Ch. 14— Quid Pro Quo
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"Ms. Daae, wake up. I have your dinner."
Christine's eyes flew open as she blinked blearily into the darkness. It was getting dark so early now. She looked at the alarm clock on her bedside table and read the time. Six thirty. He had let her sleep for three hours.
After her self-imposed lecture concerning her charge, Christine had unlocked the door and taken a shower: scrubbing herself viciously until she squeaked and shampooing her hair twice to cleanse it. And then she went back to her room, and collapsed on her bed in an exhausted heap, almost too tired to pull the covers over herself.
There was a knock once more on the door, and Christine heard the sound of a tray being sat gently on the floor.
He'd made her dinner.
Biting her lip, Christine crept from the bed, and opened the door the tiniest bit looking down. The tea tray held a bowl of steaming tomato soup, crackers, a book, and a pot full of tea. There was a note folded beneath the book in his crooked, barely legible handwriting. Opening the door wider, she peered out looking for him.
Mr. D'Anton was nowhere to be seen.
She listened for strains of the piano to let her know where he was; there were none.
The little cottage was silent.
Bending down, she grabbed the tray and brought it to her room, placing it on her bed. Had she ever taken a meal in bed before?
Lord knows she'd certainly served enough of them, but had someone ever prepare a meal for her so that she could lounge in bed while she ate? No. This was yet another first, and Mr. D'Anton seemed full of them today.
Drawing the covers to her waist and then placing the tray on her lap, Christine took the folded note from under the book and read:
Ms. Daae,
You need to eat.
Accompanying this note, you will find dinner as demanded with not a sandwich in sight. I also am returning the book you misplaced when you fell asleep out of doors a few weeks ago in hopes that it may engage your mind with something other than the music I have imposed upon you. I will not play another note tonight so that you may rest.
E
Christine swallowed the dry knot suddenly formed in her throat.
Did the man honestly think his music was an imposition?! She bit her lip as she realized she might have just given him that impression. His music was wonderful, and it truly wasn't a hardship at all to work with him in such a way, it was just… well, the last three days reminded her so much of her life before when her father was still alive and her every waking thought filled with music.
Those feelings, those dreaded emotions could not be suppressed no matter how much she willed them to be, and the anxiety, the tension she felt combined with such little sleep… well, she had snapped.
She was coming to realize that Mr. D'Anton's way was first to admonish and then to do something kind; first making her tea, and now dinner and the return of her book.
Her eyes misted slightly as she picked up the spoon. How could she protect her heart against him?
How?
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Erik heard a throat clear and looked up from his seated position in the wingback chair.
The chair was, by far, the warmest place in the cottage for it was nestled beside the woodstove, and he'd been stoking the fire all afternoon to guard the house, and Ms. Daae, against the winter chill seeping in. He'd tried to occupy himself with thoughts of his upcoming opera, the grand-opening gala, his new Diva's debut, anything… but memories of his treatment of her kept intruding.
For the past three days, he'd been in a creative mania, not letting Ms. Daae sleep, barely letting her leave his side as he relied on her to record his compositions, to be his eyes so that he could give sole focus and breathe life into his music.
Before the war, he used to spend days—sometimes weeks on end—holed up in his music room writing a score, terrified his muse would desert him.
Never before could he have imagined composing while another was present, let alone it being easier for him to do so.
But it was.
Ms. Daae was his good luck charm, his muse, and his sight. The music flowed trippingly, effortlessly from his heart to his fingers, and his little mouse recorded each and every note, freeing him from having to do the tedious task himself.
By God, he should have done this years ago!
She spoke, dispelling his thoughts, "I wanted to thank you, sir… for making me dinner and returning my book." A note of chagrin crept into her voice as she continued, "It's well… it's one my favorites, and I didn't even realize it was missing until you returned it." He heard her draw a deep breath and then say all in a rush, "Errm, would you mind very much if I sat in here with you and read?"
His hands steepled, elbows on the arms of the chair, Erik tapped his fingertips together. "No, I don't mind, Ms. Daae. In fact, I would very much appreciate it if you sat right here," he indicated the chair he was sitting in, "and read to me."
He rose, and throwing on another couple logs to keep the fire stoked, Erik counted the few paces that would take him to a straight-backed chair propped in the corner. He brought it over towards the stove and faced it slightly away so she wouldn't be afflicted with the sight of his scarring.
