A million thoughts raced through his mind like snowflakes in a storm. Each small and insignificant, but if not addressed they piled up and became impossible to ignore. The girl had not been fed in days, or so she said. Perhaps she was feigning weakness in order to attempt an attack. The khanum could not be so foolish to believe that a mere slip of a girl could harm him. Of course, the girl was the perfect vessel for revenge. So sweet and fragile, who would ever suspect? Many a poison was sweet as well. However, if this crippling pain in her stomach was something other than hunger, she could have an underlying health condition. But what, if anything, made her belly throb with pain? Why sleep with her and put the girl through even more anguish? The khanum would kill her if he didn't take her. No woman would ever willingly sleep with him; even to escape certain death. The girl would likely die tomorrow. At the moment, the girl was here and needed something to eat.
What did he care if she lived or died? It was how she would die that distressed him. She would be tortured endlessly before they put an end to her pain, simply because she did not want to lie with a monster, a freak, a cadaver. No woman would ever want him, but it was neither fair nor his fault. He had tried to be kind and sensitive to women and their place in life. He took pity on them for their hardships, but still no woman could ever look past his horrid excuse for a face.
Mademoiselle Perrault was to blame for this. She had been the only woman to show him kindness, and that was simply the result of her poor, misguided mind. The only glimmer of sympathy he felt for the human race was for the weaker sex and children. They were unable to defend themselves against the cruelty of men and he, being set apart from men in every other way already, felt obliged to be different in that aspect as well. He had never raped, murdered, or harmed, in any intentional way, an innocent woman or child.
A soft sound shattered his thoughts and his head jerked up to see what had disturbed him. The turtledove with the broken wing had escaped from its cage and had tried to fly to him. It was lying on the floor, struggling to get up. A gentle smile touched his lips as he knelt to collect the bird.
"And how did you get out, macherie? You can't fly away just yet, but soon. Very soon you can take to the sky and live in the wild as you were born to."
It continued to coo contentedly as he hummed a song to quiet it. There was a small tray of sweetmeats on the table and he gently fed a morsel to this creature of peace and love. Peace and love. Two things guaranteed to everyone according to the religion he was born into, and yet both were forever beyond his reach. The thought made him tremble with anger. The dove sensed this and nervously began to flutter in his hands, so he resumed singing it a soothing melody. In a twisted way he was reminded of the girl. Beautiful and delicate like the dove, yet he thought he saw something of steel in those intriguing eyes. Like the bird, she had broken wings and needed help to fly away.
Truly an exquisite creature, he observed. Having no beauty of his own, he could easily identify it and appreciate it in others. Her bone structure was nothing short of perfect. The smooth lines of her face gave her the delicate look of a porcelain doll. The pointed curves of her lips reminded him of rose hips and her hair was as a waterfall at midnight. Her milky white skin, flawless and smooth, was contrasted by her dark, thinly arched eyebrows and accentuated by her quicksilver eyes framed by wonderfully thick, lush eyelashes. Her figure was everything a woman's should be. Her arms were thin, but slightly defined; perhaps she had taken ballet lessons as a girl. Her breasts were high and full. The thin cloth of her gown did not entirely conceal their firmness or pallor. Her stomach was flat and white; her waist, like everything else, tiny and followed by slender hips that were full and soft all the same.
Thinking of her curvaceous figure did nothing but make him want her. Uneasily, he realized it had been a while since the mere thought of a woman made him feel that way. Embarrassed and flushed, he attempted to slow his breathing and think of something, anything else. He regarded his hands as they softly stroked the dove, causing it to drift off to sleep. He placed it inside its gilded cage and sat upon the divan. Picking up his forgotten glass of brandy, he began to think of what he must do after he regained his composure. His body was telling him not even to think of composing himself: rather to go in there and take her as she claimed he could. Evidently she had a stronger will to live than the last one.
