The pressure on his shoulder might not have bothered him, but his sleep was as anxiety ridden as the wakefulness preceding the slumber. A chill runs down his spine. He can see his mask out of the corner of his eye…where he left earlier in the velvet-lined box.
How can he be so foolish as to remove the thing while she is here?
What has he condemned himself to now? Another person in his sanctuary means keeping his face covered. However much effort he placed into finding materials tolerable to the tender skin the mask was covering, nothing was truly suitable. Will he be able to live this way?
His current mask is made from a fine porcelain and structured to allow air to circulate beneath it, but the material itself has no pores, so when tense, the perspiration builds up and the pain becomes almost unbearable. He much prefers the simple fabric barbe masks. When he has his wig on, only his odd right eye is visible. But the thing is too obviously a mask and easily displaced by the slightest burst of air. The porcelain, in his eyes, makes him more attractive. More human looking and easier to conceal with his slouch hat.
Willing his heart to slow, he lifts his head slightly to be greeted by a rough tongue licking his nose. The deep sigh rising from his chest releases all the tension built up in his body and turns into a small chuckle.
"You quite startled me, young lady," he says, rising completely into a sitting position. After stroking the tuxedo's soft coat for a few moments, he picks up the mask. Wiping it carefully with a linen handkerchief, he dries the inside of the mask and dusts it with some corn starch, kept in a jar along with the mask in the box. Cringing slightly, he puts the mask on.
Uncertain of what Christine is about, he decides to bypass his usual cleansing ritual. After thoroughly washing his face, he applies a healing paste of the corn starch, letting it set for several minutes before rinsing his face clean, drying with a soft towel. Next he rubs his oils in followed by a final dusting of the powder to deal with any rashes he feels from the recent wearing. That will process must wait until her presence is accounted for and he is certain he will not be observed. He leaves the mask off as much as possible when in his sanctuary.
In many instances, when his skin is badly inflamed, he adds a bit of sulfur to his usual oils of cinnamon and myrrh, however, he tends to avoid the use of the mineral because of the odor. Once again he is torn because of his pain and how he smells might be off-putting to his guest.
Thankfully, she seems to find the cinnamon and myrrh agreeable.
"Isis, what am I to do?"
Isis cocks her head. Like Erik she wears a half-mask – her right eye surrounded in pure white. After a moment, as if considering his question, she walks across the keyboard, to nudge his hand with her nose.
"Do you think if I play softly, it would be acceptable?"
The cat jumps up and sits next to a candelabrum, studying him with her yellow eyes. Once again mirroring the man who rescued her.
The cries were so piercing, he quite believed a much larger cat was calling out to him from one of the drains servicing the lake. Steering the skiff toward the opening, he realized how wrong he was. The black and white kitten fit quite comfortably in his hand, once he was able to gather her up, trying his best to avoid the little needles in her paws as she fought with him.
"Where is your mother, little one, and how did you get in there?" Holding the lantern up to the drain, he sees no suggestion of any other cat or kittens. The mother must have been moving the litter along the ledges and somehow lost track of this one. Weighing the option of leaving her in the event the mother cat returns or taking him with him, he decides to bring her back to the house. If he was to have a home, he must have a pet, especially one who so resembled him.
Venturing out, despite the earliness of the day, he purchased a bottle of milk and some oats to make a gruel. As he was returning to the gate, he passed a shop advertising cat food. What a novel idea, he thought cats survived on rats and other vermin. Buying food to feed one never occurred to him.
Well, this little one was not of an age to be chasing rats, so on a whim he bought some of the boiled horse meat. Returning to the house, he chopped the meat into smaller pieces creating a pate, but she turned her little pink nose up at the offering. While his own sense of smell was lacking, he could not fault her refusal.
The oats boiled with milk was more to her liking and he was grateful he did not have to figure out a way to suckle her. The soupy mess was lapped up with enthusiasm. Perhaps fish might suit her better or some nice calf's liver could be added to her diet. For the moment, however, he was happy she was able to eat the porridge, even if her plaintive mewling a few hours later told him he would be feeding her often until she began eating more solid food to fill her stomach.
"Brava, Mademoiselle, I suppose I should be happy I am used to sleeplessness, otherwise, I might be miffed," he laughed, snuggling the ball of fluff to his cheek.
Adding to his satisfaction was finding she used in the box of sand he had set up for her elimination needs, although she still needed help cleaning herself, particularly her nether regions.
After a week of this routine, he was amazed at how well the little one began learning to take care of the basics on her own, with only a small amount of his assistance still needed.
Once Isis took up residence, he found no further issues with the rats that wander through the tunnels. The kitten also turned out to be wonderful company, listening to both his verbal and musical ramblings without judgment. The times he chose to sleep, she nestled in the crook of his neck. If reading, her preference was to sit on his lap. It was when he played the organ, she either nestled in her basket or, as now, lay on top of the organ.
"Very well, then, my dear, the music shall be a gentle piece, if my hands are cooperative, that is."
Circling a few times, Isis curls up to watch him play, falling quickly into a nap.
Pressing his long fingers on the keys, he finds he has not lost the ability to play. As promised, the song, if melancholic, is not filled with the often angry chords that tend to flow from him when working on "Don Juan Triumphant." After the long night, he finally feels a sense of peace and calm. His angst over Christine's presence in his home abated for the time being. Life is good.
Which way to go? Taking a step forward, to the right, she sees a sitting room softly lit with another mysterious lamp. Moving into the passage, to her left, she sees a doorway similar to the one she stands in. Farther down the hallway is more light, suggestive of candles and…she is not quite sure, but certainly there is music coming from that direction.
