Chapter Eleven:
Which Is Far Too Full Of Mysterious Information
-Christine-
"Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be;
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant, and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell, – Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, 'My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here.'"
- Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Prayer to Persephone"
I gulped loudly as I knocked on the front door. The sound was unsettlingly loud in the early morning stillness. Not even the chirping of birds or humming of insects broke the silence, and—to my nervous ears—my knock seemed as rude and unexpected as a slap in the face.
I drew my cloak closer about me. Though it was June, a fine layer of silvery clouds obscured the sky, blurring the features of the world below into calm, muted shapes. The clouds would burn off within a matter of hours to reveal the sun in all its fiery glory, but in the meantime, the morning had a distinctly cold edge to it.
But then, that was only part of the reason for my chill.
As I stood on the doorstep of my fate, my heart pounding with both excitement and fear, I felt my limbs go cold. My hands trembled slightly and my breath would not come steady. Before now, I had not allowed myself to think of what might or might not happen once I arrived, for fear that it would weaken my resolve to the point of turning back. But now, as I waited anxiously for someone to open the doors, doubts began to tug at the corner of my mind in much the same way a nagging child would pull at its mother's skirts.
"Noblemen do not just take an interest in beautiful yet poor young women for any innocent reasons!"
"Once upon a time, there was an innocent young maiden who was taken in by a scheming libertine…"
What if this is all a ruse? What if he has tried to ensnare you for darker reasons than taking you away from your family?
I flinched away from that thought. Instead of pursuing these doubts, I conjured into mind my most recent memories of my family, and allowed them to swell into all the dark corners of my mind. A deep sense of peace settled over me.
Whatever happens to me now, at least I can be happy in the knowledge that they are safe.
I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling the thick, sweet smell of the jasmine and white roses that twisted and climbed around the mansion's façade.
Yet, somehow…I do not believe that he would harm me.
An interminable amount of time later, the double doors creaked slowly and laboriously open. A tall, lean figure appeared out of the gloom inside, wearing…a dressing robe?
I raised my eyes to meet a dazed—and more than slightly bemused—jade-green gaze.
The Comte's solicitor!
We stared at each other for a moment in mutual confusion, shock, and humiliation.
"Christine Daaé?" he muttered, as his tired eyes began to focus. He pulled the collar of his robe and flannel nightshirt even tighter around his neck.
I dropped an awkward curtsey, unsure of where to look. I did not think to ask how he knew my name.
"Forgive me, monsieur, for arriving without previous notice, and at such an hour. My family–"
I cut off abruptly, lost for words, as I fought the burning at the corners of my eyes and the sudden tightness in my throat.
Thankfully, he took control of the situation.
"That's quite all right," he said softly, his speech somewhat slurred from fatigue. "I ought rather to ask your forgiveness for appearing–"
Here, modestly, he clutched again at his collar—a motion that I would have been hard-pressed not to laugh at, in better circumstances.
"–In this unseemly fashion, and…well, entirely out of countenance."
He glanced behind himself, then back at me, as if he were unsure of what to do in such a predicament as this. I did not blame him. I highly doubted that it was a common occurrence for poor young women to arrive on a nobleman's doorstep a mere hour before dawn, evidently before the household had risen for the day.
"C-come in," he said, finally, and opened the doors wider. I followed him inside, gripping my satchel tightly.
The foyer was just as my aunt had described it, and more. The muted pre-dawn light gave the room an air of esoteric grandeur. I could almost believe that, here, the all-encompassing silence was a being in its own right.
The Comte's solicitor cleared his throat softly, interrupting my gawking.
"If you will wait here, Mademoiselle, I will show you around the place after I—ah…"
"Prepare yourself for the day?" I supplied, the corner of my mouth lifting in amusement.
He grinned self-effacingly.
"Quite."
Then he turned on his heel and silently disappeared up the shadowy stairs.
Thus left to my own devices, I stared about the cavernous chamber with wide eyes. I had seen grand, opulent rooms in buildings in Paris before, but even in its sadly half-neglected state, the foyer of Silaton Place surpassed all my memories of similar places. It was not entirely implausible that those memories had dimmed through the passage of time, but that did not detract from my awe of the place.
It was so elegantly white and breathtaking—and there were so many doors!
