A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! : ) So glad you guys are enjoying this! Here's another chapter….
Chapter XXIII
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"Mon Ami, how I will miss you!" Meg hugged Christine in farewell, the tears glistening in her eyes a mirror to Christine's. "Now that we have found each other, we simply cannot allow time to separate us again. You must promise – and you must come to Paris and the theatre, whenever possible – you would love it so! And, perhaps, if the Maestro allows it, I will come again to Thornfield to visit."
"That would be lovely, Meg."
Christine averted her eyes at mention of the Maestro, her slight evasion not escaping Meg's notice. She peered more intently at her friend.
"I was sorry to hear from Madame Fairfax that the gypsy's tea made you ill."
"Yes, well, it was rather strong."
Christine's face warmed and she glanced toward the waiting coach that held the diva, then watched as the Vicomte mounted his horse and looked back to where Christine and Meg stood. He raised his hand in farewell before taking off in the direction of his friend's village, resolved to solve the mystery of the elusive and strange Phantom of the Opera, like a cavalier knight on a white charger.
Meg also stared in that direction, a hint of melancholy in her eyes to see him go. "The Vicomte was disappointed to learn his theory was incorrect and that the gypsy's fortune contained only the commonplace rhetoric of a dark stranger inhabiting your future and nothing of your teaching – or your singing."
This brought Christine's full attention swinging sharply back to her friend.
"Meg."
She giggled. "Not to worry; I told no one of your gift. Nor will I, not without your permission."
Christine nodded in shamed relief. Perhaps a visit to the church confessional was in order, to atone for her little deception of both the fortune given and her reason for not returning. Her once deeply buried secret, now that it had been relentlessly dug up, seemed to germinate and sprout like so many weeds obstructing the path of her moral compass.
Perhaps the Maestro had been correct in his assessment of Christine as a deceiver. Yet she had needed some viable excuse to give Madame Fairfax to tell her friends, unable to return to the parlor the previous evening after the Maestro's earth-shattering kiss followed by his equally swift abandonment…
An abandonment revisited this morning, according to the housekeeper who, upon Christine's inquiry if the master would see his guests off, mentioned that he had earlier vacated the premises. Nor did Madame Fairfax know when he was expected back.
After another round of hugs amid promises to write and visit, Christine watched her sole friend in the world leave her to stand sadly forlorn, as once more a carriage trundled Meg away to parts unknown.
No, she firmly told herself. This was different. Each knew where the other resided, and she resolved that she would see Meg again. They were both young women now with at least some control over their individual destinies, not vulnerable children whose lives were easily manipulated by their cruel superiors.
For Meg, she had found her fairy tale happily-ever-after at the theatre, perhaps even a handsome prince with whom to one day share it. For Christine, she wondered what a happily-ever-after might entail or even if it was possible after nearly a lifetime of deprivation, rejection and disappointment.
Whisking the tears from beneath her lashes and ousting such useless thought from her mind, she straightened her spine and entered the manor. With a half hour free before seeking out Adrienne for lessons, she took the time to freshen up then riffled through her sketchbook. After two weeks of concentrating on little more than the play with the girl, she really should delve into Adrienne's education of the core essentials. Yet with the doldrums she would no doubt encounter in the child, due to the loss of their thespian visitors, Christine pondered if maybe another day of focusing on the arts might be more prudent. A drawing lesson perhaps.
Encouraged with the prospect, she entered Adrienne's room …
… to find it empty.
Puzzled, she glanced at the clock on the mantel, noting it was just past nine o'clock. The breakfast tray had been cleared away, but there was no sign of the child or her nurse, Elita. Hoping that Adrienne had not fallen ill from indulging in too many sweet treats as had happened once before, Christine checked the girl's bedchamber, also finding it uninhabited.
Equal parts concerned and curious, she retraced her steps to the downstairs foyer in search of answers. Madame Fairfax met her halfway.
"Mademoiselle, there you are," the housekeeper beamed in relief as if she'd been searching for her. "You are expected in the front parlor."
"Expected?" Christine repeated in confusion. "Is Adrienne there?"
"She is, and under instructions of the Maestro, you are to oversee the meeting."
"Meeting? What meeting? He did not tell me of a meeting."
As she spoke, Madame Fairfax put her hand to Christine's lower back, herding her in the direction she was to go.
"He told me before he left this morn," the woman said in explanation. "Go on with you then – I must return to my duties."
