A/N: As promised, here is the website for the medieval Gimmel ring I based on the twin rings Erik gave Christine. :) scroll to see (and take the spaces out to copy and paste): (use the usual http URL - and the DOT should be: .) - withtheseringshandmade DOT com / history-of-wedding-rings/ …thank you so much for your reviews! (To the guest reviewers – no worries, I have no plans to quit this story or put it aside since interest is still strong. :)) And now...
Chapter XVI
The Count stood within his massive bedchamber, the scope of which he'd spent years perfecting to meet his eccentric requirements. Though daylight was not truly an issue for him, thick drapes of ebony velvet blocked out all of Apollo's errant rays. Beneath the enormous four-poster he'd crafted to fit his height was concealed a means for escape, and within the clothes cupboard a hidden door at the back concealed bottles of the sustenance he needed to remain alive.
A strange term of phrase for one long dead…
He retrieved one of the wine bottles from its cool containment, the thick stone walls of the castle keeping chilled the liquid that had been replaced within. He preferred his blood warm, from a living female vessel, and had on occasion also indulged in carnal pleasures once his thirst was sated with his compelled victim. But he had dispensed with the latter method decades ago and rarely imbibed in the former. It was to his misfortune that there were only so many of the reprobate scum in this district who deserved his dark brand of justice. With them there had been no compulsion; he had drained the fiends of every ounce that engendered their contemptible breaths…
A change of venue would be welcome.
Erik finished pouring his meal into a glass and tipped it to his lips, as if sampling a fine wine. The comparison was ludicrous. He threw back his head and downed the glass, not wishing to extend the moment. This sacrifice to his existence held a gamey flavor – a middle-aged ruffian who never bothered to manage his health, no doubt. It was unsurprising. Felons were often deficient in their eating habits, and wastrels with all that ailed them. It was rare that he received a vintage with a pleasant taste …
And a slayer's blood was to a vampyre what ambrosia was to the gods.
The stem of the crystal goblet snapped between fingers and thumb.
"Master, you summoned me?"
Erik turned his attention to Gregor, who hurried forward to swoop up the broken bowl of the goblet from the tapestry rug and held his hand out for the jagged stem. Erik handed it over.
"I shall retrieve for you another goblet –"
"There is no need. I've had my fill." Erik moved toward the cupboard and plucked up a cloth there, wiping the blood off his fingers from the cut that had already healed.
"I have need to speak with you, Gregor. I will be leaving for Paris tomorrow and require you to make the necessary arrangements."
"You are going alone, milord?"
Erik did not miss the disdain in that one word.
"The Countess will be joining me."
Gregor's face was a study in weary disgust. "Will you satisfy my curiosity on one matter?"
The man was nearing seventy and had been loyal to Erik since Gregor was a lad of twenty-seven, new to his role and eager to please. Erik supposed he was the closest he had to a friend, and for that reason, ignored the disapproval rife in his tone.
"Proceed," Erik said, inclining his head in permission, his golden eyes glittering a warning.
"In all the decades I have known you and the centuries of history I was taught, you never once took a bride. Nor were you ever inclined to. This woman you have known little more than a fortnight - and are wed to her to stop an alliance that has nothing to do with you..."
"I sense there is a question amid the unnecessary reconnaissance into my life," Erik said somberly, crossing his arms over his chest. "You have yet to express it."
"It is only this – why have you done this thing?"
"I have my reasons." It was all he would give.
"Master," Gregor went on, "I sense this is a mistake. She cannot be trusted. I caught her near the locked door of the corridor leading to the kitchens."
Erik pulled his brows together. "Did she see?"
"No, I managed to stop her and divert her interest to going into the village. Her first stop was the vicarage."
Erik grimaced. He could hardly forbid Christine to go there without arousing suspicion; and there were other chambers more damaging he would not wish found.
"Let her see."
Gregor jerked his grizzled head, taken aback. "What?"
"If she again shows interest in what lies beyond the locked door of the chamber, let her see. In fact, leave it unlocked."
"Is that wise? Surely she does not… you have not told her who you are?"