I stepped towards one without thinking. It was so early in the morning—surely the only ones awake in this house were the Comte's solicitor and myself. And if this was to be my second home, then certainly it was permissible to look around…
The first door that I opened revealed a little drawing room of the same colour scheme as the foyer, albeit with much smaller and plainer furnishings. A door on the opposite wall was already open, revealing a long, straight corridor. The thought occurred to me that perhaps this unimpressive, tight room was reserved exclusively for any unwelcome guests.
I chuckled lowly as I stepped back and shut the door silently.
The next room I saw was only partly furnished. It was much larger than the previous chamber, but what little furniture there was inside was covered with nondescript white cotton sheets. I glimpsed a large globe on a stand and a map of Europe hanging on the wall opposite it, but forbore to examine the room further.
It was as I was shutting the door to the map room that I heard it.
Within the morning's stillness, the silvery tones of a piano's notes threaded through the air. I listened carefully, and the melody began to grow slightly louder. It was a melancholy song, full of resignation and haunting beauty.
It was Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata".
Bewitched, I began to drift towards the music's source. Crossing the foyer, I approached a door that I had not yet thought to open. It was placed not too far from the shadow of the split staircase, and the door seemed strangely to cower and hide, as if it wished to escape the world's notice.
I reached out to touch my fingers to the smooth brass handle–
"Mademoiselle Daaé!"
Withdrawing my hand, I whirled around to see the Comte's solicitor standing halfway down the staircase. He was dressed in a black butler's suit and his hair was combed—all traces of his previous exhaustion gone—but his eyes flashed with a harrowing alarm that sent a thrill of true fear up my spine.
The music ceased.
I stepped away from the door and hid my hands in my skirts, feeling foolishly like the proverbial child caught with her hand in a bag of forbidden sweets.
He descended the last of the stairs slowly, floundering for words. I was at a loss as to whether I should allow him to speak first, or apologize for my untoward curiosity. I nearly began to apologize, but then–
"I—mademoiselle, that door which you were about to open…you must never, ever open it."
Well! This was something I had not expected!
"Will you promise me never to enter that room?" he pressed, fervently.
What reason could I have to protest? My own curiosity?
Wordless, I nodded.
He bent his head slightly towards me.
"I can't hear you."
Stifling a sigh of exasperation, I murmured, "Yes, I promise."
"Good," he sighed as he straightened. He turned to lead me towards one of the doors on the other side of the magnificent foyer.
"But, please," I burst out, "why may I not enter that room?"
He looked back at me—cautiously, it seemed—as though he were not sure as to whether he should reveal the mysterious and unfathomable ways of this household to me, a stranger. I simply looked at him, my eyes flared wide with pleading.
Something in his expression seemed to give; his lips tightened for a moment, and he sighed heavily. Turning again, he sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and gestured for me to do the same.
I obeyed, hugging my satchel to myself as I awaited his explanation.
He looked darkly at the troublesome door for a moment.
"That room is the music room, and it is there that the master spends most of his time—more time, in fact, than he spends even in his own chambers. The master is a very…how shall I say this…unpredictable man: prone to sudden changes of mood, and very possessive. He desires his privacy above almost anything else in life. Should you invade that privacy–"
–And here his eyes focused on mine with such intensity that I shrank back, ruing my curiosity on the subject and wishing that I had not asked–
"You will risk his anger. His anger can be absolutely terrible! Not even he can control himself when he is in a foul temper!"
His eyes lost some of their former light as he shuddered at some unspoken memory. I stared at the ground. What in the world I had gotten myself into?
"Now do you understand?"
I nodded, then added, thinking that he might again ask me to confirm myself audibly, "I understand."
He stood up slowly, and I followed suit.
"Now, come," he said in a voice that was much more lighthearted than it had been mere seconds ago. "Allow me to show you about Silaton Place."
The mansion was even larger inside than it appeared to be on the outside. I soon despaired of being able to find my own way around, but the man—whose name, he informed me, was Nadir Khan—presented me with a rough sketch of the house's floor plan, kindly assuring me that I would know my way around the gigantic building soon enough. I folded the paper and tucked it into my sleeve, sure that I would be referencing it many times that day.