Finding herself suddenly alone and still without answers, Christine ran a smoothing palm along the back of her hair and proceeded through the doors of the parlor.
She stopped short upon recognizing one of the two men inside the room – the wounded foreigner she had helped at the Maestro's urgent behest. He no longer wore a bandage around his head, having arranged his dark hair to hide the gash at his temple, and his splinted arm rested in a sling. Otherwise, he seemed in good health.
All eyes turned toward her upon her entrance further into the room.
"Mademoiselle Christine," Adrienne greeted in delighted excitement, rushing forward in a flurry of light blue silk and white frothy lace. She grabbed her hand, pulling her forward. "At last you are here – I never thought you would come and could not wait for you to appear. You took so long! Now you must meet my Uncle Lorenzo. He has come all the way from Italy to see me! Is that not wondrous? One day I hope to go to Italy. He says I have molta famiglian there – much family. Uncles and aunts and cousins…"
In the midst of Adrienne's animated greeting, Lorenzo focused on Christine, his eyes narrowed in uncertain recognition.
"Have we met, signorina?" he asked in his thick accent, when Adrienne gulped in a breath.
Christine hesitated, recalling her vow of secrecy and promise of loyalty…
"I do not recall." She looked askance at yet another necessary deception, noting Adrienne's nurse, Elita, stood a short distance from them and watched with avid interest. "It is doubtful. I have never been to Italy, indeed, haven't left Thornfield in a week."
He made a slight, apologetic bow. "My mistake."
Adrienne moved her attention from Christine to tug on his hand. "This is my Uncle Lorenzo," she announced proudly. "My governess, Mademoiselle Christine," she continued, beaming up at her uncle.
Christine overlooked the child's improper and informal address of her Christian name in introduction and nodded in greeting.
"And I do not know who he is," Adrienne added with a little flourish of her hand toward the window.
"Adrienne, don't be rude," Christine admonished quietly.
"Please, allow me to correct the oversight." The stranger crossed the distance. A short, squat man of middle age with nut-brown skin, black eyes, and a wide smile, he wore the clothes of a gentleman, save for the peculiar round hat of crimson upon his head.
"Nadir Kahn, at your service, mademoiselle," he said, inclining his head in a polite little bow while clasping his hands with his fingers interlaced at his middle.
"Monsieur," she said in return, noting Adrienne and her uncle had begun speaking in Italian, with Elita looking on, smiling and nodding. "Might I speak with you a moment?"
Monsieur Kahn seemed surprised. "If you would prefer."
He walked with Christine back to the door, out of earshot but still within sight of the others.
"Something troubles you, mademoiselle?"
"Yes, Monsieur Kahn, indeed it does. I am not certain how well you know the Maestro, but I have strong reason to believe that he would not be in favor of this meeting. Would, in fact, forbid it." She glanced toward Adrienne and her uncle, watching a clear bond being formed, concerned that it was a mistake in the making. And she would be blamed for it.
The man beside her chuckled, bringing her attention back to him in curious surprise.
"Ah, yes, Erik can be a bit – shall we say – demanding in his views? You have my assurance that he is aware, did in fact, orchestrate this meeting. We spoke last night. He asked that I bring Lorenzo to meet his niece and that you be present."
He smiled at the look of total befuddlement on Christine's features.
"Not what you were expecting to hear, I take it."
"When last we spoke, he made clear his disapproval on the subject."
"That does not surprise me," he said with an undaunted little shrug. "Erik is often quick in his reaction and slow with his meditation."
Unwittingly, her mind went to the shocking kiss that came out of nowhere and his abrupt retreat. His moods swung like a pendulum, from one extreme to the next – within seconds sometimes – so she supposed she should not be surprised to learn he had reconsidered Adrienne meeting with her uncle. Though she wished he would have told her directly.
However, she did not believe that the Maestro would be pleased to learn that the meeting he had ordered Christine to supervise was orchestrated in an unfamiliar tongue.
She waited until the man, Lorenzo, finished what seemed like a story told before she spoke.
"Adrienne, French s'il vous plaît. You know the Maestro prefers it."
"Oui, mademoiselle. My uncle tells me of the land where my mother came from. So many cousins I have! Eighteen! Two of them my age - can you imagine? And my grandpapa drew pictures of enormous buildings that strong men built into existence. Even bigger than Thornfield! Does it not sound wondrous?!"
