A/N: By request for more of this story, here is the next chapter - and thank you all for the wonderful reviews! : ) ...Also, for those who have asked/suggested it in the past - after the recent scares here on fanfiction (i.e.- the site being completely offline for 3 days running), I have begun the long, long task of beginning to transfer my stories to A03, starting with A Phantom's Blood. Don't worry though, I am still writing and posting my in-progress works here, too - (as evidenced by this chapter- lol) - and have no plans to take anything down. Any minor revisions/polishing I make at A03, I am then swapping out those finalized chapters here when I finish with each one, and have been doing so for the past 2 weeks... just to let you guys know, no chapters will be taken down during this process - it's all here and will remain, any chapter changes minimal. The most so far, are the addition of several paragraphs and/or the elimination of others. (A writer is rarely satisfied with a "finished" work, always striving to make it better - we are, after all, our own worst critics.) ;-)
And now (what you really came here to read) ….
Previously: After finding what Christine kept hidden in her sketchbook - a drawing of his face and her revealing notes on the mystery he urged her to uncover - Erik bitterly removes his mask and reveals that he is the Harvest Monster - thus fulfilling his side of the bargain, what Christine never believed would happen. He then commands that she now fulfill hers: To become his pupil in voice ...Later, as she grapples with the unending shocks of the night and her fear to sing, a frightened Adrienne comes into her bedchamber and reveals to Christine that Thornfield is home to a ghost...
Chapter XXV
Adrienne proved to be a restless sleeper. After the third time kicked, Christine dispensed with any useless attempts at slumber, along with probable bruising to her legs, and quit the bed. Shrugging into her wrapper, she slipped her feet into the somewhat snug, flat-soled bedroom slippers - an extra pair Meg had left with Christine until she could obtain her own. With the beginning of the month having come and gone, she had finally received her first payment as governess but had yet to walk into town to make a purchase there.
And though they would be attending services in the morning, she doubted she would be given the opportunity afterward to stroll through the village and visit the shops, since she was duty-bound by her word to attend her unsolicited first lesson.
The very thought of the imminent ordeal made her mouth go dry and sent gooseflesh skittering across her arms. Feeling suddenly contained, she felt a desperate need to break free, in whatever manner that allowed. With a glance toward the bed, she noted that Adrienne still slept, cozily tucked beneath the blanket. The fire in the hearth burned low, and Christine left the flame of the bedside lamp turned down to a soft glow as well - an assurance should the child awaken - then slipped outside the door, closing it behind her.
A visit to the library would not go amiss, to retrieve another book for Adrienne's education. A second lesson on floriography was tempting, with the benefit of learning more on the subject herself, but the child's fundamental training should first be addressed. Perhaps she would peruse the shelves for another of the bard's works, one more appropriate, since Adrienne did seem to prefer the tales of Shakespeare…
To wile away the remaining hours of the night immersed in a story had its appeal, (so as to check for suitability, of course) and would take her thoughts off being forced to share her voice with another, no matter that he had heard her sing before.
Upon opening the carved double doors, the flames burning low in the hearth should have warned her, along with a few of the oil lamps anchored to the wall and issuing a pale glow. Yet the corridors were often dimly lit at night - (such a deviation from Lindenwood, where candles and oil were scarcely used or allowed) - and here the hearths of the main rooms and bedchambers were often left unattended behind their protective screens, the fires allowed to smolder to embers. So she thought little of the matter, though the hour was surely late. At least past midnight …
She walked to the far end of the room and the shelves there. The black and gold-embossed titles were difficult to see in the shadows, and she turned her attention to adjust the knob on the nearest lamp to a higher flame -
Abruptly she went motionless. Her eyes went wide and she gave a little gasp.
The Maestro sat in the high wingback chair facing away from the doors - and facing her.
Anxious, she waited for what he would say on this intrusion into his domain, having been warned by Madame Fairfax never to enter when he was in residence, unless invited.
The unnerving silence prevailed…
Finding it curious that he said nothing at all, Christine took a slow step forward, peering harder and noting by his uncustomary slump that he must be asleep. A whisky glass dangled from his limp hand, his elbow propped against the chair arm.