Still, she hadn't moved from her position by the door, and Erik had to remind himself of his promise not to coerce her. He'd already asked so much, and this was yet another thing he was asking her to do—share of her free time, of her leisure pursuits—with him.
It was her choice whether to come into the room or not. Hers. He would not escort or compel her either way. And so, he waited by the straight-back chair with baited breath, expecting to hear her retreating footsteps as she left him.
Instead, he heard her light footfalls as they drew nearer and then her scent encompassed him, her perfume stronger now since she had bathed, and he inhaled deeply, letting it soothe him as she passed by on her way to the chair.
He heard the soft creak of springs as she sat in the wingback, and counting his steps Erik limped to the cedar chest, and removing a plaid flannel blanket, limped back over to her and draped it (he hoped) across her lap. He heard her small intake of breath, and drew back, dearly hoping he hadn't just given the girl another fright! Or God Forbid, missed his mark completely and covered up her head! If only he could see her expressions! His little quiet mouse—he never knew what she was thinking.
Groping for his chair, he sat stiffly with his back to her and waited patiently for her to begin.
She began to read, her voice tremulous in the silence of the cottage with only the crackling of the fire in the woodstove and the pattering rain outside for company:
1801.—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's heaven: and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable pair to divide the desolation between us.
Almost immediately Erik placed the title. Wuthering Heights. He smiled slightly to himself .Just as he'd suspected, the book told him much about Ms. Daae and her romantic sensibilities.
He'd been forced to read it at school many years ago, and he recollected he did not like it much at the time. It lacked adventure, swash-buckling romance, and a guaranteed happy ending. But with his little mouse reading, Erik found he was considering the story of the doomed romance between Heathcliff and his Catherine in an entirely different light.
Yes, he found himself reconsidering it indeed.
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She read to him for an hour but no more because Mr. D'Anton made her stop, citing the need for Christine to save her voice. He sent her to bed with another cupful of tea—this time Chamomile— and an admonishment to get some sleep for tomorrow they would be hard at work on the score.
A thought occurred to her as she prepared for bed, brushing out and tying back her hair.
She did not work for Mr. D'Anton.
Not really. She worked for Dr. Khan, and in the case notes he'd issued her, there had been very specific instructions about her patient's treatment and care.
Christine smiled to herself as she drew back the covers and climbed into bed.
How could she only just be realizing the true potential of the leverage she held over him? Just today, she had disobeyed a direct command given by Mr. D'Anton. It had hurt terribly, but she'd done it!
Armed with the knowledge that she could disobey, that she wasn't a puppet on a string like he occasionally made her feel, Christine's mind spun with the implications of what that could mean. If she could throw off the suggestive nature of his voice, then she could stand on equal ground with him. If she refused to transcribe, refused to sing, then Mr. D'Anton could do nothing…nothing about it at all…
Christine slept peacefully for the first time in months.
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She awoke as she had done the past few days to the sound of knocking upon her door. "Ms. Daae, it's time to rise."
Looking over at the bedside clock, Christine grimaced.
She was used to getting up early, but this was absurd! The man never slept, or if he did, he subsisted on very little. And Mr. D'Anton had a tendency to believe others shared his stamina and his single-minded pursuit of perfection. Between the extreme late nights and profane early mornings, she was definitely feeling sleep's lack.
Biting her lip, Christine rose from the bed, strengthening her resolve. Things were going to different around the little cottage.
They were going to be different… starting today.
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"Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept better?" Erik said as he heard her light footfalls coming down the hall.
Her beautiful voice spoke timidly into the morning quiet, "I did, sir, thank you. " She cleared her throat, and Erik was beginning to associate the particular sound with her preparing to voice a request. "I was thinking… I ought to make breakfast for us."
He shook his head, amused by her predictability. "Breakfast can wait, Ms. Daae. I want you to transcribe this first." Erik began to play his newest piece as he envisioned it performed, and this had now become tradition for he liked having her hear his pieces before she began to transcribe them.
He'd noticed his Ms. Daae had a tendency to become immersed in the music he played when he exposed her to a new composition. And it was difficult to gain her attention, sometimes even minutes after he'd ceased playing. It seemed to him that she lost herself in the music he created.
Erik wouldn't have it any other way.
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Christine stood there transfixed for a time, listening to the melodic spell he cast, smiling softly as she watched him lose himself in his music. His long black hair had fallen so that it was a curtain shielding his face from her view. She stepped forward and took her place beside the piano—where she stood when he had her sing— and from this position, she could see his eyes were closed and the left side of his face was drawn into a beatific smile.