Christine did not miss the telling look between Elita and Lorenzo, one of approval and affirmation, leading her to wonder if they had met before today.
She took a seat a short distance from the others so as to hear in case the Maestro should question her later – that is, if he planned to return any time soon. An affable man, Monsieur Kahn took a seat in the chair beside her, now and then offering polite and infrequent conversation. He spoke twice of random incidents shared with Erik, both of which piqued her interest, especially when he mentioned that they had met in the land of Persia. The Maestro was certainly well traveled! And he was a magician? Perhaps that should not come as a surprise she thought somewhat cynically – he certainly knew how to make himself disappear.
Thankfully, Lorenzo honored the Maestro's wishes and spoke in French for the remainder of the visit, though he sometimes struggled, his mastery of her language not as fluid as his own mother tongue.
Despite that all went seemingly well, Christine was relieved when the grandfather clock in the outside corridor chimed the noon hour and Lorenzo made his departure, along with Monsieur Kahn. Adrienne wheedled a promise from Lorenzo to visit again before leaving for Italy, and he assured his niece of his plans to remain in France for several weeks, which gave Christine unease. Until she could again speak to the Maestro to receive his unquestionable approval, she felt uneasy with a second visit. Not that she did not trust Monsieur Kahn, who undoubtedly knew the Maestro better than Christine, but after the fiasco of the Shakespearean play and all that resulted from its amateur production, this time she resolved never to assume and instead to err on the safe side of caution.
After telling Adrienne she would meet her in the classroom shortly, Christine went upstairs to her bedchamber to grab her portfolio. Two steps through the door and she halted in shock at the sight of a vase of flowers on the vanity table.
Since she had come to Thornfield, no one had given her flowers nor left them in her room, save for the night of the production. Her heart tripped in curious excitement as she warily approached the unique and bizarre bouquet, certain this too must be from him. Frothy reeds, such as the wild ones that grew near a marsh or stream bordered scalloped edges of the cut crystal in fan-like fronds of dark purple atop proud stems of gold. They surrounded another flower, these with each narrow stem flourishing small clusters of bright magenta blossoms she thought she recognized as having seen growing along one of the stone walls within the enclosed garden.
Though the flowers were lovely, the arrangement was unusual and she doubted the bouquet was presented for its aesthetic quality alone.
Another thought surfaced, one that had her quickly retrace her steps to the corridor and the maid she had seen there.
"Jocelyn, I believe?" Christine inquired of the young woman.
"Oui, mademoiselle." Short and dimpled, the young girl looked at her with kind regard. One of the few staff who still treated her with respect.
"The Maestro has returned?"
"No, miss. He left early this morning."
"Oh, I see…" Christine pulled her brows together in confusion. "The flowers in my room, how then did they get there?" she uttered the question before she could think better of it. Her face warmed with the blunder. Surely her telling words would bring new fodder for gossip around the servants' table, that she even assumed the master had done such a thing as leave flowers for the woman he employed as governess, never mind that once he had.
But who else could have left them?
Jocelyn smiled brightly. "Are they not lovely? The Maestro instructed I was to leave the bouquet in your bedchamber while you were busy with Adrienne."
"Instructed? You spoke with him earlier?"
"Yes, Miss." She looked at Christine oddly. "How else would I know to do that?"
How else indeed! Apparently, the Maestro saw fit to speak with anyone but Christine on matters that concerned her. Perhaps she should consider it a blessing that he avoided an encounter, still apprehensive to face him after his unsettling kiss. Yet all she could feel was frustration with his distance. He was no fairy tale prince, though she would never presume to think of him in such a grandiose light, as Meg thought of the Vicomte, but she hardly felt it mere chance that business had taken the master of Thornfield away the very next morning. Though she did not think him a coward unable to face her either…
When he required her company, he did not refrain.
Yet only when he wished it.
Thanking the maid, Christine returned to her room and eyed the bouquet pensively, taking note of each blossom, stem and color. The reeds were easy to discern, and she eagerly reached for the floriography book she had retrieved from the library days ago, with the hope to learn this secret language of a society as yet unfamiliar to her, intent now on solving his hidden message.
Perhaps an apology for the previous evening? Maybe feelings of remorse for his behavior?
She thumbed through the pages until she found what she was after, the illustration of a similar frond in the book denoting it as a reed, its meaning that of…
Music.