"Do you not mean what I am?" Erik corrected dryly. "The secret remains between us, as it always must. That room holds nothing that would arouse her curiosity or suspicion, unless she looks too deeply, and it is doubtful she would. There is little on the surface to stir interest."
"This can only end badly," Gregor gruffly remarked. "You should arrange a bill of divorce and send her away."
"She is and will remain my Countess," Erik countered, his patience wearing thin.
"But Master-"
"Enough!" He struggled to control his temper as he had been forced to control all else. "I allowed you permission to speak, in respect to the service you have afforded me these many years, but I will not hear detrimental words spoken against Christine, not even from you. Now…" He visibly relaxed tense muscles and attempted a nonchalant smile. "It has come to my attention that the castle needs a cook. Your efforts did not go over well, and I will not see my bride starve."
"It is not my area of knowledge, milord -"
Erik held up a hand to forestall his apology. "I do not bring up your lack of culinary expertise to condemn you, Gregor. Your niece, is she still unwed?"
Gregor nodded, catching on. "Mihaela? Yes, from my sister's last letter, she is available."
"Excellent. I will go tonight and bring her to Castle Dragan."
"It is an honor to serve you these many years. She, too, will be grateful." Gregor hesitated, clearly loath to continue. "I think it would be wise also to bring Anton. He has been groomed for these past five years, to take my place –"
Erik looked at him, aghast with disbelief. "Tell me you do not intend to leave me and put that boy in your role? He is not yet twenty!"
"Never, milord, would I leave your side of my own freewill. My family has but one purpose and has throughout the generations - to serve you, our master. But I am not immortal, and I feel the age of decades creep heavily into my bones. I fear I will soon no longer be of use to you."
The Count wanted to argue the point, but the ravages of time were their own proof. Gregor grew more stooped with each year, his reflexes no longer quick, his mind not always alert. Trust wasn't an easy issue for Erik; it had taken him nearly two decades to believe Gregor's full loyalty, and he had no wish to initiate another servant into his household. Though all of Gregror's family was trained in their inherited roles, they each had individual freewill. It was tempting to turn his servant, eternally to serve him, but that went against the oath taken by their kind. And though, even then, the Count alone had the power to circumvent such rules of which he often scorned, Gregor was indeed old. To consign him to eternity at this stage would be a punishment, one he did not deserve.
Erik sighed at the bitter understanding. "Very well. If Anton is indeed ready, he can be to you an apprentice." In a rare display of masculine affection, he clapped a hand to Gregor's shoulder. "If it is your wish, when the time comes that you no longer feel capable, you may return to our homeland to live out your last years among your family. Now go; make preparations. We leave for Paris by rail tomorrow afternoon."
Gregor nodded once, and left.
Erik slipped on his frock coat and secured his cloak around his shoulders. He wished to return before daylight broke across the land and Christine could awaken, again to question his absence at the castle. Never had he thought anyone would care to inhabit his presence, but she'd been different…since the night of Samhain…since the morning he met her as a child…as Lotte.
Always she had sought to be near him, a blessing and a curse, and he strictly reminded himself of why the latter would never cease to apply.
xXx
Christine sat at the long table, again alone, the offering of fruit at least palatable, the leavened bread no doubt purchased from the baker in the village. From high rectangular windows cut into stone, rays of morning sunlight cut swathes of white beams across the dark furnishings of the long, narrow chamber, glinting off the gold candelabra of unlit wax tapers.
She rested her forearm on the table and lifted her hand to allow the edge of one of the rays to deflect off the joined rings. Gold and gemstones flashed in splendor, the dragon near the rose almost seeming alive by the tiny glint of its ruby eye, and within the main locked jewels she thought of the babe and the skeleton, life and death.
Such an elaborate ring, one so ancient, must be worth a small fortune, and it unnerved her to wear it. Not because she regretted her platonic union to the Count; no, she understood the good fortune in that. But she had never worn anything of true value – and this was a museum piece! A family heirloom hundreds of years old…
She never heard him, only sensed him, and turned her head to the north entrance, looking past the shafts of slanted light and to the shadowed recess where he stood just outside the chamber. She fought back any unwanted apprehension. For better or for worse, their lives were joined, and she wished for whatever mode of companionship he would offer. Solitude was not a cloak with which she was familiar, not when she did not choose to wrap herself up inside its folds.