My first assignment was to mop the floor of a room that would be used to showcase some of the finer statues that the Comte owned. This place was of a medium size in comparison to the other chambers of the house, yet it was still easily larger than the whole first level of my family's cottage.
One tear, then two, mingled with the soapy water that I scrubbed into the floor. Briefly, I rested my forehead against my hands and the smooth handle of the mop that I held.
No, I told myself firmly.
No.
Instead, I thought of my new situation in life, and the many questions that I longed to ask…someone.
Who exactly was the Comte? What was his name? Why had he come to Rouen, and to a house like this one? It was beautiful, to be sure, but the fact that he had chosen this particular house—with all its years of neglect and its impenetrable sense of mystery—was sure to set tongues wagging in nearly every parlour of the city.
I knew my fellow citizens too well to expect them to react any differently.
I stopped for a moment and looked around myself, taking in the high ceiling, the ornate columns and molding, and the tall windows—only one of which was uncovered by its scarlet curtains. It was such a grand, large place—I felt so insignificant, passing through its halls—and yet it was so lonely. I had expected to see more evidence of life as M. Khan had escorted me through drawing rooms, parlours, kitchens, dining halls, and so on: a few maids, perhaps, or at least a cook. But the only people in the mansion were M. Khan, and me…and the Comte.
The Comte di Ribaldi was evidently wealthy enough to have anything that he desired.
Why, then, had he chosen such a cold, lonely existence?
Perhaps it was not by choice…
I strode along the length of the room, tearing aside each curtain and opening the narrow panes of glass to the glorious morning beyond. A warm breeze entered hesitantly, bearing the scent of roses, sunshine, and chamomile. I smiled into it.
"Yes, you are welcome," I murmured.
As I returned to my task of cleaning the floor, I noted with satisfaction that the musty and neglected smell of the room was already beginning to dissipate.
Impatiently pushing back another errant curl, I suddenly wondered—why me? Why had the Comte done all this to me? If it was a matter of housekeeping, then surely he could afford to hire a woman who at least had a better idea of what she was doing! Was he such a miser that the thought of yet another expense had spurred him to concoct an elaborate scheme to obtain free help?
If free help was all that he wanted, he only needed to ask…
No, that seemed too silly a reason.
But then…why?
"The master is a very – how shall I say this…unpredictable man: prone to sudden changes of mood, and very possessive. He desires his privacy above almost anything else in life…His anger can be absolutely terrible! Not even he can control himself when he is in a foul temper!"
What sort of man was he? Unpredictable, possessive, and apparently capable of a truly terrifying temper…yet I had not forgotten what M. Khan had said, about the Comte spending more time in the music room than any other room in the house. Could he really be so horrible, if he apparently bore such a love for music? I could not believe that. One could not so completely love and appreciate something if one had no heart with which to do so.
But then, perhaps I really was too innocent.
The room that I was occupied with cleaning was located near the end of the west wing, on the ground floor. As such, I barely heard the frantic knocks on the front door and the answering tones of M. Khan's voice were almost indistinguishable. But—however muffled the voice that replied to him was—I would have recognized it anywhere. I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand through a conversation that seemed to last for an eternity. If the Comte could have found even the slightest fault with the progress I made in those minutes, then he was impossible to please.
Finally, the door closed, and the silence resumed its reign.
I suddenly found it an opportune time to replace the water in the bucket that I had been provided with. After consulting the map, I found that from my location, one could easily access the kitchens via the foyer. I held the heavy bucket to my side, telling myself firmly that I was only going that route because it was much shorter than any other.
When I entered the grand entryway, I easily spotted M. Khan as the only black shape in that white room. He stood leaning against the front doors: pale, trembling, and muttering savagely under his breath.
That was what was so convenient, and yet also frustrating, about the foyer: not even the merest wisp of a shadow could hide in there.
"Who was–?" I began, then stopped myself.
At the sound of my voice, M. Khan looked up at me, leaving off his muttering. Such a profound, heartfelt pity shone from his eyes that I was compelled to turn away. Some people are blessed with the strength to face harsh cruelty and hatred; others, to face deep compassion and love. I did not have that strength.
I turned on my heel and left for the kitchens. I did not want to know who was at the door.
"Surely not. You are mistaken!"
"I assure you: the master's orders were that you were to dine here."
