A/N: Thank you for the continued interest and reviews! :) And now…
XI
With barely concealed anger and frustration, the Count stared down at his uninvited guest.
Christine stared up at him with eyes, wide and uncertain, clearly startled to see him standing there.
Had she not been the one to knock on his door?
For endless days, as recently as mere minutes ago, the image of her face, of her voice had tormented his thoughts and set him at an irate pace from wall to confined wall. He had remained within his castle, working on endless diversions to purge all memory of her from his mind, just as he'd told her to do with him. And now, here she stood on his doorstep in the dark of night, looking so damnably innocent and beguiling and terrified.
Why the devil was she here?
She opened her mouth to speak, when the horse behind her gave a sudden loud, anxious whinny and wild toss of its head, trying to wrest itself from her hold.
Erik glanced toward the beast, unsurprised by the horse's reaction.
"Mist – calm down." Christine struggled to retain her hold on the bridle. "What's wrong with you? Oh, please, calm down."
If anything, the horse grew more agitated, wrenching its head harder in its desperation to free itself. And though the young woman valiantly struggled to calm the beast, using every bit of strength her small gloved hands and slender arms would give, her efforts were futile, as was her hold. The horse broke away with another crazed whinny and shot for the trees as if a predator were nipping at its heels.
"My horse!" Christine exclaimed, turning her eyes from the fleeing beast and back to Erik. "Oh, what am I to do now?"
"Tell me – why are you here? Again, in the dark of night. Again, wandering alone." He drew a step closer, knowing full well his intimidating effect as her eyes widened even larger. "Have you a death wish, mademoiselle?"
She blinked up at him but held her ground. He noticed the quiver of her lip and the tears that glossed her eyes. The manner in which she tightly clenched her hands together in her skirts bespoke her agitation.
"I need your help," she said quietly, her words forceful.
She spoke so bravely, though her fear was palpable, and he felt an odd twinge high beneath his ribcage. He could not leave her standing there on his doorstep, looking so lost and alone - that much was apparent. Despite knowing he should not receive her presence, he opened the door wide enough for her to enter his domain.
"Come."
With no other sane choice, Christine entered through the doorway, watching as he closed the huge iron-studded door and dropped a heavy wooden bar into place. A little thrill of – fear? excitement? nervousness?- surged through her at the sight and sound. He swept past without a glance in her direction, and she followed, noting with surprise that they walked through an enclosed courtyard. Shorter buildings stood on either side of the pale stone edifice to which he led her, a monolith that towered before them. Two large stands with shallow bowls of fire shed dim golden light over the area and edged the foot of the three wide stairs.
He led her up them and through an equally set of wide doors – into a dimly-lit entry hall. Here, hooks were mounted to the rock walls, and suspended from two of them hung his cloak and his hat. A suit of armor such as a knight would wear stood in a far corner and ahead was another corridor leading into another chamber. There, she caught a glimpse of a stairway. Instead of walking toward it, they turned into a nearby corridor and walked on a short distance into a massive chamber that she thought must be the castle's equivalent to a manor parlor.
The furniture here was sparse and heavy, elaborately carved, the predominant colors of the room dark, chiefly black with splashes of startling crimson. A hearth stood in the middle of one wall, so high, she could step over the iron grille and walk inside it without the need to bend over. Exquisitely carved, the mantelpiece was rimmed with grey plaster and rock, the hue of the floor repeated in the irregular flagstones. Two rugs of plush fur lay spread in relief before the hearth and further into the room. Besides twin candelabras that flickered on two narrow tables at opposite ends of the high walls, the roaring flames from the open fireplace were the sole light in the room.
The spacious chamber was both captivating and intimidating, like its master.
He motioned to the solitary chair that stood close to the fire, as if its owner sought warmth. Christine slipped onto the high wide seat that resembled a throne. Nervously, she clasped the carved arms of ebony wood, her fingers wrapping around their graceful scrolls, hoping to disguise the tremble in her limbs. She shook as much from the damp and the cold as from her distress.