"Won't you come in and join me?" she invited.
It was a moment before he replied. "Alas, I cannot. I have matters to attend. I came to tell you to make ready. We leave for Paris in an hour."
x
Storm clouds raced dense and gray, flickering a stream of shadows along the withered meadow to the east and blotting out a weak sun. The most distant clouds loomed darker, illuminated with sporadic lightning, and Christine peered out the carriage window, anxiously wondering if they would make it to the train station before the deluge hit.
Her daunting companion had not said a word since they left Dragan Castle. Daunting, in that he never once cast a glance at the passing countryside, instead fixing his golden eyes, never wavering, upon her. She hoped the ride wouldn't last much longer and prayed that opposite seats would not be presented on the train. Though the thought of sitting beside him on a bench, pressed against his side, provoked a different rhythm of butterflies cavorting through her middle.
Finally, she could take no more and allowed the curtain to fall back into place. Lines of daylight edged the black velvet, dimly lighting the interior. His eyes glowed in that small darkness.
"Would you mind not staring so?"
His lips flickered into a fleeting smile, then settled back into their impassive lines. "To be looked upon so steadfastly can be rather unsettling, can it not?"
Warmth flushed her face at his words that stirred the memory of her own breach in civility. She had stared at him, and often, on the first occasions of meeting him. And though she would never admit it, when he fixed his attention elsewhere, seemingly oblivious to her, she still did.
"I suppose that's fair," she surrendered. "I haven't been exactly blameless."
"Hardly fair," he said, surprising her. He motioned to his black mask. "You have this monstrosity on which to dwell, while I have the privilege to look upon one of the most beautiful women to grace this kingdom or any other."
His words came detached in presentation, ancient, as if from another epoch of time; but their composition sent pleasurable tingles to ripple along her skin. She had received many a compliment in the past, yet to hear him say such words affected her in a way they never had before.
Since he brought up the subject, she dared to probe a little further.
"You never did tell me why you wear a mask." She held her breath upon hearing her long-curious words given sound.
He looked at her, unblinking. "No, I did not."
Similar to the night she questioned him in the maze, no more was forthcoming; nor did he seem angry.
"Were you injured?"
"My dear, there is a reason I choose not to speak of such things."
He said nothing more and with grudging surrender she yielded to his wishes. That the mask concealed some physical malformation, perhaps burns, was evident. There were times when he engaged in a burst of activity that the mask slipped the barest fraction - enough to glimpse the slightest streak of abnormal, puckered skin of a reddish hue and not the bone-white of his uncovered features - before he moved away or quickly adjusted the leather back into place.
She changed the subject to one more general. "Was the seamstress very upset to lose her order?"
The mask inched slightly upward, testimony of a lifted brow. "After her ill treatment of you, I am surprised you would care."
"She never allowed for introductions, thinking me only a penniless wayfaring wanderer, I suppose. I wasn't pleased with her attitude, no, but I wouldn't wish for her and especially the girl Circe to suffer unduly…" She was going about this badly, she realized in the narrowing coldness of his eyes. She didn't think the Count would actually harm two helpless women, not physically, but his tongue could be barbed and draw blood.
He studied her a moment before responding. "Madame Declan has been informed that her services are no longer required. She will not again be so swift to judge on appearance alone."
His words were thick with…offense? Disgust? That he was upset with her was evident.
"I never meant to imply that you would actually hurt them."
"Did you not?"
"No. You have saved me again and again after I made reckless choices. I could never think such a harsh thing of you."
Another length of awkward silence staggered them, and Christine softly wrung gloved hands in the lap of her skirts.
"Have you been to Paris?" she inquired, landing on a subject she felt safe.
The golden eyes never seemed to blink. "Many times."
"And did you visit the Opera House?"