Wary to learn the full message, she considered forgetting the rest, but her curiosity to know was sharper than her pique at his persistence. Again she thumbed through the illustrations, this time more carefully, as she did not know the name of the magenta blossom. At last she found its identical match in a pen and ink drawing, and the description beside it classified it as red valerian, with petals that ranged from pink to red. Its meaning-
The aptitude to learn something easily.
The message left no doubt that he was telling her she had the ability to sing and that he wanted to teach her.
With a little scrunch of her nose in exasperation, Christine slapped the book closed.
Clearly, he would not surrender to her wishes, his stubbornness a trait she had encountered often. Very well. He liked games? She did not have a great deal of experience when it came to such frivolities, but after this tiresome morning she felt up to the challenge.
Realizing the time to meet with Adrienne would soon be upon her, she grabbed the book as well as her sketch pad and pencils.
"Today we shall do something different," she greeted her pupil, who already seemed distracted with the return to regular school activities. An open book intrigued the girl's interest – one that did not look to be of classroom caliber. That Adrienne swiftly closed it and slid it beneath the cushion of the window seat suggested it was forbidden.
Christine moved to stand in front of her and held out her hand.
"No arithmetic or Latin?" Adrienne asked hopefully then gave a disgruntled little whimper. "I found it on a lower shelf of the library. The Maestro puts books he does not wish me to read high above, where I cannot reach…It's not Shakespeare, so it should be alright," she added plaintively when Christine gave no sign of relenting.
"Time will tell." Christine lifted her brows, keeping her hand extended. Adrienne sighed and unearthed the novel from beneath the cushion, handing it over.
It's leather cover worn, depicting its age, Histoires ou contes du temps passé, avec des moralités by Charles Perrault seemed harmless enough. Indeed, the idea of Tales from Past Times, with Morals could even be construed as worthy, but Christine had been fooled before with the latest Shakespearean farce and decided to scan the contents before permitting the book for her pupil.
"Today we shall indulge in a botany lesson, and perhaps combine it with the skill of drawing."
The girl perked up, her disappointment to lose the book fading. "Like you do?"
"Yes, I have brought my pencils and sketch pad for that purpose."
"May I not use paints?"
"Let us first see if you have the aptitude to draw."
"Mademoiselle?"
"Yes?"
"What is botany?"
"The study of flora."
Adrienne cast a doubtful glance out the window at the blustery autumn day, but if she wondered why Christine did not wait to broach such a lesson in the spring or summer months, when days were warmer and flowers more plentiful, she did not ask.
Christine paused to consider. Actually, she had not thought this through, a trip to the garden not advisable on such a cold and windy day…
"Adrienne, after we received the bouquets, you told me of a room of glass where flowers grow indoors. I need you to show it to me."
"The conservatory," Adrienne said with a nod and smile. "Si, I will take you."
x
Christine had learned about such places in a novel once read but never had she seen such a chamber that brought the outdoors inside until now. Situated at the back of the manor in a wing to which she had never been, the spacious room was accessed through a pair of doors that when closed formed an arch and glassed in on three sides with a domed roof also composed of thick glass. Besides a small sofa and table, the conservatory stood filled with a myriad of different blooms and plants in a plethora of colors - surely many of which should not even be in season! - and took up nearly every available space, some even hanging in decorative pots and perfuming each area with their individual scents.
A short distance away, tending to a patch of bright yellow blossoms, a man worked. His common clothes and the watering can in his weathered hand proclaimed him as a gardener, and his wide smile of greeting beneath his bushy grey mustache suggested him to be kind.
"Mademoiselles, how may I be of service to you today?"
"We do not wish to infringe upon your time," Christine began politely. "I have never been to this part of the manor and wished to introduce the subject of botany – flowers and plants – as a lesson for my pupil."
He smiled as if they had nurtured a kinship for years. "I am Aubert. Please allow me to know if there is any way I can assist you."
"Might I ask, may we take any flowers with us? No more than a small sample."
"But of course! Only show me what you would like. Flowers, they can be good companions. They often bring a smile and help us feel a little less lonely."
She smiled and nodded. Adrienne, never able to remain still for long, wandered to the eastern window to look at the flowers there.
"Might I bring you a list later today, of those flowers I will need?" Christine asked more quietly.
"Oui, mademoiselle. I will be here among my friends."
"Mademoiselle Christine – look what I found! It actually moved – I saw it move."
