The Questions
I do not see Erik for many, many days. In fact, I see no one in the house except the women in black and the occasional man who stops in quickly to see that I am alive and well before leaving. Through my reading, I have many more questions to ask Erik, and I grow frustrated by a lack of answers.
For a few days, I fall ill. Weak and irritable, I remain in bed, refusing everything that is offered, as it makes me nauseous. None will let me venture outside to obtain fresh air. My first attempt ended in me being scolded by one of Erik's men and sent to my room like some petulant child. When I was able to sneak out my second time, a woman spotted me from one of the upstairs windows and hurriedly ushered me back inside. No one will tell me why I am unable to take a walk in the small, ill-kept gardens. My frustration is peaking, and I want to scream and rage, but I simply sit in my room and wear one of my three dresses and stare outside, wishing. And although I cannot see the laborers' village, I daydream sometimes about escaping there to live among the people. I cannot imagine that their lives are worse than my own. Even if they do not have as much food as I, I cannot rid myself of an image of a young girl running through tall grasses, her feet bare and a flower braided into her long, wild hair, free of cares and worry.
You are being stupid, a voice whispers. You are conjuring up romantic images simply to pity yourself.
After a sigh, I slide under my sheets and, trying to feel content, fall asleep.
----
Once again, I have not been asleep long when I am woken. I sit up, trying to decide what has woken me, when I hear it: the most hauntingly beautiful music is seeping through my door, calling me, and I sit, transfixed, and listen. It is unlike anything I have ever heard. All songs I know are happy or at least melancholy, but this song speaks of grief and despair, and I can feel tears creep into my eyes.
Unaware of my own legs, I stand and drift toward the music, more floating than walking, my eyes and ears fixed on one thing. I do not bother to dress, nor do I pull on a dressing gown. The piano is not far from my room, and I go to it.
Erik sits at the bench, his head bent and his fingers gliding over the keys. It is very dark in the room, save for one candle that sits close by, casting a dramatic and deep shadow on his face. For a very long time, I stand and listen. He knows that I am here, but he does not interrupt himself. There are things I have never felt before coming alive in my chest, and my heart pounds wildly. I do not want the music to end, and I stare as his hands caress more than press the keys of the piano. The instrument has always tantalized me, but I have been too afraid to ask permission to play it, and now I blush with shame to think of the ugly, unremarkable music that I would have played. The music Erik is playing forces me to sit and listen in wonder, and I do for a very long time until the song comes to a soft, slow ending. We sit silently for a minute; I am catching my breath, and Erik is looking at the piano keys, touching them softly.
"Do you enjoy music?" he finally asks, still examining the ivory.
"Yes," I whisper. "I enjoy your music only."
After another moment, he says, "Do you play? I am sure they taught you some form of entertainment."
Slowly, I nod and stand up, transfixed still by the unheard music that is coming from the instrument.
"Do you know any duets? No – do not answer that. I do not wish to play any you know." He leans over and pulls out a few sheets of paper that rest on the armchair. "Here is something I have written. The melody should be easy enough for you."
Once again, I do not walk – I seem to glide over to the piano and take a hesitant seat by him. We have not been this close since…that night, and I remember how cold he is. His skin is literally cold. By the light of the candle, I see the music and place my fingers on the keys.
It is a dreamy and slow duet – nothing compared to his first song, but enough to draw me in. All of my worries are washed away with the swirl of the music. Once, our hands brush as I fumble a chord, but his skill quickly covers for my lack, and all my mistakes are covered by his expert hands. But there is nothing to fret over – there is only Erik, and me, and the music, and our triangle brings me more peace than anything else.
All too soon, the peace is over, and we remain on the bench, both staring straight ahead.
"Where have you been?" The question is out before I can stop myself, and I hold my breath. It is not my right to pry. However, he only says, "Away."
"You should go to bed," says Erik softly. "It is late once again."
When I am at the door, I turn quickly, and his eyes meet mine. It is the first time he has looked at me all night.
"I sing," I say breathlessly. "I sing much better than I play."
And I leave, my thoughts drowning as his music follows me to bed and then to sleep.
----
One morning, I wake up and find myself quite ill again. I empty the contents of my stomach and slide to the floor, shaking and pale. I suddenly grow warm as I think of what this could possibly mean – but, no. It is simply a coincidence, a sudden bout of stomach flu that will soon pass. But as the days continue and my sickness with it, I become more and more uncomfortable.