"Of course." Before she could ask if he had been there recently, wondering if he might have happened to see her dance, he added, "It has been awhile since I last attended. Does Signora Palozzini still grace the stage?"
"No, she left years ago. Another Italian singer, La Carlotta, took her place."
"The Carlotta?" he scoffed. "Sounds rather pretentious."
"Oh, she is," Christine responded without thinking.
He darkly chuckled. "Indeed?"
Realizing she was being uncharitable and not one to delight in gossip, Christine shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Why, if it's the truth?"
"It was unkind, and that's not who I am - or at least, who I try to be."
He considered her another long moment, making her fidget. "No, you're not, are you," he mulled quietly. "In truth, I have never known a maiden quite like you. So, tell me my Countess, what makes you so unique to others, who care not a whit for anyone but themselves and what intrigues in which they may partake?"
Her heart tingled to hear him address her as his countess: indeed, what she was, even though the verity of their marriage being genuine was false. At the same time she wondered if all his words should be taken as a compliment or if within lay buried an insult. With the level tone of his silken voice, it was difficult to tell. She decided to take them at face value and prolong the conversation.
"I told you of my Angel of Music," she began tentatively. She would never have spoken of that time in her past had she not already mentioned it; she still felt discomfited to speak of such things and admit her gullibility.
The Count seemed to tense, his narrowed eyes the only outward sign that he'd heard her.
"I also told another, my dearest friend, Meg, shortly after he left me. I told her everything of that time shared and thought I'd spoken in confidence. But we were overheard by two of our peers, girls who took pleasure in speaking ill of others – and I became their latest victim. Soon, every dancer in the theatre learned of my late night meetings with my supposed Angel, who I then thought a true celestial being and expressed my feelings to Meg as such. Among the labels I was given, "dotty" and "having bats in the belfry" were two of the spiteful things whispered about me or spoken to my face. I was treated as if I wasn't fully sane, seeing fantasies that weren't there and warping illusions into real life. As the years passed and we all grew older, the name-calling ebbed, but I never formed close attachments with anyone but Meg. Having had dirt slung at me through cutting words, I prefer not to sling dirt at others. Even if the words are deserved."
She shrugged in half embarrassment, uneasily drawing a comparison to the deranged members of the Van Helsing line. Had she also been a little mad to believe? Is that why she had been susceptible to an Angel's voice? Lucy heard faeries and Christine heard angels - only one - but what if it had all been in her mind too?
"You should not have been made to suffer for his sins," the Count said at last, his deep voice soft and pensive.
His sins? Her Angel of Music's sudden and inexplicable desertion had wounded her, most certainly, but she wouldn't call his choice a sin. She simply hadn't been good enough.
Or...more alarming...perhaps he had never truly been there at all.
Briefly she closed her eyes to the idea. She could not continue to think like this or she would drive herself mad!
Further conversation ceased as the carriage reached their destination. Gregor drove the horses further to some predetermined point, and Christine focused attention to the platforms of the busy railway station. Passengers moved to and fro in a whirlwind of activity, the stout wind pushing some of them forward while impeding the procession of others.
Each day was like that wind, the level of success dependent on the choice of direction taken. Sometimes it came together with ease, pushing one along as the minutes breezed by swiftly; other times it acted as an obstacle, making it nearly impossible to reach a chosen destination. With the Count, she often felt that she was pushing forward against an obstacle she couldn't see or define, attempting to head into a gale-force wind that only blew her back in retreat and impeded any progress made. Even simple conversation came stilted of late, the walls he put up endless.
Once they exited the carriage, they did not weave through other passengers or join in long lines or even traverse the platform. The Count led the way to a railcar at the back of the train, ignoring the ticket counter. In confusion, Christine watched as he took the wide gap up from platform to first step with ease, and then to the second, turning and holding out his hand to assist her. She followed him up the three remaining and turned left at the door, into the interior.
Her eyes widened at the sight. That this place belonged to this man was patently obvious. The gothic décor of scrolled black ironwork matched furnishings she had seen at the castle. The predominant colors inside the rectangular room were of deep plum and ebony, with splashes of crimson all around. But if neither of these suggested ownership, the tapestry on the wall of the cel Tredat shield, with the swirling roses around the dragon, cinched it.