He stepped away, to one of the tables, and she heard the sound of liquid sloshing into a glass.
Her eyes lifted above the hearth, to the overmantel and a tapestry of red and gold that hung on the wall. Flanking each side were embroidered swords, crossed at the blades, much like the actual ones that hung on the wall on each side of the cloth. Her attention was captured by the coat of arms in the center – what she could see of it appearing to be a three-headed dragon amid twining roses that curled along scrolled edges…
Suddenly a proffered glass came into her line of vision. She accepted the drink, taking a small sip of the golden liquid that held a sharper bite than the brandy she had taken on the rare occasion. The burn aggravated her throat, even biting through to her nose, her eyes watering. She pressed her fingers to her neck, futilely to trap the unavoidable short coughing spell. But the acrid tonic flowed through her blood and warmed her to her toes.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The Count moved around the side of her chair to stand in front of her. He held no glass and crossed his arms over his broad chest in demand. It was then she became strongly aware that he wore no frock coat or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves voluminous and tucked into dark narrow trousers. His raven hair was mussed, as if he'd run a tense hand through the fine strands more than once, and from beyond the sockets of his leather mask the fire that raged beside them was repeated in his eyes. Eyes that burned in demand.
He quite literally took her breath in a mix of awed fear and utter captivation.
"Now tell me, Miss Daaé, why are you here."
Reminded of her mission, she regarded him with urgent eyes.
"There is a man out there – in the forest - hurt and lying on the side of the road. His horse appears to have fallen on top of him."
When he made no move in alarm, not even the flicker of an eyelash in empathy or a wince of remorse, she stared at him in confusion.
"Did you not hear me? There's a man-"
"I heard." His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade. "And what is that to me?"
What is that to me?
"He needs your help!" she said incredulously and felt the need to elaborate the urgency. "He is badly injured, lying helpless. He may well die -"
"With such injuries he is likely dead as we speak. And if he has managed somehow to escape the ferryman, doubtless Charon will find him soon."
She blinked in stunned disbelief at his callous disregard.
"You cannot possibly know that he is dead or that he will soon die! We must help him, to see that does not happen. At least we must try!"
"Must we?" His soft words held a note of derision. "By allowing fate to take its inevitable course, you may well be doing the feckless traveler a favor to let him expire in peace, rather than to live out his days in a pall of misery, as he surely would if his injuries are as grave as you consider."
Christine could not believe what she was hearing.
"What kind of monster are you?" The quiet words escaped her lips before she was fully aware of their existence, but by the narrowing of his eyes he had heard quite well.
"I am a realist."
"No, monsieur. What you are is cruel."
She set the glass on the stones and pushed herself from the chair, with the intent to walk past him and back to the entrance. He grabbed her by the crook of her arm, swinging her around to stop her, his hold firm above her elbow.
"Where the devil do you think you're going now?" he hissed.
"To find someone who's willing to lend aid since you obviously cannot be bothered." She lifted her chin in a weak attempt to stare him down, since he stood nearly head and shoulders above her. "Let go of me."
"And will you so foolishly walk along that stretch of dark road, as you no longer have a horse?" he clipped out, his jaw clenched. "I surmise it will take you at least three hours to reach the village, if you are not eaten by wolves first."
His dark caution brought back the night of the attack and pricked holes in her inflated bravado. She regarded him almost meekly, though the fire to persist never wavered.
"I don't suppose you have a horse you can loan me?"
"I do not."
She frowned. "You own a castle but don't own a horse?"
"My stallion is a wild and temperamental beast. Under your inexpert handling you would again be thrown from the saddle before you could exit the courtyard."
She gave a little wrench of her arm. He tightened his hold to prevent her escape.
"I cannot just stand here and do nothing!" she insisted. "There's a poor soul out there – in misery and in need! I promised to help, and I'll not break my word."