I ask Erik more questions every day. I question him about music theory, Shakespeare, laborers, governments, history, science, mathematics, and he answers all. There is no inquiry he has not been able to answer. However, he is sometimes too busy to speak. I will walk in, a book tentatively clutched in my hand, to find him speaking with someone or pouring over maps and old documents. He will see me and say sharply, "Not now, Christine."
But, later, he is always willing to answer my questions. I will sit on the couch and he will grab a new book or scribble something down for me as he explains. And so, I am not very nervous when I approach him with a new subject.
"What is it today, Christine?" he says as I enter. "The Roman Empire? Disease? Or have you come to pester me about my past?"
Indeed, I have asked him many times about from whence he came and how he obtained all his knowledge, but he is adamant with his silence. After a shy smile, I say,
"No, but I would like to learn about all of those. I have read about this throughout all my books but do not fully understand it."
"Well?" he says, stacking books. "What is it?"
I watch him for a moment, looking at his smooth white mask before saying, "Love."
Whatever he expects, I know that this is not it, for he nearly drops a book and quickly looks at me, his expression shrewd and wary. "Love?"
Nodding, I enter into the room farther and sit. "I am still unclear. Would you explain it?"
Curiously, this is the only time I have ever seen Erik look in the least bit uncomfortable. He grips his book and looks at me, his golden eyes almost lost.
"I am sorry," I say instantly. "Is this something you will not tell me?"
"No – no," he replies quickly. "It is nothing." But it takes him another moment to say anything. "Love is…a feeling, a very powerful, very passionate feeling. There are many different kinds of love: the love one feels for a father or mother, or one's siblings, or one's friends, or the love one feels for a member of the opposite sex."
"How do you know if you are in love with someone?" I ask, and this question makes him look even more uncomfortable. He takes a few steps closer to me.
"It is a hard concept to grasp unless one has experienced it," is his answer. "But it is usually a feeling of complete trust and commitment to another – that one is with a very dear and loyal friend, and that one can be completely serene with them forever. This goes for both platonic and physical love."
I absorb this quietly, thinking of all those I have known. I do not believe I love my father or mother. I know that I love Clara, but I still cannot think of Raoul. Deciding to dwell on that later, I look up at Erik, who is watching me closely.
"Have you ever been in love?" I say.
There is a pressing silence, and I understand that I have asked a very personal and pressing question. My eyes lower to his shoes.
"Me?" he finally says, his voice quiet. "No."
We are spared another moment of silence by someone entering the room. It is a dark-haired, handsome man that I see frequently here but to whom I have never spoken. He spots Erik and addresses him quickly.
"Khan has returned, and he looks very worried. He wishes to see you immediately."
Erik's almost-warm manner disappears instantly. He is once again the Man with Half a Face, and his snappy, brusque manners return.
"Wait here, and I will return with him. You," he says, addressing me, "are dismissed. Return to your room."
The man and I are left alone. He ignores me completely, going over to look out the small window. I walk to the table with the books and rummage through for a moment, stealing glances at the man. His hair is very dark and slightly curled, the same as mine, and his frame is tall and strong. The more I glance at him, the more I cannot help but stare. As I stare at his nose, I touch my own. His eyes have the same shape, and, as I strain my memory, I recognize him. With light footsteps, I walk up to him. He turns to look at me, his brown eyes suspicious.
"Yes?" he says.
Now completely amazed, I reach out to touch his face, too shocked to be aware of what I am doing. Instantly, he jerks away, and a snarl comes to his lips.
"You are to return to your room," he says angrily.
"T – Taurin?" I ask slowly.
There is a small silence. "Yes, that is my name," he says.
"I – you were killed," I whisper. "Your group was ambushed. We were all so sure…and I was devastated because you'd never help me into the trees or throw apples around the kitchens."
His angry expression vanishes instantly, and his eyes are now curious. "Do I know you?"
I place a hand on my chest. "I am Christine. My father, Gustaave – "
" – and my mother, Kiska," he says, his voice echoing with my own.