"This is yours?" she asked in quiet astonishment.
"I am a primary investor in Midland Railway. As a shareholder I made one stipulation in lieu of funds – that of my own private railcar, always ready for my use. I do not do well traveling among strangers…I trust it meets with your approval?" he said with a modicum of amusement when she only gaped at him, speechless.
Christine blinked. "Yes, quite lovely." She had been told he was possibly the wealthiest man in Berwickshire, he owned a castle for pity's sake, but she had never imagined the extent of his riches. It both unnerved and amazed her.
She set the cloth knapsack with the entirety of her belongings, carried in one hand, down onto the plush sofa – the structure wide and firm, upholstered with soft velvet. Gas lamps were bracketed in black filigree holders to the walls on each side of four curtained windows and near the sofa and two chairs. At the back of the oblong room stood a pair of carved mahogany doors behind a short bar, and exotic carpeting covered the floor. Even the gold ceiling was opulent, carved in intricate design, reminding her of the theatre lobby. A luxuriously outfitted railway car, it did not skimp on comforts, containing a small hearth of black marble. Beyond the grille, a fire lowly burned to provide warmth. Clearly the car had been prepared for its master, a message likely having been sent ahead to expect him.
"I recommend taking a seat before the train pulls out, if you do not wish to lose your footing," he advised, doffing his fedora, gloves, and cloak and tossing all three to one of the chairs. "Would you care for an aperitif?"
"No, thank you." She sank to the heavy, upholstered chair nearest her and curled her hands at the end of the scrolled armrests. He took the chair opposite.
At first Christine feared he would sit and stare at her as he had in the carriage, and she exhaled an inaudible breath of relief when he pulled a book from his carpetbag and settled back, crossing his legs in relaxed elegance and looking every inch the aristocrat. He opened the cover and held the book aloft so that it obscured his view of her.
Deciding to do likewise before the train went into motion, Christine hurried to grab her knapsack, also removing her cloak and draping it over the sofa. She then returned to the chair, darting a glance the Count's way to see his book had not moved.
Unknotting the cloth, she selected her ancestor's journal, having packed it as a way to pass the time. She still thought the sightings and warnings no more than absurd fantasy, though the narrative did contain a level of entertainment, mild due to the fact that this drivel came from her family, her blood, still disconcerting to realize.
The train gave a sudden alarming lurch before moving forward, and Christine noticed then that the bottom of the chair legs sat in shallow hollows of the carpet, designed so that they would remain stationary during travel. The black velvet curtains were closed over all windows, as they had been in the carriage, but the gas lamps provided enough light to read by, and she opened to the last page where she'd left off at Montmarte:
I have tracked the abysmal demon to a cave by the river. Three hours remain of daylight but the monster will not yet show himself; the sun would incinerate his flesh and leave him as naught but ashes if he should attempt to leave the caverns and attack before night falls. And so I wait, for if I must choose darkness to put an end to his reprehensible deeds against humankind, let it be on the turf with which I have become familiar and not in the winding hollows of a dark cave with unseen drop-offs. His wicked thirst for blood shall not allow him to remain hidden and enclosed within what will assuredly become his tomb. If the beast has not yet fed, he will weaken and be easier to extinguish. The life is in the blood and Death must possess that life to exist...
Before moving to the next entry and the next page, Christine lifted her eyes above the open book and felt a startled jolt to see golden eyes likewise peer at her over the top edge of his.
"Oh," she breathed to realize he'd again been watching her.
"I do not recognize that volume as belonging to my library," the Count said, lowering his book to his lap.
"No…" She hesitated with what to say. "It's a journal."
His lips twitched beneath the black leather mask. "I did not presume you the type to keep a listing of your daily activities."
Too ashamed and embarrassed to admit what the journal truly contained or that the original bearer was a crazed ancestor, she lowered the book. "What type did you presume me to be? The type unable to write a full paragraph, without an intelligent thought in my head?"