Breaking down the door and ravishing her was not the gentlemanly thing to do. And why try to be gentlemanly? He only meant to be kind. As though she would appreciate his kindness. These thoughts were pointless and destructive, he recognized at last. Time now to think of the mediocre task of what to feed her. Imported fruits, familiar to a native of France, such as apples, peaches, and pears should work rather well. And if he could manage, perhaps some bananas or oranges on the side would please her too. Bread baked in the traditional European sense, some cheese, and perhaps a light, crisp, white wine. Water as well, should that be more to her taste. Some chicken too, baked simply in the ovens, and nothing remotely Persian. Feeling in control of his senses once more, he left his chambers and spoke to the guard.
When the watchman left, he returned to the sitting room and began to play his violin. A song of control over the baser instincts was his intent, yet as the song progressed it became the story of a man who repeatedly tried to do the right thing, but was enticed one time too many by the woman he most desired. The song climaxed when he gave into his passions upon learning the girl had secretly coveted him as well. It had proceeded to the point where the characters were in the process of tearing off each other's clothing and devouring each others flesh when Erik felt a hand on his naked face.
The hand was not merely resting there, but caressed the tender skin in seductive circles. It felt so wonderful that for a moment he ceased to play. Trembling, the hand moved across his cheekbones and down his chin. The nails ran delicately over his lips and stroked the lower one. Another hand ran up the left side of his face and into his hair. His arms dropped to his sides, still holding the violin. Slowly he turned, eyes closed in anticipation and fear.
"What are you afraid of, Erik?" For the barest moment he wondered how she knew his name, yet when he turned around, he discovered that nothing was touching him. He was startled to see his mask resting on a table. WhendidIdothat?
Alone in the magician's bed, resting upon the cool surface of the silk sheets, she sighed. Whattodo? Now that the vial was lost, she could not take her own life painlessly. She had not anticipated the man giving her a choice, and now that he had, she hadn't the slightest clue what to do. He did not try to force himself on her, nor did he try to persuade her into it. It was simply left up to her. And so very kind, yet so very disconcerting that she wondered if he had ulterior motives. After all, this was the same executioner who mercilessly killed people, from enemies of the state to members of the royal family, who had drawn out their suffering until the last possible instant.
Unexpectedly, there was the soft sound of music coming from outside the room. It was very calm and controlled at first, though not at all soothing. Traveling under the door, it wound its way through the air. Heavy, thick, and richly melodious, she could almost see it snaking its way to the bed. It got louder and deeper in resonance and in meaning. She felt it dance in her toes and curl up her legs. The music breathed life into them, causing her to pulse to quicken. Soon, the feeling traveled to her stomach and glided over her body. She felt flushed with heat and no longer thought of the dull pain in her stomach. Drifting along her neck, it played with the strands of hair that had come loose against her neck and chest. Her eyes closed and lips parted ever so slightly. It grew stronger, more overwhelming, so that her tongue pushed against her teeth begging to be caressed. Her head tossed from side to side and she was filled with an overwhelming desire to dance to the passionate music. To let it fill her in all ways.
The man outside her door was making this exquisite music with the unbelievable rhythm. He had long thin fingers, she'd noticed. Andwhatdoesthathavetodowithanything?
Of course, there was the matter of his face as well. In a demented way, it quelled her fiery thoughts for a while, but also piqued her curiosity. If he had shown kindness to the former slave as well, she had been a fool to reject him. That showed mercy towards women, didn't it? He had been kind to her so far, except when he suspected her of being a spy or something of the like. Then his anger had been terrible to behold. Yet for all his rage, he did not raise a hand to her, nor had he harmed her in any other way. He had been courteous in every other way as well; indeed, a perfect gentleman. Had he been born with an ugly face, let alone a normal one, the life he led would have been vastly different.
The control he exerted to conceal such a passionate soul made her wonder if he had ever known a woman intimately. He had said something to the effect that a woman would rather die than lie with him. Obviously, he did not see the way the ladies of the harem looked at him. Whenever he came to see the khanum, the air was thick with anticipation. After he left, the talk was always of how mysterious he was. Yes, they'd seen the hideous face he concealed, but he possessed an unmistakable sensuality addictive as opium.
And here she was, lying on his bed, waiting with baited breath, but for what? If something didn't happen soon, on the morrow she would be tortured and killed. The thought sent chills down her spine.