For a very long moment, we stare at each other. I then throw my arms around him. It takes him a moment before he hugs me back, his hands cautious on my back. His chest is warm and comforting, and I smile into the clean shirt. Years and years have gone by since I heard of Taurin's death, and to have him back brings with it countless emotions – the most prominent being, of course, happiness. But he is so changed! The Taurin I remember was young and carefree, almost reckless, with his brown eyes alight with trickery and delight. But now…he is older, and he is very serious-looking. I step away from him and smile.
"What happened?" I ask, taking his hand. "Where have you been all these years?"
"I – " He falls silent as we hear footsteps out the hall. Quickly, he presses my hands to his lips and says, "We will talk tomorrow after dinner, dear sister. You must return to your room."
I am not at all tired now, but I do as he says and spend the entire night smiling. Taurin is nine years older than I, but he has always been my favorite sibling, ever since I learned what that meant. I remember following him around as he roamed the large house and terrorized the inhabitants with his pranks and wits. He would then lead me, laughing as he ran, outside, where he would hide in a tree while my parents searched for him, calling his name angrily. It was for this reason that he was sent away early to school; he is (or was) hot-blooded and very temperamental, and my mother hoped school would straighten him out. Taurin, however, left school to join the military instead, and, traveling, was supposedly killed. But he is not dead! I wonder if he simply ran away from school, or if he abandoned his military post, or if he was never ambushed at all.
All my questions will be answered tomorrow. I sleep happily knowing that, at last, I have someone in the world. My dreams are light, with brilliant colors and quick-moving. The sun wakes me later, and I ready myself quickly. However, as I am brushing my hair, my stomach lurches, and I, once again, find myself retching. My head swims as I calm myself, and I wash my mouth repeatedly, smothering the thoughts. Perhaps if I simply ignore it, it will go away. I head down to the kitchens and deny breakfast in wake of my queasy stomach before taking the tray up to Erik. I still do not understand why I take it: I have never seen him even touch food, much less eat it. But I do, day after day. Sometimes we will speak quietly, sometimes we will not. I do not know if he is aware of Taurin or ever has been, but I am hesitant to speak with him. So I enter quietly and make to leave.
"You now have a family member with you," says Erik. I turn, but his eyes are still fixed on a book.
"Yes," I answer slowly. "Taurin is my third brother and my favorite."
"You will find him much changed," Erik says, carelessly turning a leaf of his book. His words sound oddly ominous, and they echo in my head all day, almost making me dread the conversation after dinner. But I laugh at myself, and my subconscious reassures me,
He did not seem all that different in those few moments we spoke. Taurin is older and wiser – that has changed him. We all change with the years.
I am sick once again that afternoon, so I do not take dinner and instead spend the few minutes washing my face and hands and trying to restore some color back to my pale cheeks. Finally satisfied, I go to the little study and wait, breathing deeply to keep down the nausea. When Taurin finally enters, I stand, and a true smile comes to my lips. He returns it easily and takes my hands once again. But his smile disappears suddenly.
"You look quite unwell," he says. "Are you sick?"
Quickly, I say that I feel quite well and that I am simply anxious to speak with him. We sit on the couch, and I simply want to look at him. Now that I can study him further, I see more resemblance between us besides the nose and mouth. We have the same skin and cheekbone.
"Now you must tell me what happened to you," I say.
"It is not a particularly exciting story," he says. "You must remember me as being foolish and juvenile and that our parents sent me away to get rid of those undesirable traits. But I had an attraction for the military and quickly joined. It is just like you said, Christine. While traveling, my group was ambushed. But we were not killed. We were given the choice to hear the ideas of the "rebels," those who oppose the Oligarchy, and I took that option. It was Erik who converted me, Christine. He is the one who should be in power, and he is the one that I follow. And I have been, ever since that night years ago." We are silent for a moment, each of us looking in the opposite direction. Taurin then touches my shoulder.
"But you will tell me all about you – I have not seen you in over ten years! I know your story, such as Erik told me. But what of the Oligarchy? You were right in the middle."
"Surely you wish to know of your family?" I say. "You have not seen them in over ten years, too."
A sudden, unexpectedly hard look comes to his face and eyes. "I do not recognize them as my family. I have none, save you. They cared nothing for me, nor I for them, and I am glad I got out as soon as I could."
His bitterness is surprising, and I do not know how to answer, so I do not. As we continue to speak, his sullenness remains, although he tries to disguise it, and when we part, I feel confused and almost helpless. And Erik is right – unsurprisingly: my brother is much changed.