He huffed a quiet chuckle. "I did not presume that your literary skills were limited to dance cards of pretense, no. I meant only that you seem the type to enjoy each moment of life as it presents itself, rather than waste what hours are given to look back upon the day's path and jot down each step of how you came to arrive there."
She closed the journal with a decisive snap. "You make keeping a journal sound quite dull and wearisome. I think it might be rather nice to record one's thoughts and experiences and have them as a memory to fall back upon."
"You think? Then you have not actually engaged in the pastime?"
Curse her rash tongue! "No, I mean I know, of course. Not only does it make a lovely source of reflection, it provides inspiring thoughts and considerations for future generations to ponder."
He surrendered with a genial and mocking incline of his head. "I stand corrected. If you should wish to jot down your inspiring thoughts and considerations, feel free to use the writing desk…" He motioned with an elegant wave of his hand to the far end of the rail car. "There should be a quill and a bottle of ink at your disposal."
Fidgeting with unease at her little white lie, Christine countered, "I think I will just read what I have written for now."
"I listen well, if you should wish to air your inspirations."
Merciful heavens – that was the last thing she wanted! She certainly couldn't admit her feeble duplicity and read to him the far-fetched lines from the ridiculous journal; nor was she certain she could create words out of nothing to relate her prior activities, or that she even wanted to. She had no desire to carry this little deceit further.
Finally, he offered a morsel of seeming companionship; she had no desire to throw the coveted gesture back in his face.
"Actually, I would like something to eat if it's no bother." Not having had a meal since breakfast, she hoped he had thought to bring along some food in that large carpetbag of his.
His eyes widened behind the mask, as if in revelation, and his sarcasm instantly evaporated. "Of course, my dear. How remiss of me! I will see to it at once."
Without another word he gracefully rose from his chair, quickly strode to the door, and exited the car!
x
Christine gasped in shock – surely he wasn't planning to jump off the train! – and hurried to follow, wrenching the door open. The swift motion of the locomotive created a high wind that whipped her hair and skirts into a frenzy. She squinted her eyes against the heavy gust. Through the door's window of the adjoining car, she spotted the Count's tall figure stride in retreat down the aisle of the empty car and realized he must have taken a wide step over the gap between railcars to reach it!
Her right eye suddenly stung; fitfully she blinked it as tears watered down her cheek. Pushing the door closed against the force of the wind, she returned to the safety of her chair, using one hand against the wall for balance. She heard rather than saw his return.
"Is something the matter?" his voice came to her from the distance of the door.
"Something blew in my eye when I looked outside," she said in pained embarrassment.
"Why would you do that?" His voice came close and she realized he had come to kneel before her, his steps characteristically silent.
"I wondered where you had gone." She half-shrugged in explanation. "I don't have any previous experience in train travel and didn't realize you could step over to the next car." Though it did seem dangerous on a moving train.
"You thought perhaps I had flown away?" There was no disguising the dry humor in his tone. "Here now, let me see."
"It does sound rather foolish when you put it that way. I was only curious." She shivered as his icy fingers slipped beneath her chin, turning her face toward him, while his other hand pushed back stray strands of hair from her eyes. "I – I can be extremely curious at times," her words faltered on a breath at his touch. "When curiosity itches at my thoughts, I tend to want to scratch."
A black silk kerchief appeared in his hold, and he dabbed at the corner of her eyelid. "More inspiring thoughts for your journal?" She hitched a breath as the silk gently scraped the white of her eye. "A stray cinder, nothing more," he assured and pulled the kerchief away. "Better?"
She nodded. "More like a flaw to share that you should know about me."
"Did your guardian not tell you that it can be dangerous to scratch in areas unknown?"
She felt a little foolish as he whisked the silk over the helpless moisture that had rained down her cheek. His admonition seemed a warning, his touch a blessing.
Her eyes lifted and locked on his, and she experienced a sudden shortness of breath to realize how close they were to each other. His eyes…such mysterious and beautiful pools of gold and fire rimmed in lashes so dark, and in that moment, she wished to pull the mask away, to see all of what he would not allow to be seen. To know and understand his mystery. Her gaze dropped to his lips, watching as they slightly parted, and she felt another lurch of her heart to remember their shape pressed so fully against hers. His skin, his touch was cold as death, but the breath that fanned her face was warm and sweet like wine...