In times such as these, she was loath to disturb him, and she had to admit it was nice starting her day as he played softly for both of their enjoyment. He had a tendency, Christine noticed, to always save the 'sturm und drang'— those pieces filled with so much energy and strife— until well into the afternoon and evening thus giving respect to the morning stillness and reverence to the new day.
In contrast to his music's playing, the harsh morning light did little to soften Mr. D'Anton's distorted features, and instead of giving herself over to the music as she normally did and escaping into the enchantment he wove, Christine made herself examine his face and focus on his scars with a clinical detachment.
Some of them still looked infected, and the stitches remaining there needed to come out. Others had healed over, but with the calming cream she brought, she hoped to lessen the redness and ease the tight discomfort he surely must feel from their having healed in such a way.
Other places looked picked over as if he'd been scratching at them, and Christine inwardly tsk'd. And then, of course, there was the man's scraggly patches of beard. Oh, but he needed a haircut and a shave—badly!
The piece ended with a beautiful tinkling of notes that seemed to resound throughout the cottage long after the last chord had fallen away.
Christine hated to break the spell, but break it she must if she was going to make any headway whatsoever with him. "Mr. D'Anton, that was lovely, sir, but I must insist on making breakfast before I begin to transcribe. I still have yesterday's dishes to see to, and the cottage is looking very untidy. It needs to be cleaned."
"Andre comes today. He will see to it, and I will have him make a fine brunch for us both. Have a seat and begin," he told her affably.
Taking her compliance for granted, he began to sketch his melody on the piano in preparation for her putting it to paper.
"No."
The piano stilled.
"What was that, Ms. Daae?" His tone was questioning as if he didn't understand her.
Christine braced herself against the piano's edge, and with her chin up, stood her ground. She stated bravely, "I said no, Mr. D'Anton."
His golden eyes tracked to where she stood, looking somewhere near her naval. As she watched, his expression morphed from disbelief to complete fury.
"I dislike repeating myself, Ms. Daae. Sit down and begin transcribing. NOW!"
Christine white knuckled the corner of the piano, gritting her teeth against the pain. She wanted to comply with every fiber of her being. She wanted to obey—SHE HAD TO OBEY! She stopped herself though, refusing to let go of the side of the piano even as her eyes longed for the comfort of the chair and the weight of the tea tray upon her lap. Breathe in, Christine. Steady, girl. In and out. It will pass. The pain will pass. Let it come and go.
Breathe…
Once she felt she could speak without whimpering or crying out, she looked back at him and said with certainty, even if her voice quavered, "I will not begin your work, Mr. D'Anton, until my own is complete."
He stood up abruptly, knocking over the piano bench in his haste, and stepped towards her. "Your work is my work, Ms. Daae, or have you forgotten." He took another menacing step, and Christine automatically wanted to take a step back, but at the last second stopped herself.
No. No more cowering. She was through with it! She was going to be strong.
Raising her chin, she said, "My work is that which Dr. Khan set me to do, sir. I am not employed by you, Mr. D'Anton."
He took another step until he stood toe-to-toe before her, towering over her. The only thing that stood between them was the side of the piano that Christine still had not relinquished from her white-knuckled hold.
His expression grim, he asked her, "Do you dare to defy me?" He uttered his question quietly, lethally.
Gathering her courage, Christine let go of the piano and stood up straight before him. "Yes. I do, sir."
She saw his eyes flash with golden fire, and he drew breath—possibly to issue another command— but Christine's hand flew to his mouth blocking the sound before she even realized what she'd done.
Shocked, he stood there, gaze unfocused, his eyes wide in disbelief, his mouth slightly open to her hand. A beat later and his hand fastened upon hers pulling it from his mouth, his eyes narrowed to slits, "You will never do that aga—"
"Please, hear me out," she yelled, interrupting him, as she began tugging on her hand within his grasp, entreating him to be gentle. Instead, he pulled her closer to him, erasing the remaining distance between them, and she went pleading, "There are things, sir, that need to be seen to around the cottage—"
"Andre will—"
"No, not Andre," she interjected, "me—I need to do them. It's what I'm being paid to do, sir. Not transcribe for you!"
He grit his jaw, "The letter clearly explained—"
"Yes," she again interrupted him, "Dr. Khan's letter clearly explained that I was to see after the 'interests of the cottage and any who occupy it'."
