Paladin111

This could not have been happening. In her urgency to disappear from sight, Sophia shot up, remembered the low window too late, and hit her forehead on the wooden frame. The world immediately lurched. Or was it her legs that buckled? Whatever had happened, she realized it wasn't good.

Despite blinking, the world seemed darker and blurry. Definitely not good, she concluded, unsure of whether she'd said the words aloud.

She faintly heard Citrine gasp, which was followed by an undeniable, "Oh, shit, what did you go and do that for? Bloody hell, Sophia, you could have killed yourself."

Those were the last words she heard as she slipped to the ground and closed her eyes, deciding it was best to lay still a moment and wait to see if the pain throbbing through her temples ebbed.

Strangely, she still couldn't rid her thoughts of Erik with his hand to his belt.

-o-

Citrine appeared horrified when Erik rushed up beside her and peered through the open window. The cook babbled on some, speaking in both French and her native Irish, though she spoke so rapidly that he barely understood a word of either language. The only part he picked up for certain was her apology and a great deal of talk about a book.

"I'll see to her," he said once Citrine took a breath.

She nodded, swallowed hard, then shook her head. "It's all my doing, Monsieur."

He looked her over one last time but didn't question her words. Without another glance at Citrine, he strode around the side of the house and through the front door, which was surprisingly unlocked.

"Sophia," he called, but naturally she didn't answer. He walked briskly down the hall to her bedroom and nudged the door open. All he could see of her was her bare feet, which made him feel strangely intrusive. He'd never stood in her darkened room before, and as he walked to her, he glanced around.

The last time he'd been in her home it had been under traumatic and unpleasant circumstances. He wryly smiled and realized this wasn't exactly a pleasant circumstance, but hopefully less traumatic than the first instance.

Her room was small but neatly kept. Bottles of perfume lined a small vanity, with beautiful glass containers of every size and color displayed. The bottles, he realized, propped up the papers and tiny drawings, mostly of people, some of which were tucked in the mirror's oval frame edges. It seemed strange to him that she saw where he lived and worked on a daily basis, but her home life remained a mystery to him. Being here now was strangely forbidden and arousing.

"Sophia," he said again, quieter than before.

She groaned. Or rather, she exhaled and slowly turned from her back onto her side. He knelt beside her, his heart suddenly racing with concern for her well-being. A red mark marred her perfect forehead where she'd smashed it against the top of the window.

"What happened?" she questioned.

"You hit your head," he explained.

"Oh." She sounded more miserable than he expected. "Yes. Right."

"Do you remember hitting your head?" he asked, his voice still low. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and sit on the edge of her bed with her in his lap, but instead he stared down at her and didn't move.

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Unfortunately?"

"And I remember my undignified collapse as well."

His smile came unexpected, but he couldn't help himself. Very gently, as though he'd hurt her if he pressed too hard, he touched her forehead. "Did you hurt the back as well as the front?"

"I don't think so," she answered. Her eyes met his, her gaze unsteady, which he imagined it should be following a blow to the head. "But I'm afraid to move."

"Shall I help you?" he offered, hoping she would accept. He wanted to touch her, even if it was as innocent as helping her to stand.

She blinked several times, and then suddenly her visage became sheer panic and she reached for his arm. "Oh, oh, no. No, no, no," she said under her breath.

He eased her into a sitting position and kept one hand on the middle of her back, the other on her right hand.

"What is it?"

"I can't see anything," she gasped. Her hand squeezed his tighter and her lips trembled with the onset of deep-rooted fear.

His heart paused. It was inevitable that one day she'd lose her sight, but then he shook his head. There was no way she'd hit her head and blinded herself. For God's sake, he thought. She just looked him in the eye as he knelt over her. She'd looked at him, looked at him purposely.

But he still questioned her. "You can't see me?"

"No." Her voice sounded tight with the onset of barely-contained sobs.

He lifted his hand from hers and moved it toward her face. She drew back. He wished he hadn't startled her because he very much desired to place his palm against her cheek and calm her.

"Yes, you can see," he said.

