Ch 9
Erik returned to his room for the night and paced the floor until the lamp light sputtered and died.
It didn't matter that he was shrouded in darkness. He could still smell her in the air, and that made him exceedingly apprehensive.
He continued to pace in the darkness, forced to stop only when he stumbled over the chest at the end of the bed. He could hardly keep his eyes open, but he couldn't sleep.
All he could do was think of that girl: the warmth resonating from her body and the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice, the way she sat beside him...
Why was she still on his mind? She meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing. The only thing he needed from her was hot food brought to his bedchamber and clean sheets to turn down at night. That was all. Nothing more.
He stood in the center of the darkened room and crossed his arms.
The longer he remained awake the more he started to wonder if it was possible to die of frustration.
By the time Erik finally closed his eyes the sun was peering over the trees. He groaned and buried his head beneath his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to reverse time. All attempts ended once he heard a soft tap on the door.
"Monsieur?" Sophia called.
Erik released a long, growling sigh. There she was again, the woman who had kept him awake all night was at the door.
"Monsieur?" she called again, this time her voice peppered with uncertainty.
Erik couldn't remember if he had locked the door or not, so he shot out of bed and scrambled to dress. "A moment, Mademoiselle," he called back.
"I'll bring your tea later," she replied. "I apologize."
He heard the tinkle of silverware and china rustling around on the tray. He could picture her balancing everything as she negotiated the stairs.
"Oh, for the love of God," he muttered under his breath. "I said a moment," he snarled, pressing both palms to his forehead. He glanced in the mirror, finding his eyes ringed in black and his hair—the hair he had kept hidden for so long—smashed down against his skull.
Not even a mask would improve his appearance.
"Give it here," he said, holding one hand out as he stood behind the door.
She responded with a chuckle. "Are you indecent?" she teased.
He didn't want her in his room, and he sure as hell didn't want to see her. "Yes," he answered.
"Oh," she said. He waited, hand outstretched, other hand clamped against his face. "Oh."
Erik's hand lowered, his outstretched fingers curling back toward his palm. "I said…hand it to me."
"It's rather heavy, Monsieur," she warned.
"Mademoiselle—"
"Very well. Do you have it," she asked, pushing the tray into his hand.
"Yes."
"Al—"
Everything slid out of control, although he sensed it and knew exactly what was happening, what disaster was about to befall. Frustration growing, Erik swore as the contents of the tray fell in the loudest, most horrific heap possible.
"As I expected," he heard Sophia mutter.
His face burned as he slammed the door shut and turned the lock, resisting the urge to kick or throw something. Arms crossed, he paced the length of the room, legs stiff, arms crossed, jaw clamped shut with such force that it hurt.
He heard her stomping and muttering as she disappeared down the steps, leaving Erik to seethe alone in his room, which was what he intended to do. He would sulk, seethe, and blame that ignorant girl for handing him the tray before he was ready.
"Stupid, ignorant," he muttered. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror and he knew who deserved those names.
With another growl of lost patience he snatched the rubbish bin from its place near his desk, unlocked the door, and knelt on the floor, one hand over his scarred face while he picked shards of broken glass from the floor.
"I'll do it," he heard Sophia say through her teeth.
"I'm capable," he muttered in return, not bothering to meet her eye.
"It's my duty," she said, stopping at the top of the stairs. She looked away, muttered something under her breath that he couldn't hear, and added, "And it's my fault, I imagine."
"Imagine," he said under his breath, furiously tossing shards into the bin, his hands trembling in anger. He knew he should climb to his feet and walk back into his room. There was no need for him to remain out in the hall, to remain before her. There was no reason.
"You've—Monsieur, you've cut your hand, I think."
He ignored her and scooped a handful of sugar from the floor, which infuriated him more, as honey and milk had blended into the granules, which made it stick to his fingers and the palm of his hand.
Within moments the small sliver that had entered his fingertip bled into the sugar and he paused, staring at the mess he had made, his small cut, and the dark shoes that had stopped a foot away from where he knelt.
She didn't have to say anything. He knew what she would say, felt it in the air like a static charge. If you took your hand away from your face it would be easier.
"You need both hands," she said quietly. "Here, I'll finish."
Still he ignored her until a jagged piece of glass pierced the palm of his hand. Swearing, he rose, slammed the door with his foot and slumped to the ground with his back to the door, pulling out the shard and tossing it carelessly across the room. His chest was heaving, his face, he knew, was flushed.
In anger he wiped his hands on his pant legs, sending a smear of sugar, honey, milk and blood down his trousers, which he ignored in favor of self-pity. The cuts looked worse than they were, which did nothing to improve his mood. Small, superficial wounds that mocked him, he thought. He couldn't manage a life-threatening injury, something substantial. It had to be meager, a flesh wound, something on the surface.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Sophia said nothing as she cleaned the glass, tossing it noisily into the receptacle. He heard her humming to herself before she finished and walked down the stairs again.
Once she was gone he climbed to his feet and went to the window where he saw her walk through the last of the snow, her breath visible in the air. She rounded the building, disappearing only for a moment to dump the glass. Within minutes she was back inside and up the stairs.
"Do you still want tea?" she asked through the door.
He wanted to ignore her, but he felt miserable seeing her walk out in the in cold without her cloak.
"No," he said weakly, his mind more clouded than it had ever been before. She meant nothing. She couldn't mean anything to him. It was wrong of him to make assumptions, to lay awake all night thinking of her face, of the way she sat, of the tone of her voice when she spoke and laughed and sighed.
He cleared his throat and spoke loud enough for her to hear him. "No tea."
For a moment he thought she had turned and left. The relief he expected to feel never came. He was disappointed that she returned to work without saying another word. Alone, he nodded. It was better this way. It was better to know he was alone than to wait for…no, this was better. There was no waiting. There was no need to wait.
And then…
"May I come in?