"You have yet to tell me the true reason that you are here, Christine Daaé!"
To hear her name again released from his lips, almost a desperate moan, struck her immobile at first, but not long enough to faze her intractability on what she considered a crucial matter.
"I told you. What is imperative is to find that poor man help. How will I live with myself if something happens and I was able to prevent it?"
Her parents had been snatched away from her by a freak accident – taken from her too young. Had there been someone nearby to hear their cries or lend them aid? Surely not, for if there had been, she would have been told and her parents might be alive today. She could not turn her back and ignore the horrid plight of another desperate soul. She could not…
"Let me go," she insisted more forcefully and took a step in retreat, again trying to pull away.
He grated his teeth and dragged her back to the chair, swinging her around and almost throwing her to sit on its thin cushion. She made again as if to rise, but he blocked her. He was lean of form but tall, with a strength she dare not cross. She pressed her shoulder blades to the chair's high back in nervous frustration and glared up at him.
"You will remain seated."
"Am I to be your prisoner then?" she asked half in bitterness, half in earnest. By the look blazing from his golden eyes, he would chain her in his dungeon or lock her away in one of his high towers.
"You might have had the temerity to venture into the void of darkness and then find your way to my castle, but while under my watch, you will not so recklessly make the endeavor to leave its gates."
Under his watch?
"After the attack made on you three short nights ago, I am frankly surprised by your rash behavior," he went on. "You may return to Montmarte, when it is again safe to travel."
Montmarte! In the shock of the evening, she'd almost forgotten her true reason to be absent, but had no wish to speak of such things now, and concentrated on the subject at hand. Something niggled at her mind.
"How did you know of the attack on me?"
He narrowed his eyes at her, seeming to take care with choosing his response. "Word spreads quickly in a village of such small stature, and the nights have not been kind to Berwickshire."
She gave a little shiver of what that implied. "Which makes it more imperative that we help him," she insisted. "He was quite frightened and mentioned a dread of more than one coming back. That's what he said – that they might return. Perhaps he was also attacked by wild beasts?"
She studied the Count's formidable stance as he pivoted to stare into the fire. The tautness of his shoulders, and the manner in which he clenched one hand that hung near his thigh showcased his irritation.
"Please, my lord," she said softly, her voice barely heard above the crackle of flames. "Do not refuse my request. Do this…for me."
Christine wasn't sure why she added the last words. She evidently didn't matter to him in the slightest, for him to cease all contact with her, but she had to try to spark at least a glimmer of the compassion of which she knew him capable.
He continued to stare into the fire a short eternity before turning his head to look at her.
"You will remain here while I am absent. Is that understood?
Her heart gave a little lurch of relief that he finally agreed. She didn't even mind his obdurate authority so much, or the dark manner in which he delivered the words.
"Yes," she said without hesitation, having no true desire to slip into the night a second time. Without a horse at her disposal any current escape proved impossible. She certainly was not so foolish as to walk to the village.
The Count left without another word, and Christine turned her attention to the fire, soaking up its warmth. She began to feel drowsy, now that she'd grown still.
His offer to remain had been one step shy of gracious…
But in this castle, with him, despite his confusing distance and unpredictable shifts of mood, she felt a measure of safety that reassured, even as it made no sense.
xXx
The moon lay hidden behind dense clouds, but the darkness of night presented no difficulty, his sharpened senses catching the odor of blood carried on the chill wind. He felt his fangs swell and prevented their emergence, an easy task since he had recently fed. Soon he arrived to the site of the fallen. His keen vision noted the faint glimmer of what the wretch held in his hand and the mode of his clothing.
A priest? She had sent him to rescue a bloody priest?
The Count growled his disgust as he dismounted, murmuring a few calming words when Cesar sidestepped and whinnied upon approaching the dead animal in the road. It had taken Erik some time to win the magnificent beast over to accept him as owner; and even still, on occasion the horse shied from the unnatural and the dead, requiring hypnotic persuasion.