"But I am not even a hired maid! I should be eating in the kitchens, not amongst all this finery!"
"Ma chère mademoiselle, you will not incur the master's displeasure by dining here. He specifically requested that you be treated with all deference, and that your every comfort be provided for."
And with that, Nadir Khan left the room, softly shutting the door behind him.
My every comfort? Except for when I am providing "the master" with his, I suppose.
I turned and looked at the sumptuous dining chamber that I had recently entered – in bad faith, I couldn't help but think.
A long table better served for a party or banquet greeted my eyes. It was covered by a snow-white cotton tablecloth edged with lace, with a gold satin runner spread lengthwise. Tall candles in brass candelabras were lit, mixing their fragrance of sugar cane and vanilla with the heady scents of the white roses, chamomile flowers, and lilies that fairly tumbled out of the small baskets set along the runner. The joints of the table nearly groaned with the weight of the many dishes present. Roast duck and pheasant; three boats of gravy; baked and mashed potatoes; tureens of chowder and bisque, as well as other soups; whole apples, oranges, plums, grapefruits, cherries, strawberries, and pears; a large, leafy salad with at least seven different dressings; long carrots soaked in a brown sugar syrup; and more met my alarmed gaze. There was one tall chair drawn up before a single setting of white china and fine cut-glass crystal.
At any moment, I expected the Comte to come charging in, demanding that I take myself off to the kitchens, where I knew I belonged. But nothing interrupted my slow, stiff progress to the solitary seat that compelled my exhausted body to rest within it.
It was not my place to take what was evidently the seat of honour—I bore no pretense of being unaware of my position; M. Khan had the advantage over me of at least being paid—but I will not deny that it felt heavenly to sink into the rich velvet after a long day of scrubbing, lifting heavy objects, and fighting back tears and painful memories. For a moment, I allowed my eyelids to slide halfway closed as I gazed drowsily at the beautiful scene before me: the candlelight illuminating everything with a soft, ambient glow.
Here, in this cavernous room, I could almost believe that the shadows that lay just beyond my island of light were alive. Beneath the whispered hissing and guttering of the candles, a slight rushing sound echoed about me. Though all of the tall windows were shut, one of the velvet curtains rippled in the restless darkness.
I bolted upright, my eyes flared wide. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the wooden edges of the armrests on my chair.
"Who's there?"
Needless to say, my breathless, fearful question went unanswered. The silence—an omniscient presence that pervaded the house—assumed a nearly tangible, almost human air of displeasure. Feeling foolish for my childish outburst, I turned my gaze meekly to the food laid out for me.
My stomach growled loudly in anticipation as I helped myself to small samples of the dishes that lay easily within arm's reach. As I began to sate my hunger, my thoughts unwittingly turned to my loved ones. However, unlike my previous reminiscing, a gently happy mood supported my spirits – at least, in that moment.
Oh, how I wish they all were here! Aunt and Uncle Giry would never be able to get enough of this food! Meg would especially love the oranges – she hasn't so much as smelled one since we left Paris—and all the open space here! Even Raoul would be speechless in the face of all this beautiful grandeur. And Gisèle and Michel—why, they've probably never seen so much food in one place in their whole lives!
I stopped in the action of scooping up another spoonful of thick chowder.
No, they never had seen so much food in their whole lives.
And they most likely never would.
Slammed by an overwhelming sense of guilt, I leaned back in my chair and feebly pushed away the plates and bowl before me. I drew a hand across my eyes, then rested my forehead against it. A weak feeling in my midsection informed me that my body was not fully satisfied…but then, neither was my conscience.
How could I sit here, in this room of rich delicacy and abject beauty, and eat such food as was only heard of by most of my fellow citizens, when some of those people would go hungry tonight? I had not forgotten the first winter my family and I had spent in Rouen, when more often than not we had gone without proper—if any—food at all. Most of the families in our acquaintance did not usually fare any better, even in more prosperous seasons. I knew that the Andrés were not the only family who barely had enough to survive. How, then, could I enjoy any of this, when I knew all too well the pain that they suffered?