Recalling the night of the fire, she wondered if he drank himself into a slumber often and what hardship in his life would bring him to require such drastic methods. He was no drunkard, she had never seen him the least bit affected by wine or spirits and had learned during her time at Thornfield that society accepted such condemned refreshments as routine. Though having sampled, she had decided, except on the rare occasion it might be needful, that the acrid spirits were not for her, the mellow wine taken with meals more to her liking.
Christine stood in a fog of uncertainty, knowing she should forget the book and hurry from the room before he awoke. Knowing she should not linger...Yet like a clueless moth to an intriguing and dangerous flame, she found herself drawing closer, the rug muffling her steps, until she stood directly before him. Her heart thudded hard against her ribcage to take such a bold liberty. To stare freely, as he abhorred, and without his knowledge of her doing so. Yet it was not with horror she looked upon what she could see of his countenance, only a curious fascination to note the change in his face.
He wore the silver half mask, the dying fire glowing a reddish orange against it. The bare part of his face appeared calm, tranquil, the expression lines that bracketed his nose and mouth having softened and making him seem younger than what must be his approximate thirty years. Peaceful, an emotion she had never associated with the Maestro. With… Erik.
She allowed her thoughts to dwell within such familiarity, not daring to bring them to the surface and speak his name aloud. Keeping it safe, hidden within her mind, as she did with each intimate moment they had shared. Imagining the impossibility of addressing him as a friend, more than a friend, of having that right ….
Her face bloomed warm with the thought and looking away at last, Christine noticed what little was left of his drink was in danger of falling from his hand... noticed the long fingers cradling the cut crystal that had tilted at an angle.
Drumming up the courage, aware he could awaken at any moment, she reached down to ease the glass from his loosened grip. In the process, her fingers brushed his hand. The slight contact caused her breaths to quicken, her heart to jump as she looked up to see if he had stirred, and she felt almost lightheaded when she pulled away to set the glass on a side table.
Once more she took the rare opportunity to study his face, the planes and shadows of his exposed features, the strong lines and sensitive curves. Her gaze wandered to the seductive shape of his lips, directly below the hard edge of his mask, and she remembered its chill when twice it had knocked against her cheek - and the warmth of his mouth in its sweet invasion of hers.
A flush of heat rushed through her entire body at the memory, closely followed by the equally forbidden curiosity to wonder how his kiss would feel, absent of the mask.
Both thoughts she immediately stowed to that safe, hidden place inside her mind, before temptation had its way to propel her in what she must not do.
"Monster" he was not, and her heart bled for the boy he'd been, to have been cast out and treated with such cruelty as to have a tale of horror created and spread in the village about him. Surely, though, that abhorrent manner of behavior was all in the past. Surely he did not still suffer from the ignorance of men.
She had observed his guests and the staff regard him with curiosity, due to the mask - sometimes trepidation, since he was master there - but never outward scorn or fear. Why, if not for his deformity, he could have posed for an artist as belonging to the realm of angels. One such as Michael, a warrior angel. She could envision the Maestro's face in oils and wondered if she dared try to capture the idea onto parchment - his masculine form glorious to behold with the sunset ablaze behind him, long feathered wings strong but graceful - brandishing a sword high in the air while mounted on his ghostly white stallion …
Though, after the travesty that followed his discovery of her sketch, perhaps it would be wiser to refrain from such an undertaking.
Knowing she dare not linger lest he should awaken but determined not to leave the chamber empty-handed, Christine retraced her steps back to the shelf of Shakespeare, taking care not to make a sound. It made her task slower, to act with such cautious silence. But she managed and slid several of the leather-bound volumes from the shelf, one at a time, with the intent to carry them back with her and sift through them once she was again ensconced within the seclusion of her bedchamber.
She turned to go - and almost dropped the carefully selected pile of books onto the marble floor.
The chair where he had been sitting was now empty.
Once assured that her mind wasn't playing tricks, she hugged the books to her chest and nervously looked around the chamber. He appeared to have left, with the same silence coupled with an astonishing swiftness that was his trait, not bothering to address her though she would have been in his line of vision.