He should depart from here with all haste and leave his foe to wallow in the mud and gasp his last fetid breath. He could tell Christine that by the time he reached the priest the fool was gone from this world. She would never know the difference. Yet the image of those haunting eyes, limpid pools of shimmering dark velvet moist with unexplained tears, imploring him to commit an act he once never would have considered, were all that kept him rooted in place.
From her near hysterical behavior, he knew she would take on the full burden of guilt for the loss of this mortal's life, no matter what tale the Count devised. Knew that such unjustified blame could cripple a sensitive soul like hers for a lifetime. Knew this, because he had suffered from his own vile experience of insurmountable guilt.
Why it should matter so strongly how this potential death would affect the woman, Christine, he did not care to speculate deeply. Had no wish to know, fearful he already did...
Erik exhaled another low growl, wishing to bury feeling as much as he wished to bury the wretch at his feet.
The fool lay insensible, and Erik hastened to act while he could still do so unnoticed. Effortlessly he lifted one edge of the dead horse and shifted it off the mortal's legs and to the side, as only a creature with his unholy power could manage.
He then kicked aside the relic that lay loosely within the priest's grasp. It was not the shape of the cross that could cause him injury, unlike those fool mortals thought, only weakness - but the silver of which it was composed would singe the thin layer of his sallow skin and burn through tendon and muscle.
With a smirk of disgust, he picked up the limp burden, slight in stature but weighty in complication, and slung him over the saddle. Mounting Cesar, he took the twisting path back.
Those dimwitted men aware of his kind foolishly thought his preternatural breed could alter in shape and fly like lightning across the sky. Would that he could and return to the castle more swiftly than at this unsatisfactory gallop. Using his vampiric speed would have meant leaving Cesar behind in the stable, and he could not have done that either. Not with the curious Miss Daaé so near to wonder how he had managed the task with such haste, even with a horse.
He had no wish to leave her in his castle any longer than required, nervous of what she might find there if she should decide to wander.
xXx
The fire soothed Christine in a blanket of warmth, to the point that she could barely stay awake, much less remain alert. Not wishing to be found asleep in his parlor when the master returned, she forced herself to stand on legs that still trembled from the challenging night. Stretching her hands high above her head then bringing them behind to clutch her hips and pop the kinks in her back, bending to one side and then the other, a trick she'd learned in ballet, she idly studied the wall across from her.
An arched entryway with no door led out of the room into what she assumed must be another chamber. Tentatively she approached, peeking around the rock.
The area was too dark, but she got the impression of a shape familiar, and curious, she took one of the candelabras from the table across the room, bringing it with her to investigate.
Astonished to see she was right but not overly surprised by the revelation, not after their interlude in the maze and his harsh criticisms of her voice, she looked with interest around the room with its showcase of instruments. Near a small hearth, this one cold and dark, stood the most magnificent grand piano of lacquered black wood upon which stood an unlit multi-branched candlestick.
She approached to plink down a key and then another and another, curling her fingers in a simple chord. Even with her amateur piddling she could hear the deep rich tones produced – an instrument of high quality, surely better than anything the opera house possessed.
She moved further into the room, toward a wall where an enormous golden harp rested and gently brushed her fingers along the strings, producing an angelic waterfall of lilting sound. A violin case sat propped on a low shelf, as did a row of other hard leather cases that she presumed contained diverse stringed instruments by their curved shape and long necks. Still other cases, slim and short, large and thick, and rectangular in shape, perhaps contained woodwinds and brass. Along the walls, equipment she assumed also musical from their stretched strings hung mounted, those seeming older, as if from another era or country or both. The castle room was a veritable storage chamber for all things musical, an expectant quality electrifying the air, as if at any moment a full orchestra would file inside and take their places. Never had she seen so many instruments, with such diversity, contained in one room. Even the opera house could not boast this excess of grandeur. Every instrument her eyes beheld by the light of the three candles was expensively crafted, exquisitely unique, and in all likelihood the top of the line.
