While Erik hadn't provided many creature comforts, she still had the velvet pillow and afghan he'd sneakily left while she slept earlier that day, or yesterday – her sense of time was incredibly skewed – and so she propped the pillow at her back and lounged against it, cocooning herself in the blanket. It felt like hours since he'd taken her to the bathroom, and no food or drink had appeared since then. Of course, the Opera Ghost hadn't moved from the organ bench since that time, either. It had been non-stop music since he shut her back in her cage with that blow about her French accent. Of course her accent sucked – she wasn't French! Ang sulked a little. Ass.
Her mind was going over details in the script she had stored in her messenger bag back at the theater, trying to pick out its inaccuracies from what she knew first hand to be fact. Of course, there was the original book, then other variations, the latest movie, the miniseries, the horror film starring Lon Cheney, not to mention the musicals; the Opera Ghost had certainly made an impression throughout the century.
She began with the obvious. Full mask, check, and one point against the Broadway version. He didn't have glowing eyes, so it seemed that it was a point against all three versions with which she was familiar. Underground lake, check. France, check, so she assumed. There was no way to know for sure if they were beneath the main Paris opera house. What had it been called? Something Granier? Eh, whatever; moving on. Victorian clothing, check. Cloak that swished when he walked and that he occasionally swept around himself like a diva. Ang snickered at that. Double check. Definitely theatrical and operatic. Part of her was rather astonished that he'd never pursued the stage, himself. Sure, he wore a mask, but so did lots of actors in operas, at least the few variations she'd seen. And wasn't there some sort of Italian stage acting that used masks? Not for the first time, she wished she'd gone to college.
She gave notice to the plaintive, heart-breaking notes being pounded out on the keyboard. His opera in the fictional works had been called Don Juan Triumphant, she now remembered. And given his reaction, that was most definitely a check in the 'yes' column she was keeping in her mind. It was the most depressing music she'd ever heard, like one long and plaintive wail, and more than once since he'd begun playing did she catch herself wiping tears from her cheeks.
A yawn parted her lips and she tipped her head back, allowing her eyes to close. Memories of her beloved little theater came to play in her mind's eye. Really, there was nothing little about it. Yes, the outside looked to be as old as dirt, but it was as sound as they could make it. They had a full fly system and stories-high heavens to store some of the larger sets, scenery, and backdrops. Their wings were wide as well as deep, each side holding three legs that dropped vertically from the heavens. Her favorite part was the deep, blood red velvet grand curtain, a gift from the community sponsors three seasons back. That had been her first year with the theater, and she'd been there for every show, every musical, every guest comedian, every dance group, symphony, and opera since then.
God, I want to go home.
She hadn't realized, while she let her brain flip through her memories like a slideshow, that she'd begun to hum the score from Faust, the opera that had performed on their stage during the summer session. When Erik had finally taken more than a breath to go over and correct his own musical score, his head lifted in interest, his gaze swinging back at his reluctant house guest. Like a bee to pollen, a moth to a flame, he left his perch and slowly made his way silently down the stairs to where she sat. The woman could have been asleep for all she moved, save for the evidence against the contrary: her humming.
Rather than disturb her, he sat cross-legged an arm's length behind her. A few stray locks of her hair fell between the bars, and his fingers itched to be free of his gloves and touch what he was sure would be as soft and smooth as silk, given how it shone in the candlelight. His mind searched to find something in nature with which to compare the unique color of those tresses: the sun's first rays hitting the windows of the cathedral, the amber tinged heart of a sunset rose, the delicate wings of the summer butterflies that occasionally drifted high enough for him to see from the roof of the opera. It wasn't quite as bright as copper, but just as warm. No, nothing, he decided, even came close. Instead of wasting the magical moment on puzzles, he went as still as the statues that stood about the room and listened with all the rapt attention of a disciple to Christ. He hung upon every note.
Her pitch was perfect, and her notes were clear. And there was one more thing that laced the notes that most of the professionals above stairs were missing: she had joy, and passion. Most of the women who trod the boards above sang because they knew they were good, because they loved to have an audience adore them and shower them with praise and flowers. But this girl – no, woman, he amended, for she was more grown up than he had supposed at first glance – offered her music with more conviction than any prima donna or ingénue.
Carefully, silent as a spirit, he unfolded himself to kneel directly behind her, and trembling hands reached shyly for her shoulders while his breath was held in the confines of his lungs, afraid to release it lest it break the tenuous spell that had fallen over them. Do not scream; please do not scream. Even still, oblivious to his presence or not, the angel hummed. His thin lower lip was drawn between his teeth and held tightly, almost enough to draw blood, until his hands finally settled on either of her slender shoulders, sliding downward to cup her upper arms. The humming immediately ceased.
"Don't stop," he whispered against her hair, close enough to smell whatever preparation she used in her last bath. Orange blossoms, he detected, and he dipped his head toward hers to inhale deeper. It was almost intoxicating, being this close to a woman, close enough to smell her, to feel her, with her full knowledge and without all the screaming and sobbing he had encountered in the past.
She'd sensed his presence a split second before his hands closed around her shoulders, and it took everything in her to keep from flying across the cage, and even more of an effort not to flinch beneath his touch. Not because she was frightened of him... well, perhaps she was a little... but because it was the simple closeness itself that unnerved her. After almost two decades of abuse at the hands of people who were supposed to care for her and protect her, having anyone close enough to touch her sent her flight response surging to the surface. It was an unfounded fear – like the dark, and her aversion to being shut in small, tight spaces – but there was little she could do about it. The only thing keeping her sane in her prison was the fact that she could see how spacious the cavern was beyond and could feel the coolness of the air in the space; it didn't feel like she was shut in a tight place. An illusion of safety, from the master of illusions himself.
She breathed out and willed her frantic heart to slow even as it rebelled and raced faster.
"Continue," came the order from behind her, the words rather curt in their command. As if realizing it and regretting his tone, he added a soft, "Please?"
"I... I don't remember any more," Ang argued, frozen in place. "I've never been good at singing. I didn't even realize I was doing it. My co-workers always told me to shut up," tumbled her excuses, one after the other.
Erik didn't comprehend this 'shut up', but he could well guess. "Imbéciles," he muttered, shaking his head. His touch slowly traveled from her shoulders down her arms to her elbows and back up again. His thumbs traced light circles against her arms as his hands kept her close, the bars separating them practically forgotten. "Regardless of what others have told you, I am telling you I would like to hear you again," he stated plainly, dropping his voice to a lower pitch meant to ease her apparent anxiety.
Ang only trembled and shook her head, tugging the folds of the blanket a bit closer, discomfiture overtaking the peace she'd felt moments before.
Biting back a growl at not getting his way, he stood quickly to his feet and paced away from her. Granted, his skills as a host were beyond rusty and perhaps he wasn't the most well versed in conversation, but was his request really that difficult? She'd already been doing it! His hands clenched and unfurled over and over, rage boiling close to the surface at his demand being rejected.
She heard him and peeked over her shoulder, watching as he stalked the floor like an irritated lion.
"Monsieur? Could I... Could I please have something more to eat?"
He stopped abruptly, and his gaze snapped back to her face in silent study.
Ang willed herself not to fidget under the intense scrutiny, hands fisting the blankets tighter.
"Why should I give to you that which you desire, when you deny me?" he finally questioned.
She blinked, mouth falling open.
Erik straightened and actually smirked. His arms were folded across his chest, body pivoting to face her full on. "You will sing, or you will starve."