"Quite," he nodded tersely. "and Nadir went on to invite me to take 'full advantage of the amenities his new fixture' now provided—"
She shook her head. "At my discretion, sir. Always at my discretion, and I'm telling you I cannot do as you command, not with everything else that I need to do today."
He lowered his face to hers as he said, "Do you really want to force my hand in this, Ms. Daae?" His fingers clutched at the hand he still held. "I do not believe you'd like the consequences; no, not at all, my girl."
She gulped and stated in a small voice looking up at him, "I've defied you twice now, sir. And although it hurt, I can do it again. It's getting easier and easier to do each time, and soon, you will have no hold over me." Christine closed her eyes, biting back the truth.
She'd just lied to him… she lied!
She forced herself to relax her posture and her hand he held. He was holding it tightly in front of her, forcing her to lean into where he stood if she wanted to keep her balance. He wasn't hurting her...not yet. But if this escalated any further… she gulped.
If she could get him calm, then perhaps he would see reason.
His eyes searched sightlessly back and forth as he absorbed her words, trying—she was certain—to find fault in her logic. She coaxed gently, "Wouldn't it be… …easier, sir, if we came to an agreement? A 'quid pro quo' if you will?"
Christine was relieved to see his battle-ready posture relax slightly. She squeezed his hand encouragingly and continued, "We could compromise; that way we both get what we want."
His other hand lifted slowly, and Christine watched transfixed as he felt for her cheek and cupping it, held her gently. "And just what is it the very determined Ms. Daae wants, hmm?"
Her heart drumming inside her chest, Christine replied softly, "I w-would like to start by making breakfast and tidying up the cottage."
He smirked. "Such small requests do you ask, little mouse, for such a large coup d'état as this." He gave her a wry, sad smile and tapped her on the chin. "Alright, in the spirit of 'quid pro quo', what is it, Ms. Daae, that you are prepared to give me in return for graciously allowing you to skirt your work with me so that you may fulfill your, entirely unnecessary to my mind, 'housekeeping' duties?"
Christine bit her lip. "I will transcribe for one hour."
He shook his head, bringing his face even closer to hers. His forehead almost pressed to hers, he whispered, "Not nearly good enough, my dear. Not good enough at all. What else have you to offer me, hmm, for a compromise? Better yet, what might I have to do, Ms. Daae, to buy more of your precious time?"
He was giving her that roguish grin of his, looking a veritable pirate, and her heart flipped as she looked up at him. He was teasing her, and they were standing so close— almost in a lover's embrace— and he was holding her so tightly to him, still caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
She felt heavy, weighted, as if the world had paused while he held her close, his lips scant inches from meeting her own. She couldn't take her eyes from them as his hand still continued its caress of her cheek.
Feeling for the corner of her mouth with his fingers, he leaned down closer until his mouth was mere centimeters from hers. They were close; she could feel his warm breath ghosting along her lips, so close they almost touched noses.
"Well, my dear," he whispered into the silence, "what is it you desire?"
Wide-eyed, Christine moistened her lips, and gathering her courage, she whispered, "Please allow me to tend to your face."
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As her words registered, Erik involuntarily curled his hand where he held her at the neck and squeezed. She whimpered in fright, and he instantly let go, spinning around, hiding his face from view so that she wouldn't have to gaze upon his deformity.
His face was a true death by a thousand cuts.
Just when he thought he was finally going to be able to kiss her, when he was sure she was responding to him—as a woman should to a man— she had to bring up his accursed face!
He had forgotten, how easy it was to forget when she was in his arms… until she reminded him.
Even now, she continued to press him with her words, ripping him apart and splaying him open with them, her small hand falling gently upon his back, "Please, sir. I only want to help. And I promise it will feel better if you just let me try."
God, he felt broken. "And, little extortionist that you are, you will not sing for me until I let you do this, hmm? Is that the way of it, little mouse?"
He heard her draw a shaky breath as if steeling herself for what she had to say next, and then she spoke softly, "Yes, sir. That is the only way."
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A/N: CHECK-MATE, ERIK! BOO-YA! IN YOUR FA-errmm... *authoress winces and holds hand at the level of her eyes expecting to be punjab-ed at any moment.*
Thanks be to FP33 for her exquisite beta work!
And you know what to do with that little button that says 'review'. ;D
More soon, dear readers.
PFP