Montmarte had no piano, no harp, no instrument for after-dinner entertainment. Save for the night of the ball, when the earl hired musicians, the manor had been bereft of music.
Up until this moment, she had not realized how much she missed it, how her soul craved to hear the sweet melodies, how much she missed the vibrancy and the strains of symphonies that had filled each of her days at the opera house. To her, music was as significant as air to breathe. And though these instruments lay quiet with no skilled hands to urge their song, even standing in their presence helped in some small way to fill the void.
She reluctantly made her way back to the entrance, not wishing for the Count to return and catch her there, while holding the candelabra aloft to light the way.
In the next moment a face appeared in the doorway, pale and drawn, and she gave a little yelp of alarm, almost dropping the candles.
"Why are you here?" the man asked, a ring of disapproval in his tone, his greeting not unlike the Count's.
Nervously she eyed the gaunt figure who stood slightly bent, his thinning hair gray and brushing stooped shoulders. He was taller, but even if he stood erect, she did not think he would attain the height of the Count. By the mode of his dark clothing, simple and formal, she assumed he must be a servant.
"I – the Count told me to remain until he returns," she said quickly. "He- he's out. Running an errand."
The dour servant said nothing, only stared, his dark eyes empty and hard as glass as they took in the candelabrum she held, then moved in narrowed regard back to her face.
It had not been her intent to intrude, but never had she been able to quell her curiosity. As a child, it led her into an abandoned chapel, against the rules, to seek out an angel. As a woman, it compelled her to peek into corners of this empty fortress, without permission, in search of what she could learn of the mysterious Count.
"Pardon," she all but whispered, thankful the entryway was wide enough that she could slip by the man.
She retraced her steps to the table, to replace the candelabrum, hesitating a moment before turning around. The stooped servant continued to stare at her with grave suspicion.
"Gregor!"
The Count's voice came in abrupt command from an outer chamber.
"I need you - at once!"
The servant broke his withering stare to hurry as he was able out the door through which the Count first took Christine. She let out a breath but gave no thought to remain, scurrying to follow while keeping a short distance behind.
In the chamber that acted as the foyer, Christine spotted the Count walk past and toward the chamber with the stairs, holding the priest slung over his shoulder.
"Take care of my horse," he told his servant, who, with a slight bow, left for the courtyard.
Christine ducked near the shadowed wall, to avoid the servant's gaze as he passed where she stood, then quickened her steps once she heard the door close. She caught up to the Count as he began to mount a wide staircase. The inert form dangling from his shoulder let out an anguished cry.
"They're coming," he rasped in terror. "God have mercy, they're here!"
"Silence," the Count darkly muttered.
Christine stepped forward, making her presence known. "He's alive then?"
He afforded her no more than an impatient glance.
"Return to the parlor. Wait for me there."
"But…" She ignored his directive, taking a step forward. "Should you not fetch a physician?"
"It is highly unlikely that he will live through the night."
"Should you not at least make the attempt?"
"Miss Daaé – the one physician that the village boasts of is old and decrepit and likely would not last the journey here in a fast-moving carriage."
"But -"
He resumed his steady walk up the stairs. "I will tend to him."
"I can help."
"It is not necessary."
"Oh - but really, I insist."
She paused at the foot of the stairs, again looking up at the limp figure of the man that hung over one shoulder of the Count's broad back. "I don't have extensive experience, but I can mop a brow and offer a drink of water."
"Saints preserve us," the priest mumbled. "They will kill us all."
Christine frowned with worry. "In my line of work I've seen bad injuries, even experienced a few of my own," she added when the Count only growled something indistinguishable - to the priest or to her, she wasn't sure. She felt beholden to this poor man of the cloth, even responsible, having sworn to him she would do all she could to help.
"Wait here for Gregor," the Count snapped before she could expound with her negligible abilities. "Tell him to bring hot water, a bottle of whisky, a clean white sheet, and my case of remedies. Have you got that?"