At the excitement in Adrienne's voice, they turned to see. Adrienne stood near a pedestal, her finger outstretched to touch a plant in a pot there. Aubert moved with haste in her direction.
"Non, little mademoiselle – you must not touch this one. The flower, it is dangerous."
"Poisonous, you mean?" Christine asked, eyeing the strange flowers, if they could be called such a gentle name. Atop thin stems what resembled two pink tongues were hinged together, with wispy spines along their borders, their appearance more frightful than pleasant.
"Non." Aubert shook his head. "Most flowers take both water and nourishment from the soil. This plant is different. Ah, you will see…" He said, motioning to a fly that suddenly buzzed near. As they watched, it landed on one of the hinged tongues – which suddenly snapped shut with a vengeance, trapping its victim within its smothering grasp.
"Good heavens," Christine whispered as Adrienne gave a little squeal of morbid glee.
"I want that one!" the girl declared, in reply to Christine's earlier instruction of selecting one blossom to take back with them, if it was allowed.
"That one I cannot give you," Aubert declared quietly but firmly. "I am told the master brought it back from his travels and holds it in high regard."
A dangerous flower for a dangerous man. How apropos.
"Come, little miss," Aubert said in a placating tone. "I will help you find a nice flower for your studies."
As the two wandered further into the conservatory, Christine offered one last wary glance to the carnivorous plant, giving a little shudder, then turned to observe the remainder of the area, finding it both peaceful and bright.
A lovely place, she could well envision the kind Lady Jane sitting on the sofa in repose and reading a book. Had she only lived long enough to know her grandson, her and her husband both, Christine felt the Maestro's life might have been much improved.
Once they returned to the classroom, a somewhat mollified Adrienne attempted to pen to paper the spiky lavender blossom she had chosen that now stood in a vase while Christine flipped through pages of the floriography book, trying to piece together the message she wanted to present. Some flowers possessed one word as their meaning, like 'delight' 'envy' or 'regret' – while others represented full phrases – "I am torn", "Do not rebuke me", and the like.
Jotting down the name of each flower she selected for her own personal message, Christine recognized having seen one that she needed in the conservatory. Excellent. Whatever Aubert was unable to supply, she would pen onto cards, using the illustrations in the book as a guide. Thankful that many flowers represented had been given their own drawing and with it a short description, she decided also to use his paints to better illustrate her message. Whatever flowers were not depicted by illustration, well, surely a library so vast would contain another book on the subject if needed.
Feeling confident that she could do this, she was eager to begin her task.
At lesson's end, Christine was unsurprised to see that along with the spiky lavender flower Adrienne had drawn with better aptitude than her needlework, she also included the monstrous plant of earlier. During her intense study of the floriography book, which included possibly every flower and plant in existence upon the earth, Christine had learned its name – Venus flytrap, the meaning of which was 'deceit.'
Hardly flora she wished to extol to her young pupil, and reasoned it best to ignore the additional artwork.
Once her day concluded with Adrienne, Christine went directly to the conservatory with her list for Aubert. Of the four flowers she required, he was able to fulfill three of them, collecting from both inside the glass house and outdoors. The remaining flora, the thorn apple leaf, she later sketched onto a card in her room.
She glanced again at the brief snippet included: Formerly, during the carnival, the common people used to disguise their faces with the large leaves of the thorn-apple...
She looked at her attempt to recreate the leaves onto paper, and decided to lightly draw a carnival tent in the background, then added the words 'thorn-apple' in small letters at the bottom, just to be sure he did not misconstrue her meaning.
Satisfied at last, she gathered her small treasure trove and went to the library, finding it empty as she had presumed it would be. After replacing the book on the shelf, she pushed a few piles of papers to clear a space, then carefully placed the vase with the anemony on his desk – to symbolize 'abandon". She propped against it the card with the thorn-apple leaf for 'disguise', then next to that lay down the tare of darnel for 'vice'. Next she tied stems of madder and lay them upside down beneath the rest – showing the opposite of 'slander' – and next to that she laid a frond of maidenhair for 'discretion.'
Eyeing her arrangement with a meticulous eye, to be assured she had presented it appropriately, she read her intended message: Abandon the disguise. It is a vice. I will not slander and assure you of my discretion.
He chose to persist with his persuasions toward music? She would retaliate with her own messages to abandon the mask.