"I mean yes, I can see you," she replied, her words now filled with frustration. "It's just very, very dark. The lamp is turned on, isn't it? I think I've…I've dimmed, Monsieur."

"There is a lamp on across the room, yes." He pressed his hand to her face and gently turned her cheek. Her flesh was hot and damp, and before he could comment, she gave a hiccup. A choked sob followed, but she pressed her face firmly to his hand and he smoothed the falling tears from her smooth skin.

"Does it seem terribly dark in here?" she fretted.

"From behind the bed? Yes, it does."

"Please, be honest. I can tolerate what will come."

For a moment he studied her in silence. His fingers grazed each vertebra as he caressed her back, and for the time being he hoped he provided enough comfort. Desperately he wanted to fit his lips to hers and kiss her passionately, but it wasn't appropriate. He didn't know what was appropriate at this moment, though he knew it should have included a cold compress and perhaps a good look at her pupils.

"Sophia," he said at last. "I am being honest and yes, it does seem dark in here to me. See? Over the bed, the lamp is on, but the light doesn't reach here. In fact, when you sit crouched down like that it's almost as though there isn't a lamp on at all."

"Then I haven't dimmed myself?"

"There is only one way to be sure," he said. She blinked at him, still fearful and unsure of what was happening. He would have been just as frightened as she was, but despite the bump to her head, she still sounded like herself.

"How?" she questioned. She still looked skeptical, and he offered another smile. Immediately her gaze was drawn to his lips, which seemed to make her smile back wistfully, and not without an endearing amount of sheepishness.

"Let's get off the floor first. Once you're seated near the light, we'll see how your forehead looks."

Gingerly she touched the spot just above her left eye, and a deep frown set onto her mottled face. She seemed to surrender at last with a nod, sigh, and the end of her sobs. He stood first and pulled her to her feet, which surprisingly stayed beneath her.

"Why are you still in your dress from last evening?" he questioned.

"The buttons," she answered.

His brow furrowed. "Would you…" Like me to assist you in undressing here, in your darkened bedroom? "Like me to fetch Mademoiselle Citrine?"

"No, thank you," she said, seemingly distracted.

"Did you sleep in the dress?"

"Yes. Pardon me? No, I mean, no!"

"Sophia?" he questioned, worried for her now more than he'd been initially.

She began to take a step and he followed alongside her, his hand firmly steadying her by the elbow. "Careful," he cautioned. "There is no rush, Sophia." He did wish she'd at least loosen the damned dress. How she could breathe while being fastened into a tightly-buttoned bodice he had no idea.

Yet, somehow she managed to gather a great deal of oxygen into her lungs. He began to protest as she dove onto her bed and fumbled with an opened book, which then toppled onto the floor. He managed to bend faster than she could and catch it before it hit the ground. Immediately it snapped shut in his grasp and he fought the urge to curse.

"You've lost your place," he said, glancing from her to the dark brown leather cover. It appeared to be a medical text, which piqued his interest. "But it seems you have the proper book selected for this evening's mishaps."

He started to hand the book to her, but a strip of satin serving as a bookmark tickled his fingers and he smiled. "Ah, I see. You haven't lost your place at all."

She'd gone completely white when he glanced at her, and he couldn't help but wonder what was so important that she'd gone to so much trouble to keep her book opened to this particular page.

"Sit," he instructed. "You're very pale."

"Please, may I have my book?" she inquired as she wrung her hands.

"Yes, but please sit, Sophia. You look as though you're about to collapse."

"Please, I must have my book. It…it belonged to my mother."

Her voice had turned high and tight, but not with threatening emotion. If he wasn't mistaken—and he didn't think he was—she was hiding something. Though what, in a plain-covered medical book there was to hide, he didn't know.

His gut lurched, and suddenly it all made sense. She was concerned about her vision, no doubt, and after the bump to the head she most likely wanted to read what it said about concussions.

With a grave nod, he opened the book to the page marked and began to turn it toward her. Midway through the motion he stopped, breath held, his gaze drawn to the illustrations. That was most definitely not an eye.