Had he been upset to find her in this room of literature, what was also his study? He must have been. If it were not so, then Madame Fairfax need never have warned her…
But why had he not spoken?
Hesitantly she approached the closed double doors - more proof that he had left the room since she had kept them open - wary that he now waited outside them to confront her. She reminded herself that she had no cause to be apprehensive. She had done nothing wrong, having gained permission to use the library. She had not known it was occupied at the time and at such a late hour…
Girding herself for what awaited, Christine opened one of the doors to slip through, prepared to give defense if need be.
The dimly lit corridor stood empty, no sign of life in the distance in either direction.
Despite that there was no sign of him, Christine's unease did not fade, and she swiftly made her way down the corridor toward the staircase, wishing only to return to her room. Upon turning the corner, she noticed a dark ghostly figure move toward her from the opposite direction.
She halted in alarm, her heart skipping a beat. The shape in the shadows did not waver, intent on its approach. At the cusp of turning back to flee the way she'd come, Christine noted a familiarity as the cloaked figure drew close to one of the low-lit wall lamps.
"Elita," she breathed in fractured relief. "Whatever are you doing down here so late?"
The young woman gave no reply and Christine realized the hypocrisy of her query, snapped out in frustration of her needless scare. Certainly she did not have the authority to ask what she had no business or desire to know. Perhaps, if they were friends, she might question. Yet the child's nurse had maintained her distance, except when necessity demanded it where Adrienne was concerned, and Christine never tried to cross the gap of polite indifference between them.
"I should tell you, Adrienne is asleep in my bed," Christine went on to say. "She had a nightmare."
Elita nodded and turned to take the stairs. "I will take her to her room."
Surprised by the woman's swift retreat, Christine hurried to say, "There is no need to disturb her slumber. She was very frightened…" Christine hesitated before adding, "She mentioned a ghost that haunts Thornfield."
Elita paused at the stairwell leading to the second flight of stairs and slowly turned. "The girl, she has strong dreams in her head. What you call…" She paused to think. "A vivid imagination."
Christine knew this to be true, but sensed something more was amiss. The woman's behavior seemed nervous, cagey, as if she hid a matter of importance. After her role as schoolmistress at Lindenwood, Christine knew when a lie was fabricated as truth and sensed Elita deceived her. But it made no sense for her to do such a thing. She loved Adrienne, Christine had seen that - surely she could not be the child's ghost! Or rather, the thief that stalked the corridors in the night…
Christine took note of the woman's disheveled hair - upswept and pinned, but looking as if she had been outside in the wind, and again noticed that Elita wore her cloak.
As if aware of her scrutiny, the nursemaid turned and resumed her flight up the staircase. Christine hesitated only a moment before following her.
The woman marched directly into Christine's room and to the bed, putting a hand to the lump of blanket that shielded the child's shoulder and insistently shaking her. "Adrienne - arise, mia bambina."
"Really, it's alright for her to stay."
"No - it is not her place. This does not concern you."
Christine would beg to differ. The child was too old for a nursemaid, and she had been hired as governess, what a girl Adrienne's age needed. But Elita seemed agitated - frightened even - and Christine did not pursue the matter.
She watched as the blanket moved and Adrienne groggily sat up, yawning and rubbing her eyes with her fists. Elita grabbed hold of her arm, urging her haste and speaking to her in rapid Italian.
"Mademoiselle?" the girl asked Christine uncertainly upon spotting her behind her nurse.
Christine gave her a smile to reassure. "I will see you tomorrow."
Once they left the chamber, Christine shivered, for the first time noticing a sharp chill in the air. Her gaze went to the hearth and the red embers beyond the grate, realizing the fire had died out. She set the books on the chair there, intending to stoke the flames back to life.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the curtain gently waft inward and swiftly approached the window, shocked to find it stood ajar. She certainly had done no such thing, not in such cold weather, and assumed it must have been due to the carelessness of one of the maids earlier that day. Though how she had not realized it before made no sense; the fire's earlier warmth must have masked the icy air. She could see her breath where she stood!