In part, she had come to regret the rash challenge made. Despite the silly bargain that was no true bargain in that the Maestro would never comply – she wanted to see the entirety of his face. To understand him more completely, if indeed she understood him at all…perhaps to share in his suffering so as to offer him …compassion.
Compassion, yes. Such a sentiment would surely be considered suitable for a governess toward her master.
Her mind betrayed her with the recollection of his heated kiss, the taste of his mouth on hers, the urgent feel of him pushing into her lips, followed by the bold thrust of his tongue against her own …
Her response hardly unreceptive, she had welcomed him. Welcomed his attentions.
Christine took a hasty step back from the desk, knocking into his leonine chair, and shook her head forcefully to dislodge all salacious thoughts far from it ...
Yet they endured, slithering into her dreams, night after disturbing night.
Each day she returned to the library, to check on her arrangement, replacing any that had withered. If Aubert wondered about her frequent requests for the same flora, he was polite enough not to mention it.
A week passed, some of the hours filled with two additional, chaperoned visits to Adrienne by her uncle, some by reading the book she had caught Adrienne with and apprehended. The stories inside were mostly unsettling, the current tale of the wealthy nobleman with a blue beard particularly alarming: involving the horror of a young bride who disregarded her husband's command and unearthed his secret – a concealed room that hid the corpses of his previous wives, all murdered by his hand.
With a shudder, Christine closed the cover on the grisly end of the tale. At least the heroine had prevailed, but it was definitely not a suitable choice for the young Adrienne and would be transferred to a high shelf. Noting the sun had long set but still feeling restless, Christine rose from her chair by the fire and decided to select a more suitable book in which to indulge, one hopefully that would make her drowsy and not ready to jump out of her skin.
Once she opened the library door, she realized her mistake.
The Maestro had returned and stood before the fire. His gaze swung her way, the firelight glinting off his black bandit-like mask.
Her heart thudding harsh against her rib cage at the realization, she yelped a soft "I'm sorry," and began a swift retreat - but was prevented escape by his commanding voice.
"Come in, now that you are here."
With little choice but to do as told, Christine slowly closed the door and approached, coming to stop a few feet from where he stood. Dressed as impeccably as always, minus his frock coat but no less intimidating, he looked her up and down then returned his somber gaze to the fire.
"You are up late."
By his low tone she could not tell if he disapproved.
"I couldn't sleep. I thought to select another book to read."
Without looking away from the flames, he waved a dismissive hand toward the bookcases.
Swallowing back a surge of apprehension, Christine walked past where he stood so tall, again clasping his hands behind him, and to the area where she'd found the book of poetry. Standing on tiptoe, she first slipped the book with the tale of Bluebeard into an empty slot above her head. Not where it belonged, but she did not have the presence of mind to seek out a better place. Her heart beat fast, not only due to nerves but beyond that a strange sort of elation to know that the Maestro had finally come home.
"Indecisive?"
How long she stared at the wide array of titles without truly comprehending them, she did not know, but when his voice came abruptly from behind, she jumped a little, startled, and quickly snatched the first book her hand met.
She turned, noting he stood close but not too close, keeping the distance between them to a few feet. He glanced down at the book she held tightly clutched in one hand. His brow lifted in mock surprise.
"Dante's Inferno. I did not think you one to be interested in a journey through the torments of the nine circles of hell depicted inside the earth."
"What?" she exclaimed in surprise, unfamiliar with the story. "No, I'm not." Swiftly she replaced the book on the shelf, intending to make her excuses and go.
"Perhaps you would prefer another glimpse into the book on floriography?"
At his wry, deceptively helpful words, her face grew hot, as if she were presently experiencing one of those nine circles.
"An interesting note about the symbolism of certain flowers…," he said, not waiting for her reply, "...they can possess multiple meanings, even ones that contradict each other. Depending upon their placement when presented in an arrangement can give their message an entirely new meaning…"
Though he spoke to her as a teacher would a student, inserting his customary dry wit, all the while keeping his deep voice soft, fluid and smooth, he did not slowly approach or circle her as on occasions before. Nor did he draw close. In fact, he seemed determined to keep his distance.
Yet even his distance was unnerving.
"The purple anenomy, for instance," he went on with an offhand wave of his hand toward the arrangement on the desk. "While it does mean to abandon and forsake – it also indicates excitement. Am I to ascertain that you derive pleasure from seeing the mask upon my person, as the manner in which you placed the flower suggests?" he asked in light, feigned amusement, the look in his eyes dark and cold.