Though it was a slight sound, the chair scraping against the smooth marble floor echoed ominously in the cavernous room. The silence became even more disapproving as I walked hurriedly out of the dining chamber, but I gave no outward sign that I ever noticed the change of mood. My guilty conscience thus assuaged, I thought longingly of my assigned chamber, and the bed that awaited me there.
I met M. Khan at the top of the double staircase. In his hands was a silver tray that bore a glass decanter of dark crimson liquid and an elegant glass goblet. The whole display shimmered and twinkled in the waning sunlight that drifted in through the few open curtains.
I tried to rush past him—I did not want any more pity or enigmatic statements tonight—but he called my name, effectively putting a halt to my paltry escape.
"Your supper—was it not to your satisfaction?" he asked, a slight frown etched into his features.
I sighed, exasperated—though at whom, it was difficult to say.
"It would have been more to my satisfaction if I knew that everyone had so much food to eat, without the fear of wasting it or going hungry."
M. Khan looked rather abashed at my outspokenness. Through the mellow twilight and the haze of my encroaching exhaustion, I could see that dark shadows had begun to form under his jade-green eyes.
I sighed again, this time in remorse.
"Forgive me, monsieur. I…I am not myself tonight."
He nodded tiredly. "I understand—at least, I think I do. Today has been…tiring for you, I'm sure."
"Yes, tiring," I repeated, not quite meeting his pitying gaze. "If you will excuse me, I would like to retire for the night."
"Of course. Bon soir, Mlle. Daaé."
With a slight incline of the head that I was too late to return, M. Khan turned and descended the staircase, disappearing beyond my range of vision.
I continued on my way: through the third door on the left, down the corridor behind it, to the seventh door on the right. When Nadir Khan had shown me about Silaton Place, I had been shocked to find that my living quarters lay not on the first storey—which is where I had been raised to believe was the proper location to shelter maids and servants—but on the second, in an area that was evidently reserved for only the wealthiest of the house's inhabitants. This had spurred another dispute between us, in which I insisted that much humbler quarters be procured, and M. Khan insisted with equal fervor that the Comte had ordered that I be housed there. I had only ceased my resistance when he had informed me that no other rooms had been prepared, and that my only alternative lay in sleeping with the horses.
I had not examined my bedchamber yet. This morning, I had been strangely afraid to see what lay beyond the door. I had been afraid to see what the mysterious Comte had selected to furnish my room: my last sight before I fell asleep each night here. M. Khan had been kind enough to place my satchel inside while I had started on my first chores…but now was the time to confront my silly apprehensions. Perhaps, with the mist of approaching darkness around me and the fog of fatigue clouding my mind, it would not seem so bad at first.
It was very dark inside the room. Even after my eyes had adjusted, I could barely make out any shapes at all. Thankfully, a simple candelabrum stood on a small decorative table that was conveniently placed by the door. After lighting its candles with the tinder placed beside it, I began to light the other candles that soon became visible, though the sight that the light revealed dismayed me more and more.
It was worse than I had expected.
This room was about the same size as the one that I had recently left, if not larger. I stood in an antechamber that was not entirely closed off from the bedchamber on its left. A long blue and white Oriental rug edged with white tassels covered the dark wooden floor. Three large windows across from the door were covered by soft white satin and tulle curtains. Below them were three chairs grouped around a table, upon which sat a lap-desk, complete with parchment, pens, and ink bottles. Two floor-to-ceiling bookcases surrounded a fireplace large enough to roast an ox on a spit; over its mantel hung a large nighttime landscape with strong overtones of blue and white. A silver chandelier strung with glass beads hung from the ceiling, but its holders were empty at present. Throughout both rooms, an innocent light-blue-and-silver wallpaper had been painted over the walls.
As I began my progress towards the bedchamber, I flinched as I glimpsed movement out of the corner of my eye. A large mirror gilded in silver hung on the wall that I had not examined yet. But I did not look long at the mirror. I already knew that the slight, dark, waifish figure that lay within its depths had no place in the exquisite beauty around her.
The main focus of the bedchamber was the bed itself. It was a large four-poster, hung and covered with a beautiful midnight blue fabric that was embroidered with tiny swirling silver patterns. A wooden chest had been placed at the foot of the bed, with my satchel sitting meekly upon its carved surface. Two small armoires stood on either side of the bed, with delicately painted china lamps on top of each.