She pulled the window inward and fastened the latch, her attention going beyond the frosty pane and noticing movement. She wiped the glass clear with her sleeve.
Again, she stood in curious shock, though this time no true concern lay behind it.
In the distance, on the moon-washed road, a lone figure on horseback slowly traveled away from Thornfield. She did not think it to be the Maestro - the horse appeared dark not pale - but it was evident the mysterious rider had been to the manor, as there was nowhere else to go but the forest on this end.
This late in the night a visit raised suspicion. In the next moment she quelled the foolish thought. No doubt, it was the Maestro's driver, who lived at the gatehouse a short distance from the manor. Certainly his staff of servants were under no curfew and could come and go as they pleased, as the nursemaid clearly had done tonight. Perhaps to meet with the driver …
She really should cease with conjuring mysteries where none were to be had. There were enough secrets to be found at Thornfield.
xXx
The short journey to the chapel was taken by carriage, not on foot this time, no doubt due to the colder weather as well as Adrienne's attendance there. Clearly excited about an outing away from the manor, the girl pressed her small hands and nose to the glass and looked eagerly out the window, causing Christine to wonder how often Adrienne was given the opportunity.
Twice chastised by Elita to sit still on the bench seat, like a proper young lady, the girl managed a sedate posture for only a short time before craning to see again. Once they neared the village, she gave a little squeal to see a girl her age, walking with her parents. As the carriage passed them by, Adrienne emphatically waved, giggling when the girl hesitantly waved back.
The sight pulled at Christine's heartstrings; Adrienne seemed so lonely with no peers for companions. Christine's days at Lindenwood had been harsh but she had been fortunate to have Meg and other girls her age to talk with if she wished, though never to play. Another of those little luxuries forbidden.
The carriage pulled up to the village chapel, and Christine was surprised to see Adrienne's uncle standing outside, his arm still in a sling. As if he'd been waiting for them, he moved directly to the carriage door. Adrienne was the first out and rushed to him, wrapping her small arms around his waist and squeezing him hard.
"You came!" She pulled back, regarding him sternly. "You have been gone ever so long."
"My apologies, mia cara," he said sincerely, his dark eyes then lifting to Elita as he extended his hand to help her down from the carriage. "Signorine," he said softly, his eyes lingering before he turned them with civility to Christine and Madame Fairfax, nodding to each and assisting them in turn.
"You will sit with us?" Adrienne ordered more than asked. "You must! Do say you will."
"Sì, I would like that."
Christine felt a niggle of apprehension that the Maestro might not approve, but could say little under these circumstances. It was a public building, everyone who entered welcome, the bench seats not reserved, and surely he could not disapprove of a church meeting. Besides, he had allowed the man to visit Adrienne at Thornfield, with Christine present, so she did not see this situation as being that much different.
At the opening hymn, she followed along inside her mind, at first, what words she knew, and barely allowed her voice to issue forth when she felt assured that Madame Fairfax's boisterous singing would drown out Christine's own mild participation. Twice she felt eyes on her and looked over the shorter woman's head to catch Elita staring at Christine. Each time, the nursemaid quickly brought her attention back to the pulpit. Adrienne sat between her uncle and nursemaid and a few surreptitious glances Christine gave after that showed Elita and Adrienne's uncle exchanging meaningful glances over the child's head.
Well then… Clearly from all she had seen the two knew each other well.
During the service, Christine forced herself to cease with studying the congregation, to relax and listen. The message that 'Man looketh on the outward appearance but God looketh on the heart,' brought the master of Thornfield to mind and how he had been reviled for his face, mocked, ridiculed - and made into a ghostly tale. She felt horrid for those wretched things unwittingly said when she had recounted her own frightful experience with the haunting of the Harvest Monster. How she must have wounded him to say such degrading words! She thought back to that day when she divulged her miserable experience in the dark attic, recalling how he had gone so silent, his face white…
Surreptitiously wiping away a tear, she silently vowed to look past his ofttimes surly attitude and inward, to his heart, which she had found could be benevolent. Generous. Consoling…
He could be domineering, yes, even intimidating - striking fear into those who made no attempt to know him. But he would never harm or belittle her, this she knew. He had proven that on the night of the fire and countless times since. She could trust him with her secrets and with her voice. He had furtively elicited her surrender, contrary to her will, though his methods were just through the bargain made - but now Christine made the choice:
She would sing for him.
xXx
Later, at Thornfield, as Christine drew near the music room where he had told her to be at the appointed time, all previous qualms gathered strength in their numbers to volley her fragile confidence, so newly built, and lay it to waste.