Organ music.
The melody is vaguely familiar, but not anything she heard her father play or what she has learned in the conservatory. This music is like what she heard when stealing away from the corps de ballet to grieve her father or to simply be alone.
In fact, there were times when she sought out the privacy of the dressing room hoping only to hear the strange music. For it was strange – at times painfully disharmonious – but always filled with life and passion. Pappa often composed his own pieces and this reminded her of him. Raw in many ways. Not quite perfected, just notes played from the heart.
Was this her Angel? Was it his music she heard those months before she met him. There is no doubt in her mind now that her Angel is a real man.
How she hopes this is so. A person – someone she can see. For so many months, his voice gradually became the one thing in life she looked forward to. The moments when he stopped being simply her mentor and became a friend were the happiest in her life for such a long time. She felt she could tell him anything and he would understand. The warmth of one of his rare laughs thrilled her. Every bit of loneliness of her situation evaporated when she was with him.
But if he is a man, then he has deliberately deceived you.
A pang of anger rises in her at her own argument. "There must be a good reason," she answers. Covering her mouth, she stops to listen. The music continues, he did not hear her.
"There is nothing wrong with talking to oneself."
It is a natural thing to do and if he is upset about you talking, perhaps he should not have brought you here.
"Stop. There is no reason to believe he is upset with me in any way."
Raoul.
"Raoul means nothing to me."
Liar.
"Well, I suppose I must find out then, must I not?" Straightening her skirt, and twisting the curls at her cheeks, now flushed a bright pink at her argument with herself, she continues down the hallway toward the sound of the music.
The room from last night – so she was not dreaming. There is more light now, the room less overwhelmingly black and dark. More of the windows with the strange light coming are interspersed between the rugs on the walls. Sadly, the "stars" are gone. Near the bookshelf is a large thronelike chair. Although obviously cushioned, she wonders how comfortable it is to sit in. A monkey sits next to the chair – certainly not a real monkey, but realistic enough to have her look twice. Ah, it is a music box, the winding key coming into view as she tilts her head to get a better look. What song does it play, she wonders.
Finally, her eyes find the organ with her visitor of earlier in the day sleeping comfortably as he plays. Her Angel. Her teacher, her mentor, her friend…a future lover, perhaps. Containing her excitement and the urge to call out, she pads quietly across the room.
Coming up behind him, she giggles just a bit, oh, how surprised he will be to see her and the joy in her eyes. That he does not need the silly mask – pretending the mask will convince her he is a real angel. Sees how happy she is he is a man. A real person. So very happy.
The scream is feral. Inhuman. The cry of a creature deeply wounded. The sound pierces her heart like a sword. What has she done?
When he turns around, she understands. Oh, dearest God in heaven, his face. The rage is palpable – she can feel the heat of his anger burning into her. What sort of hellish creature is this?
"Cursed woman!" he shouts rising from the bench, raising his hand as if to strike her. "How dare you violate me? Touch me?"
Run!
But where? The door. There is a door. They came through a door.
"Little beast. Eve, Delilah, Pandora all conniving creatures who could not leave well enough alone."
The rant continues in her attempt to avoid him. Where is the door?
"Are you happy now? Am I not handsome like your boy?"
Realizing she cannot escape him, any fight she had leaves her as she slumps to the floor, quaking in fear waiting for the blows she is certain will come.
Then as quickly as the eruption began, the room is quiet. He is quiet. Sobbing, his hand takes the place of the mask, covering the deformity, he falls on his knees not far from her. Raising his head, he takes his hand away and challenges her. "Is this what you wanted to see?"
Her eyes tightly shut; she shakes her head. Bile rises in her throat at the thought of facing him. If she looks, she is certain she will faint and then all will certainly be lost.
"Look at me!" he demands. "You took my mask. You must want to really see what was covered. Did you think I wore it because there was beauty beneath?"
"I…I do not know what I thought," she stammers. "Not now."
"You did not think," he growls. "Well, am ugly…worse than ugly…loathsome is what I have been told over and over."
"I am sorry."
"You are sorry. How kind. How generous." The fight leaves him as tears form in the amber eyes. "I am called a devil for something I had no control over. Just someone who only wants to be normal. Someone to be accepted for himself. What heaven that would be."
"I truly am sorry." Keeping her head averted, she hands him the mask. "I did not wish to hurt you…in any way."
Breathing in sharply, he shudders as he takes the mask and puts it back on. "You know you must stay here now."
"But…"
"This is your home now," he says as much to himself or so it seems to her.
A novel idea? Was that not his plan when he brought her here? What now?
"Go to your room. I shall bring you something to eat and a tonic for your nerves. You have had quite a shock," he says, having regained his composure. Taking a closer look at her, he actually smiles. "You like the dress?"
She nods. "Yes. Everything is quite lovely. Thank you."
"There is a key in the lock of your door, if you wish to use it. I will knock when I bring your tray."
Her room? He will bring her food? She can lock the door? "I do not understand."
"Just do as I say," he replies, holding his hands against the sides of his head. "Just go. Now."
Without further ado, she rises from the floor and runs from the room back down the narrow hallway. The bedroom as welcoming now as it was earlier. "What does all of this mean?"
A mewling sound attracts her attention. Isis rubs her head against her legs. Bending down to scratch behind the cat's ears, she says. "Oh, little one, how I wish you could speak."
The kitty offers a soft meow in response, before skittering back down the passageway to the music room.
"I suppose I must deal with this myself. God help me."