There was another door built into the wall behind the bed, but I had no more energy for exploring; I hardly had energy for anything. I barely remembered to place the candelabrum on one of the armoires before I sat down on the edge of the bed, utterly overwhelmed.
It was all so beautiful… but it was not what I wanted.
There was not another bed that sheltered a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl of eleven years beside me. There was no carved window seat, no simply-made armoire with my treasures and an odd coterie of nature's gifts atop it. There was no awkwardly constructed parlour below me, or any of its usual inhabitants at this time of night. There was no sound of the wind rushing through the rowan trees, whispering me to sleep as it had each night for three years.
I felt so lonely, as if I had been set adrift on a small rowboat in the middle of the ocean—a peerless, majestic, blue-and-silver ocean. Somehow, my lovely surroundings served only to augment my solitude. They were all just things: inanimate, taking up space, and completely unaware of their own beauty. They fell far short of the comfort that simple human contact could give.
The silence became much too oppressive. Sinking down under its weight and into the indescribably soft bedclothes, I let the despairing sobs finally overcome me.
"My dear child, why are you crying?"
Shooting up from my sprawled position across the bed, I stared wildly around me, searching for the voice that I had just heard. Heart pounding in my throat, I rose—shaking—and examined each shadowy corner of my chambers.
I was alone.
Had I then imagined that beautifully soft, velvet voice asking after me? Had my agitation so overwhelmed me that I had deluded myself into thinking that there was someone—anyone—out there who was truly concerned for me?
I gazed dejectedly at my reflection in the huge mirror. Mussed hair, preternaturally pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, and more disheartening sights met my eyes.
"Have I gone mad?" I murmured to myself.
"No."
I started.
I had not expected a response.
"Who are you?" I asked, in a tone of voice that sounded much louder and braver than I felt.
There was a slight, delicate pause. I took a deep breath, trying to clear my mind.
"A friend," he finally answered. For whoever was speaking to me was undoubtedly male. His voice was of a pitch so low—and so unimaginably rich, deep, and beautiful—that it was impossible for it to belong to a woman. And though this fact alone should have greatly alarmed me, I felt my frantic pulse begin to slow, as did my breathing. It was unreasonable, perhaps even foolish, but I grew less afraid.
"Trust me…" he pleaded.
And, strangely enough…I did.
"Why can I not see you?"
He paused again at my question.
"It is not opportune for you to see me just yet. I do not know that either of us is ready."
I froze as a sudden suspicion formed in my mind.
He will come to you when you are ready…
Oh heavens…could it be true?
"You aren't…are you the…the Angel of Music?"
"The—I beg your pardon?"
I stammered and blushed as I tried to explain.
"When I was a—a young girl, my father used to tell me many stories. My favourite was the one about the Angel of Music. He comes to all great composers and musicians at least once in their life, usually at a time when they are feeling most sad or distressed. No one ever sees him, but he always makes himself heard to those predestined to hear him."
There was yet another pause. It was so long that I began to fear that I had somehow offended him, and that he had left me to the gaping jaws of my solitude.
But then, his reassuring voice echoed around me again as he answered, "I am known by many different names. If it pleases you, lady, you may call me that."
It was a diplomatic response at best. He had not expressly said that he truly was the Angel of Music…but it relieved me to be able to associate a name with the exquisite yet disembodied voice speaking inside my rooms, with no exact focus to denote where its owner was. And…the way he had lingered over the word "lady": caressing it with a gentle, tender touch…I will not deny that several shivers went down my spine at that moment.
"Please tell me," he continued, "why it was that you were crying. Are your rooms not to your satisfaction? Did you not like your supper?"
"No." I shook my head. Though I did not say as much, I still hoped that I would never cry for such silly reasons. I never had before.
"No, it is not that," I continued as I began to stumble tiredly back to my bed. I struggled to assign words to the myriad of feelings and thoughts that were spinning inside my mind and heart, but they came haltingly and I did not think that I did justice to the turmoil within.
"It's just…why am I here? Why did the Comte choose me?"
I sat down again on the rich blue covers, half-reclining against the mound of pillows—some decorative, others not—arranged carefully against the headboard.