With little choice but to fulfill his wishes, reminding herself this was not her home, but his, Christine nodded and waited while the Count took the injured priest up and to the right where another set of stairs led to a second landing. A third set of stairs paralleled the steps the count took, rising to the left.
The layout was oddly similar to the ballroom stairs at the opera house, replete with golden statuary on each side of the first staircase - these not of bare-breasted women but barely clad all the same and also Greco-Roman in design. She watched his ascent carefully, craning her neck as the staircase made a turn and he disappeared into one of the many chambers.
What seemed an interminable amount of time later, the servant Gregor returned. Christine hastily passed along the Count's orders. The servant neither nodded nor spoke, but gave her another look of grim disapproval before shuffling off to see to his master's wishes.
Christine wasted no time in taking the staircase to the second landing where she had seen the Count go, a silent petition for the poor wounded man whispering through her mind with each hurried step. She didn't know why it should be so important for her to see that he was well cared for, but she felt it her duty. Perhaps because she was the one to find him. She arrived at the chamber and pushed open the door that stood slightly ajar. The Count bent low toward the man lying on his back on the bed. Hearing Christine's step, the Count quickly straightened and looked at her in question.
"Is he alright?" she asked.
The Count regarded her gravely. "His legs are not crushed as I first supposed, but his ankle is broken and he has a bad gash on his side."
"Oh, the poor man." She hurried to the other side of the bed.
At the stir this caused, the priest opened his eyes.
"Hello, do you remember me?" she asked, gently taking his hand.
A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his dark eyes. "You were on the road tonight…an angel sent to help me."
She smiled and her eyes briefly turned up to the Count, who studied them with a frown.
"You are in the castle of the Count cel Tradat. He has graciously lent his aid."
The priest turned his focus to the other side of the bed and the surly man in the mask towering over him. His brow grew slightly troubled but he nodded his thanks. After hearing whispers at the ball of why the Count presumably wore a mask, Christine felt she understood his obsession with it, if the rumors were indeed true that he was badly scarred. Though its presence did prove to be quite formidable.
"Can you tell us how you came to be like this?" Christine asked the priest.
"I …" He squinted as if trying to remember. "I was coming back from visiting a parishioner, delivering last rites, when a heavy fog came upon me unaware…"
Christine frowned at her recent memory of a similar situation, the night of the attack.
"I…" the man shook his head, "must have been riding too fast? The horse slipped, found a sinkhole in the road, I suppose, and fell, poor beast."
Christine shook her head in confusion. "You seemed apprehensive of someone out to do you harm – you said they were after you – that they were coming. Upon arriving to the castle, I heard you say much the same thing. That they would kill us all. Who is it that you were you speaking of? Are we in danger?"
He looked at her with the same amount of puzzlement. "My dear girl, I have no idea what you speak of. The only danger to myself was caused by my own negligence."
Christine blinked in confusion. "But you said - "
"Christine."
The sudden sound of her name coming as soft as velvet stunned her into silence. The edge of warning the voice held had her lift her eyes to its impressive owner.
"In all likelihood he hit his head, and what you heard was only vaporous illusions that stemmed from his mind in its unconscious state."
"But he was aware when I first came upon him - he pleaded for my help."
"Clearly he suffered from delusions brought on by the pain."
The patient abruptly shifted his weight and inhaled a swift hissing cry, jostling his swollen ankle and putting pressure on his wound. Further discussion on the subject was ignored as Christine smoothed her hand over the bony one she held, wishing somehow to make him more comfortable.
The Count watched in silence, not moving a muscle.
At last his servant appeared in the door and the Count approached, whispering further orders that Christine did not hear. Gregor nodded once, as the Count then took the requested items and the servant shuffled away.
The master of the castle immediately set to work, tearing the blood-soaked shirt open enough to get at the wound. He stared at the blood still seeping from the man's ribs with grim fascination; Christine felt queasy and needed to look away. She had seen injuries at the theater of course, even the bone protruding through a worker's leg when he miscalculated distance and fell to the stage, but this was the first she'd seen an injury so deep and so close.