She felt herself sway slowly toward him. In the next instant, he abruptly stood to his feet and turned on his heel, moving to the opposite chair. Startled by his swift departure, she watched him erect yet another wall ...
Erik faced the covered window, his back to her, sensing her wounded confusion. His eyes fell shut with the branded image of her dark, glistening eyes silently asking for his kiss. And, fool that he was to invite her into his home, into his life, he had almost yielded. It would be a mistake; it could be nothing more. Memory taunted to revisit their last and first true kiss, near the edge of the forest, the softness of her lips and eager warmth of her mouth not easily forgotten. Nor was the scent and feel of her skin ...
"A steward will be along shortly with supper," he announced. He needed to put his hands to something, needed to occupy his disloyal mind, and pulled out his violin case, retrieving the instrument and the bow strapped within.
"I trust you don't mind," he said curtly, turning slightly but not looking at her.
A pause then a soft, "No, I would love to hear you play."
He plucked the four strings, testing their tone, adjusting pegs, then brought the bottom curve of the violin to rest beneath his chin. Bringing the bow to glide across the strings, he commenced to play a sonata, one of hundreds he knew, allowing the rhapsodic music to soothe stretched nerves and provide a different outlet for his escalating hunger, to engage in the passion of creating flourishes and rhythmic notes that saturated the air and wove them into the world of its composer…
Halfway into the second movement of the fugue, the steward came with her supper, but Erik did not cease to play, giving no heed as the man arrived and left, on through the andante and finally, into the fourth movement of the lively allegro. Only then, did he look in Christine's direction.
She sat, supper untouched, mouth softly parted in wonder, her eyes wide and bearing a glimmer of curious …recognition?
Impossible! Never had he played Bach's compositions when hidden behind stone walls in the chapel, and seldom had he played for her during those three seasons he instructed her to sing. He closed the piece and lowered his instrument to address her.
"Is the meal not to your liking?"
She blinked as if coming out of a stupor. "I…no, it's not that, I…" She paused and shook her head as if to collect scattered senses. "You play so beautifully, with such mastery. It's easy to forget all else exists. You could belong to the orchestra at the Opera House; you are most certainly better than any musician there!"
Erik bowed in stiff gratitude at her effusive praise. The piece had been written early in the 18th century, indeed he had been at Cöthen court at the time Johann Sebastian Bach was employed there and completed the sonata; the violin, itself, had been created two hundred years previous to that, in the 16th century. With that much practice to hone his skill, it was little wonder that Erik excelled above those who could only claim a paltry forty years at best in playing what had often been alluded to as the devil's instrument.
Fitting that the violin was his instrument of choice.
Christine picked up her knife and fork to cut a slice of whatever fowl the dining car had provided. She suddenly paused in her task and looked up at him. "Are you not eating as well?"
"I dined earlier."
She stared a moment, as if trying to calculate when he would have had the chance, but did not question, cutting her baked bird into tiny portions, doing the same to the carrots and squash that accompanied it. He watched as she brought a tidbit to full, rosy lips, the flash of her white teeth nipping at the morsel, her lips slipping around the tines of the fork and slowly pulling it away. His breath elevated as he watched the mundane task become something utterly sensual. As softly she chewed, her midnight dark eyes lifted to his, uncertain and questioning…
He snatched the violin back to his chin and spun away, his fingers flying along the neck as he rapidly brought the bow to dance across the strings, engaging in another lively sonata.
xXx
A/N: Ah, Erik, when will you surrender to what you know must come to pass? ;-)... Are you enjoying their journey so far? Since he is centuries old, it made sense he would have all the wealth of the world to arrange for his own private car... I did as much research as I could find on travel patterns of those days, but if I erred (in the upcoming chapter as well, which is a fourth written), please forgive and hopefully enjoy anyway. Feedback welcomed and encouraged!