"What interest could he possibly take in me? We saw each other once, but it was only for a moment…and he has behaved so strangely: demanding that I act almost as his housekeeper, yet insisting that I dine on the finest food and be quartered in such beautiful rooms. It makes no sense!"
I turned my head, half-burying my face into a silk-upholstered pillow as I gazed through the filmy curtains and into the nighttime sky.
"I just want to be home again," I murmured. "I miss my family, and the cottage. I miss talking with Meg late into the night. I miss my garden, and I miss reading to my family and friends after supper. I miss hearing the birds, and people talking and laughing. I miss everything that I will miss...everything that I will not have again. And…it is strange to think that, though only a road separates me from everyone I love, I feel as if we are worlds apart."
I sighed despondently, and I thought that I heard the Angel sigh as well.
"You love them very much," he stated lowly. It seemed to me that there was another deeper meaning to his words, but I could not begin to comprehend what it was.
"Y-yes, I do. Without them, I…"
My lower lip began to tremble, and my throat constricted painfully for a moment.
"I am lonely."
The Angel sighed heavily again.
"I am sorry, Christine."
Once again, it seemed as if he meant more than his words conveyed, and I was momentarily unsure as to whether he was expressing pity for my situation, or remorse for…for something else.
I shook my head slightly.
"You need not apologize. None of this was your fault."
The silence stepped in. It stretched so long that I was again afraid that the Angel of Music had left me.
"Angel?" I asked tremulously, raising my head as if hoping that I would see him appear before me.
"I am still here."
I exhaled in relief.
"Forgive me; I was afraid that you had gone."
"No. You need never fear of my leaving you. I will only depart when you wish me to."
My eyelids were beginning to slide closed despite myself, easing slowly into the land of sleep through the lullaby of the Angel's voice. I rallied my senses long enough to put into audible form the request that I had longed to make since my father had first told me the Angel's story.
"Angel? Will you sing to me?"
I could almost see him smile when he said simply, "Of course."
He sang a quiet, mellow lullaby in a tongue that I did not understand. Even if he was not the Angel of Music, it was appropriate that I should term him so, for his voice truly was heavenly. As I finally slipped into unconsciousness, I felt the first true feelings of peace settle over me since I had crossed the threshold of Silaton Place.
My sleep that night was deep and dreamless.
I woke not long after dawn. Sunlight drifted gracefully through the windows and across my face, brushing my features as gently as a moth's wings.
Arising from my sprawled position—I noted with no little dismay that I had somehow twisted myself inside my dress so that it tugged uncomfortably at me in several places—I crossed silently to the windows and opened each one.
Today would be better, I decided. I had already gotten through the first day of my atypical employment here. I had braved the silence and the idiosyncrasies, the hard labor and the luxury; and, with the help of an enigmatic butler and a disembodied voice, I had survived. I knew mainly what to expect now. I could lay aside my apprehensions of the future and my despondency for the past, and focus on my life now. No longer would I be afraid or melancholy.
"Here's to making it count," I whispered into the fresh air.
As I turned away from the window, I thought that I heard the sound of a solitary morning bird's song.
My remaining week at Silaton Place fell into something of a routine. After arising early in the morning, I would quickly prepare for the day, utilizing the large closet and even larger bathroom that lay beyond the door that I had not explored at first. I was especially grateful for the closet. Though selecting my daily outfits from the dresses provided was at first an awkward process—there was absolutely no way that I would go about my chores in a silk gown studded with jewels—it was certainly more preferable than dressing every day in the only gown I had been foolish enough to bring.
I took my meals in the kitchens, where Nadir Khan would meet me and delegate my tasks for the day. More often than not, I was left to my own devices when it came to my chores, as M. Khan would tidy up some other room or attend to the Comte. But, several times that week, M. Khan joined me in my more momentous tasks: washing and furnishing the ballroom, for example. As we scrubbed and hung paintings together, I asked him subtle—and not so subtle—questions about our mutual employer, and through some persuasion and interpretation on my part, I learned more of the Comte.