While he never took his eyes off his work, cleaning the wound with the water, Christine could only offer intermittent glances. She pressed her fingertips hard to her lips, hoping to forestall the bile that rose to her throat.
"It will only get worse," the Count said, and she felt her hackles rise at the sardonic amusement in his tone. "Perhaps you should wait in the parlor, as I instructed."
She firmed her shoulders at his inference that she was some weak-kneed little ninny and forced her hand back to her side. "I am fine," she said with quiet confidence and repeated, "I wish to assist, however I can."
He offered no more than a lift of his brow, his mask shifting upward, before returning his attention to the deep, ugly gash.
"Do you know how to thread a needle?"
Christine clenched her fingers into a fist in her skirts, forcing herself to remain calm at the implication such a question presented. She felt a little faint with the knowledge of what would come.
"Yes."
He nodded to the small carved box that lay at the foot of the bed. "You will find the necessary items in the chest Gregor brought. Bring me a threaded needle and the bottle of whisky."
With fingers that trembled, Christine managed to get the thread through the eye after countless failures, knotted one end, then handed both whisky and needle to him. He unscrewed the cap and poured the golden liquid over the gash.
A bloodcurdling howl erupted from the bed. "Saints preserve me!" the preacher gasped, a stream of repetitions imploring the saints and God above to save him.
The Count baptized the needle and thread with a thin stream of whisky then handed her the bottle. "Give him this to drink to shut him up."
Christine frowned at his lack of compassion but did as directed. Thankfully, after another scream, their patient fell into a state of unawareness and the needle made its first prick into skin. At first, Christine thought she might faint at the sight of his long, slender fingers glistening with blood, dipping the needle in and out and sewing together the gash. But after a time, horror led to fascination with his skill as he swiftly accomplished the task, his stitches precise and even, as if he'd done this sort of thing before.
She lifted her eyes to the black mask covering the two-thirds she could not see of his expressionless face. Not for the first time she wondered what kind of man it hid. Had he once held aspirations of becoming a surgeon and studied in the field, his exalted station in life perhaps denying him that dream?
As if aware of her heightened curiosity, he spoke, never taking his eyes from his task.
"I have had the need to educate myself to excel in many accomplishments in my lifetime. Hand me the whisky and move the box closer."
She did so and watched as he made a knot of closure then poured whisky over his stitched work.
The priest let out a subdued moan of anguish. Christine wasn't sure in the shadows cast by the lambent light of the candles, but she thought she saw one side of the Count's lips flicker in a churlish smile.
"My lord?"
He tore a long cloth into strips and wrapped one around the man's exposed middle "It is most fortunate that he is again lost to his surroundings. The next part will be just as unpleasant."
She watched as he removed his muddy shoe. In three quick moves almost unmerciful, he placed his hands low along the limb and set the bone with a crack. Christine grabbed the bedpost, in danger of sinking to the floor as the priest let out another unholy yell.
The Count moved to the cold hearth and selected two sticks that lay near the ashes. Christine watched in amazement as he supported the weak bone, bracing the ankle with the sticks and wrapping the rest of the strips around them. Picking up what was left of the cloth, he wiped the night's gruesome work from his hands.
Christine looked at the priest, who lay with eyes closed, his face pale, but still breathing. They had done all they could; now it was up to the Almighty alone.
As the silence grew heavy, she lifted her gaze to the foot of the bed and those eyes that burned in gold.
"We will resume our discussion downstairs, in the parlor," the Count said, his voice mild but brooking no refusal. He threw down the cloth and swept his hand toward the door. "After you, mademoiselle…"
Her heart suddenly beating like a metronome, Christine meekly nodded and preceded him from the room.
xXx
A/N: Next up, the beginning of disclosures… ;-)
Thank you for the reviews!
