unable to help herself, she ran the pad of her thumb crossways against it, testing the blade, savoring the sensation of cold, sharp metal against warm skin.
You'll soon drip precious rubies...
She gasped sharply and dropped the razor. It clattered loudly to the desk and she yanked her hand to her. A perfect slice marred her thumb, oozing bright red blood that dripped toward her palm. Ang sucked on the wound while her free hand hurriedly replaced the razor, snapped the box closed, and shoved it back in its drawer. The handkerchief she kept, winding it around her thumb. The sheet was dropped back over the table and bench, and with everything in its place the way it was before, hopped back to the bed to curl up against the mound of pillows. Cradling her thumb against her, she prayed her mind would forget the sight of ruby red against snow white linen, and attempted to will away the sick rush that thrilled through her veins.
A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in getting the next chapter to you. I don't like to wait so long between posts, but working in the theater world myself means, when approaching what we in the theater call "hell week", that I have less brain power to focus on anything besides my show. We open in 7 days... pray for us!
I'm still looking for beta readers! I have my faithful one, my favorite "Beta B*tch", whom I adore and could not do anything without!, however I'm still hoping for another that can go over things with a fast turn around, with focus on spelling, grammar, making sure my sentences make sense in print since sometimes my brain fills in the blanks for me without permission. LOL So if you're interested in seeing the story progress a little earlier than everyone else, drop me a message!
Oh yes, and the lyrics dancing in her head this time are from the musical about everyone's favorite psycho killer, Sweeney Todd: the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.
Coffee Biscuit: Hopefully this doesn't qualify as a cliffhanger! :p And I like this Erik, too! I'm hoping to create several layers to him, pulling from several different translations. It'll either work brilliantly, or he'll come off like someone with dissociative identity disorder or several manic depression. Either way, I guess it works for him.
Andimpink: Welcome to the story, and thank you! I'm glad you like my style. I often worry that, because it's so different, people won't really like it. But you give me hope!