The Comte di Ribaldi was more than nobility—he was a disinherited member of a royal family that was unheard of in this part of the world. Whether his family had brought down his disinheritance as a punishment or he had intentionally left what was rightfully his, no one save the Comte and his family knew. Either way, the family had evidently bestowed mercy upon him by insisting that he at least have a title, so that he need not be subjected to less fortune and respect than one of his birth merited. He had traveled nearly all over the world, and had learned many great and terrible things. The Comte was a master of prestidigitation, familiar with every kind of torture, and was also a truly gifted healer. He was an avid reader, knew much of architecture and the humanities, and was extraordinarily talented in each of the higher arts. But his favourite, as I had guessed, was music. He ate, slept, and breathed music. He could play any instrument he set himself to learning. And his voice–!
M. Khan was eager to list the Comte's accomplishments, but was not so eager to delve into the personal traits of the man himself. The swarthy butler only hinted that our employer had once been an extremely kind, merciful, and compassionate man, if a little prone to pride. But, now…
And here he left off the story, shaking his head.
Each night, after eating supper, I would retire to my rooms. When necessary, I would bathe in the bathroom at the end of the window-lined corridor behind the door. It was another large room, lavish in its simplicity. It was decorated in lavender and a warm white that I believed was termed ecru. There, I found enough perfumes, lotions, soaps, bath salts, and more to last me at least a year. Though my body felt as if it were becoming even more thin and wiry with all of its labours, it ached more with each day; but with the help of the bath salts and the hot water that came through pipes in the floors—that was Nadir Khan's explanation of the process—I was never painfully sore. I found myself opting to use the rose-scented lotion to massage my face, arms, and legs before retiring to my bed each night. The scent was so strong and vivid that it seemed as if I was rubbing the actual flower's petals against my skin, instead of a simple concoction.
The Angel of Music came to me each night, and we conversed for as long as I could stay awake. I told him about my days, how I felt that I was beginning to know Silaton Place better for having expended so much effort to make it presentable, and my conversations with Nadir Khan. Strangely enough, the Angel seemed to find my subtle discoveries about the Comte rather amusing.
"Are you always so resourceful?" he had asked me.
"Only when I need to be," I had replied, with more than a mischievous smile on my face.
When I felt that I could no longer stay awake, I would ask him to sing to me, and he did. Each lullaby was different, but they were the same in the sense that all were simple, mellow, and understated; therefore, they were sweeter and more beautiful than any ostentatious aria or ballad.
I found myself living for my nights. Daylight meant loneliness, excruciating work, and silence; the nighttime, however, heralded comfort and contact with a being outside myself, who did not speak with me simply to repeat orders. The Angel was kind and compassionate, and I appreciated his invisible company more than any materialistic comfort the Comte could shower down upon me. Had I been housed in the stables, I still would have been happy, so long as my Angel was with me.
During that week, I never saw the Comte di Ribaldi, nor did he ever again order that I be allowed to dine in more luxury than I was used to, which had been no luxury at all.
When I left Silaton Place to return to my family for the weekend, I felt a vague feeling of disappointment. I had hoped to see the Comte di Ribaldi at least once, but I had not so much as glimpsed the corner of his cloak or heard the tread of his shoes. But then, I was also grateful that anything my aunt had feared would happen to me had never come to pass, and that I was returning safely to my family.
And…and I was glad to have met my Angel.
Slinging my satchel over my shoulder, I set off down the white gravel path, my thin boots crunching delicately in the morning's stillness. As I approached the gates, I thought I glimpsed a woodland finch constructing a nest in the crook of a cedar tree's branches.
I smiled to myself, then ran most of the way home.
I nearly tripped over a large bundle on the cottage's doorstep when I reached it. Bending down towards it, I realized that it was actually a hamper full of food. A stiff, formal card inside bore the words, "For the Girys, to serve as aid in these troubled times."
And when I pulled back the covering cloth even further, what I saw nearly took my breath away.
Hot cross buns, five different pastries, a glass bottle of milk, a block of cheese, two bags of finely ground coffee, a wrapped block of chocolate, and oatcakes sweetened with honey lay innocently inside. And yet, it was neither the amount nor the diversity of the food that shocked me. It was the fact that I recognized it all. I knew every piece of food from helping M. Khan clean out and organize the cupboards in the extensive kitchens. I knew the German-made strudel that had quickly become my favorite at Silaton Place. I knew the smell of the coffee, for it was exactly the same as what had helped to completely awaken me each morning at the manor.
As for the rest of the food…
Well, it was still hot.