"No, of course not."
It was her first attempt at floriography; she felt little surprise that she had failed.
"Of course not," he parroted more dourly. "It seems you are unable to let the matter go."
Christine lifted her chin, feeling suddenly justified. "As are you. I was simply favoring you with a response based on our understanding."
"The difference vast, in that you possess a gift that blesses all who hear it, whereas I have been given an accursed face that frightens little children!"
"In your estimation only," she insisted. "I see nothing to fear."
He moved toward her, each step purposeful and fraught with danger.
"Then you are not looking hard enough." The golden eyes behind the mask did a sweep of her from head to toe then back again. "Tell me, have you solved my riddle? But no," he answered himself immediately. "Had you done so, you would not be standing there so calm and defiant."
Hardly calm and frustrated that she had not yet unearthed what mystery he alluded to – indeed, exasperated with this entire conversation – she blurted, "If it is so important that I know, why will you not just tell me?"
His smile came twisted. "As I have said before, some things must be earned." He cocked his head, his steady gaze pensive, and she gasped softly when he crooked a cool finger beneath her chin, lifting it upward so as to assess her eyes. "Have you yet earned that right, Miss Daaé?"
Her heart pounded in nervous excitement at his touch and the intensity of his eyes as they searched her own, her intake of breath difficult to manage, her every thought suddenly hinged upon the memory of that glorious, scandalous kiss …
His eyes suddenly narrowed as he beheld her wide stare.
"I think not," he said, his reply gruff. "You have to want it very badly, and evidently you do not want it badly enough."
She felt bereft of words, uncertain if they were still discussing the topic of his mask or the riddle, and feeling a strong undercurrent of something more.
With a snap of his hand he released her and pivoted on his heel, his tread swift as he exited the chamber. As if he could not stand to be in her presence one moment longer.
Letting out a slow, soft exhale, Christine took a moment to lean back against the bookcase and regain her poise before returning to her room.
Once there, she felt more determined than ever to piece together the mystery, keeping in mind his final words to her that night – 'the key lies in events of past days'. Turning to a blank page of her sketchbook, she put thoughts to paper and jotted down all that had happened with regard to the Maestro since his return during their rehearsal of the play.
He had been upset over its production, relating one scene in particular to his face.
He had been upset with Adrienne for her recounting of the tale of the Harvest Monster.
He had been upset over the opera diva's unsympathetic story of the boy in the traveling carnival, later finding it to be him.
He, who had run away from home, scorned by an unfeeling mother.
He, who had been captured by cruel gypsies to be put on display for people like La Carlotta to mock, revile and harm.
He, who daily wore a mask for the entirety of his life, to hide what gave him such great anguish, so much that he once attempted to take his life many years ago, his horrid intent circumvented by her song ...
The song she had sung to dispel her fear of the approach of the Harvest Monster.
All legends stem from some form of truth…
At the abrupt recollection of Meg's solemn words, Christine's eyes widened as her mind called forth the memory of her most recent encounter -
'...whereas I have been given an accursed face that frightens little children!'
No. It was absurd... too farfetched to be believed, and she pushed the burgeoning possibility from her mind, unwilling even to consider it.
The day had taken its toll. Hoping for a fresh start in the morn, a better start, Christine changed for bed and practically fell into it, pulling the blanket up to her neck.
The thought despised and cast away slithered into a dream unwanted, with the secretive Maestro horrifically altering into the frightful monster she once sung to evade…
She woke with an abbreviated scream, sitting up in bed with a start, trembling and hugging her knees to her chest.
A foolish dream, no matter how real. A nightmare. It had been no more than that.
And once more, quietly, softly she allowed the song to the Angel to bring comfort and calm her fractured senses …
Bringing her comfort as he had said it once gave him.
Her song.
Her voice.
Hers.
xXx
A/N: We're getting there… can you hear the match struck, ready to apply to the wick of dynamite? (muwahaha) ;-) ... note: The majority of flower references were taken from the book, The Language of Flowers, which is in public domain and was written in the 19th century. I have found in my research that throughout time some of the flower's meanings changed symbolically from how we use them today – I used what they used then and will do so for all future chapters. : ) That said, I kept the spelling of "anenomy" for this story, as it was in the book, rather than the version of "anemone" we use today. More of A Phantom's Blood next (we're getting very close to the end of that story.)