Shuddering at the thought of what would precede her demise; she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them. Staring into the darkness of the room, she heard someone enter the main chambers and a few words were exchanged. Should she go now or wait? Deciding that waiting was the most certain course of action, she remained where she was until the conversation ceased. She walked to the door and let her hand linger in the air above the doorknob. What to do?
The decision was snatched out of her hands as the door swung open and the man in the mask uttered an incredulous "Mademoiselle?"
She was speechless for a moment and felt for all the world like a child caught at some wickedness. Her breathing was still a bit quick and she noted with embarrassment that her face and body were still flushed.
"What are you doing up?"
"I wanted to speak to you." Aboutwhat,exactly?
"You did?" Wasthatasmallnoteofhopeinhisvoice? It seemed flat, but there was a slight lilt at the end of the statement that made her wonder.
"Yes," she answered lamely.
"And?"
"The night moves inexorably towards dawn...monsieur." She was unsure of how to address him. The khanum had called him 'Erik,' but she was not certain that she was permitted this informal advance.
"You won't be going anywhere until you eat, mademoiselle. I've had some fruits brought that you may enjoy; cheese, some water and white wine. The bread isn't ready yet, but it is on its way."
"I never said anything about going anywhere."
"Then what do you suggest? Hiding here somewhere? I assure you they will tear these chambers and the very palace apart looking for you if the khanum so desires."
"Monsieur, I do believe you are missing my point. I have already given you my decision, yet you are reluctant to accept it. Why?"
"And what is your decision?"
Sighing, the girl said, "I will spend the night with you. I shall be your wife in nearly every sense of the word-"
"Nearly every sense?" he cut her off. "And which part of you wifely duties will you not be performing?" His voice was sarcastic and poisoned. How could something so beautiful turn to ash so quickly?
"I shall be your wife in every sense of the word, except legally," she countered quickly. "We are not formally married, monsieur. I have no objections to that, and that is the only way I won't truly be your wife."
"I see." For a time he was silent, then, "Were you raised to a particular religion, mademoiselle?"
"I was born a Roman Catholic."
"You are no longer?"
"I have not been to church in years. I sometimes wonder if that is why this happened, or if I stopped going because I stopped believing."
"I do not believe in God. If you were born a Catholic, I'm assuming you have a Christian name?"
"Yes."
"And what is it?"
"Aria."
"Aria," he said tasting it. "A very musical name, no?"
"My mother enjoyed the arts and music very much," she explained.
"I believe you have given me an idea how to keep you from your cruel fate."
"My cruel fate," she echoed.
"Yes. If we go to the khanum straight away, I shall tell her that I am not opposed to taking you as my wife so long as you are freed and we are married legally in a church."
"But why?"
"It will buy you some time."
"For what?"
"To leave this place. I can make arrangements soon enough. There is food on the table near the divan." He gestured to the antechamber. "Go sit down and eat slowly. Do not gorge yourself; you will make yourself sick. I shall wait to leave until you are finished."
"Monsieur?"
"Yes?"
"I do not wish to be taken to the khanum, nor do I care about being married or even pretending to wed you. If I were to leave the country, where am I to go? What am I to do? How many times must I say I am not averse to staying the night with you? Do you not want me?" she pled. "And even if you don't want me, I do not want to die. Please, I beg of you; if you feel any pity for me or my plight at all, take this into consideration."
"That isn't the point-"
"Yes, it is."
"Go and eat," he ordered, changing the subject with brutal finality.
"Not until you answer my question," she persisted. A small bit of courage was returning to her and it made her feel much more confident. He didn't care if she died horribly or not. In that, he was proving to be the demon everyone said he was.
"No. I will not answer."
"Then I shall not eat. If I am to die regardless, what is the point?"
His eyes clouded over; that was obviously the wrong thing to say.
"You will eat if I have to shove the food down your throat. Now go!"
His voice brooked no disapproval and again he seemed very threatening.
"As you wish. Master."
With a cry of almost inhuman rage he screamed, "Never call me thatagain! Do you understand? You are not some animal or thing I posses. I am not your master and I never will be!"
The door slammed in her face and she was left alone in the dark once more.