Taking a deep breath, reminded of her resolve, she knocked lightly on the door. At the immediate command to enter, she hesitated, again deeply inhaled, and turned the latch.
The Maestro sat on the bench in front of his piano, ready to proceed, his head turned expectantly to see her standing on the threshold. That image - along with the sure knowledge that the fated hour had come upon her - shattered the weak foundation of her poise and she blurted the first thing that came to mind.
"I must speak with you about what happened last night."
He tilted his chin upward a discouraging notch, his expression grim, and though he was seated at a level below where she stood, Christine felt as though he looked down upon her and not the other way around.
"Indeed."
Not an auspicious beginning, but Christine floundered onward.
"Yes, well, it's about Adrienne…"
A flicker of what seemed surprise lit his eyes, as if he expected her to say something else, and immediately Christine was reminded of her nighttime visit to his library.
The memory did little to boost her courage; in fact it addled her train of thought.
"Perhaps it would be more expedient to hold this conversation while inhabiting the same room."
Her face flushed with warmth at his droll suggestion.
"Come inside, mademoiselle, and close the door. Must I forever have to tell you?"
Her movements awkward, Christine did as directed, remaining where she stood, her back almost touching the carved wood panel.
Lifting his hand, he beckoned her forward with two swift curls of his index finger.
His manner was fluid, calm, while her nerves were all a-jitter.
When she awkwardly stopped a little more than halfway toward him, he resumed with a slow, graceful bend of his hand and sweeping curl of two fingers, pulling her steadily forward as if with invisible strings, until she stood close enough that she could reach out and touch him. His eyes caught the flames of the nearby candelabra, intensifying the gold of his irises beyond the black mask he wore, similar to his choice the night they met on the road. This one had dark silver etchings faintly rimming the outer side - artistic but subdued - and briefly she wondered just how many different masks he owned.
She swallowed. "I, um…yes." She forced her mind to focus and put thought to words. "About Adrienne. She had a scare in the night, what I thought a nightmare, but she insists it was not. That she was awake and the apparition was a ghost. A woman who stood near her bed and watched her but fled when she saw the girl was awake…"
She was making chaos out of her words, but before she could seek to be more coherent, he spoke.
"The girl has a vivid imagination."
"Yes, her nursemaid said the same." The exact words she realized, almost as if she had been coached. "But I, too, have experienced the feeling of being watched and have heard distant voices - well, a voice - and strange noises in the night. Weeping and laughter - I think I told you. I originally thought it might be Hazel Bleu, out to create more trouble - as I'm almost certain she must have been the one to steal my mirror. But Adrienne mentioned the woman had dark hair, down to her waist, and Hazel Bleu's hair is grey -"
"I assure you, mademoiselle…" His voice came calm but with a steel hint of warning. "I will look into the matter. You need concern yourself no further."
Frustrated, Christine just managed to curb her tongue from asking if this time he truly would look into the situation, as he told her he would before. Clearly he had not done so, since Hazel Bleu was still in residence there. Christine had not seen the woman a second time, but overheard recent talk between Madame Fairfax and a maid of the need to acquire the seamstress/washerwoman's help with the replacement of bed hangings...
"Is there anything else about last night you wish to address?"
His tone was smooth as silk, but his eyes held a demand, almost a challenge. It was foolish to pretend nothing occurred when they both knew it did.
"I didn't know you would be there. I thought I was alone," she added needlessly. She wished she knew what he was thinking. "Why did you not say anything?"
"You seemed determined to act with stealth and slip away undetected. I decided to pay back in kind."
She inhaled a swift breath, his dry words suggesting that he had been aware of her actions, and she wondered how long he had been awake to notice them. But in this, her courage failed her to ask.
"If there is nothing else - "
"I should like to go into town," she blurted the next thing that came to mind. "To shop. Perhaps, afterward, to visit my father's grave."
He narrowed his eyes as if he well realized her stalling tactics. "The gatehouse is down the road, where my driver resides. I have instructed that he is to take you wherever you wish to go. The carriage is at your disposal. You have only to ask him."
"I have no wish to deprive you, if I should make use of it when you need it. How will I know? Do you wish me to seek you out first?"
"There is no need. I prefer to ride Cesar."
"Thank you," she said softly, once again struck by his kindness.
"And now…"
"About Adrienne's uncle - he was at the service today and sat with us. He seems quite keen on the nurse." Her face warmed at his riveting stare. "I, um, I thought you would want to know, since you asked me to keep an eye on matters concerning them. Adrienne and her uncle, that is…"
The part about Elita had slipped out, unaware, and as soon as she said the words, she wished she could retrieve them. She felt a snitch - as her pupils at Lindenwood had called their peers who tattled - but desperately sought for any topic to air and had given little heed to how she did so.
"That is not a surprise." His words came more clipped than before. "Adrienne's nursemaid and her uncle have known one another since they were children."
"Oh. Well, there is the matter of - "
"Enough of this! Anything more you have to tell me can be addressed later. It is time for your lesson."
His strident command had her shrink back in worry, and she closed her eyes, once again reminding herself of her earlier decision to sing for him.
xXx
Erik gravely watched as she seemed to wilt and reminded himself that he must exercise patience with her, a difficult trait to establish on a good day and one with which he was not familiar. However, he had no wish to scare his little songbird away, now that he had her within his grasp, and she looked ready to fly out of the room and through the door at the slightest provocation.
As much as he wished to dive right into the music, to hear her voice and begin to shape it to sublime perfection, he realized that with Christine, he would need to use a different approach. He must tread slowly, carefully. He could not bark at her in his frustration, as he had done with Adrienne, and yet realized that, so much a part of his nature, neither could he help himself if and when his irritation should reach its limits. As this vexing commencement of a prelude to her lesson had shown him, it was more than certain to happen again.
This would first need to be addressed.
"Mademoiselle, I am not a patient man. No doubt you are well aware of this in the time you have known me, but when it comes to music, my… flaw, if you will, increases tenfold."
Her eyes opened at that, curious and full of questions, though she maintained her silence.
"I tell you this now, so that in future if I scold you and thereby wound your feelings, you will remember these words: Your voice is a rare diamond I wish to craft, with the expertise it requires to sparkle in possession of the clear-cut beauty it is meant to have. If I should raise my voice or become what you deem unnecessarily harsh in my displeasure - know that it is never that I believe you to be lacking in talent. It is because of your talent that I wish to train you, in the only manner I know, and will do so to the best of my ability."
Throughout his solemn discourse, her expression of uncertainty led to mild wonder. She glanced at the floor, as if in thought, then her eyes flicked back to his.
"I am no stranger to harsh words, monsieur, your actions will not frighten me away. And while I cannot promise to be the student you require, having never been taught such things…I will attempt to allow you to teach me, to the best of my ability."
"Excellent. Then we understand each other." He smiled for the first time since she entered the room. "If you would please stand in the curve of the piano…" He motioned to the area. "First, I wish to discover your range."
She did as directed, standing sideways and looking toward the window.
"Turn and face me."
Startled, she turned only her head. "Must I?"
Patience would indeed be a rare commodity with this kind of preamble to their lesson.
He expelled a weary breath. While playing he would need to look up and take note of her stance, among other things, for correction to give, but supposed at this stage he could forego the matter.
"Very well. For now. I will play a note and I wish you to emulate it, so that I may discern your range. Let us begin."
He played a middle C. The barest peep left her lips. Frowning, he moved up another note. Another peep. He moved up the scale, the peeps coming even softer with each key struck, if that were possible. He removed his hand from the keyboard.
"Mademoiselle, you are not a ghost."
This got her attention and she turned fully toward him. "A ghost, monsieur?"
"What else am I to surmise with the faint wisps of breath in the distant notes you give?"
She bristled and he was pleased to see a grain of her feistiness push forward. Spirit was good; it might give fire to her voice.
"Again, please. Louder this time - no, stay exactly as you are," he said when she began to turn back to the window. "As your teacher, I need to see you as you sing."
She frowned and closed her eyes. When she made no move to open them, he shook his head but resumed his direction.
This time, when he played, he could at least hear her brief echoes of his notes, still faint but audible. He nodded to himself, pleased but not surprised that she managed the next octave of notes with little effort. A soprano then, as he had thought … She strained slightly in the midst of the second octave, her notes breathy, partially because she tried to keep her voice barely heard, but with training, no doubt would accomplish the proper breathing skills and elocution to hit the coloratura notes with ease. It would take time to reach such a lofty goal ...
He took his hand from the keyboard and looked up, noting a few small beads of perspiration dotted her forehead in a face that seemed too pale.
A great deal of time.
Clearly for her this was an ordeal, what he wished to make a pleasure. How to go about such a feat was the dilemma. The music had been seized from her at such a young age by those incompetent fools, and she had been taught to fear it, or rather, her voice. That much was evident. And he resolved to do all within his power to destroy such foolish and groundless fears and give her reason to covet its glorious presence.
Deciding to forego the usual vocal exercises, this once, he addressed her with something else in mind.
"Let us start with a song with which you are familiar… any song you would like… is there nothing that comes to mind?" he added a bit tersely when she continued to remain silent.
She gave a halfhearted shrug. "I don't remember much from the days of traveling with my father. I am familiar with a few hymns, but only by the notes I learned to play on the piano, very few words. Not much else."
"You have no memory of any songs," he repeated in disbelief. He had cause to doubt her words, recalling another song whose distant strains he had heard in the forest, when he did not yet know she was the Angel he had been seeking.
"Music was not allowed at Lindenwood. The church we were made to attend on the Sabbath did not have hymns played there, did not have any music at all - not until two years ago. But…" She looked down at her feet. "I don't know all the words to any of those songs either."
He shook his head in somber astonishment, mentally consigning every one of those insipid, self-righteous fools, who had been undeserving to have such an angel under their care, to the same fiery inferno with which they had no doubt terrified the young Christine.
He sighed to see her so miserable. "Very well then - the song of the Angel. We both are aware you know that one well."
Her uncertain gaze snapped up to his, but she managed a nervous nod.
He played the intro. She near-whispered the opening line.
"A little louder, if you please. I need to hear you over the notes I play."
Her second attempt increased in volume only marginally, the lyrics soon fading to a distant murmur, as if her mind did not connect to her words, and he glanced up to see her gaze fixed inside the casing and on the wooden hammers that flew up and down as he played the chords.
"Attention on me, Miss Daaé."
She jumped a little, her eyes going to his face then immediately focusing downward to a point past his shoulder. Her song did not improve, and he caustically wondered if perhaps she now counted the swirls in his Persian carpet.
He lifted his hands into the air above the keys and rapidly flexed them into fists three times in repetition, desperately seeking to hold onto the shred of patience that yet remained.
"Right." He studied her a moment. "We will try a different method. I want you to pretend -"
"Pretend?" she asked before he could elaborate, as if she had never before heard the word, though he had directed her to do so once before, at the cliff by the sea.
"Pretend, yes. Despite that you grew up at such a lackluster establishment," he could think of words much more fitting to describe such a place but kept it within the bonds of politesse, "I would venture a guess that there were times you imagined yourself elsewhere. Perhaps closing your eyes while dreaming of those occasions and imagining yourself to be there."
She gave a slight nod, almost looking guilty.
"That is what I wish for you to do now. Close your eyes and surrender to those coveted dreams that fill your mind and heart. Forget all else around you, and allow your voice to pour forth through music..."
Again they attempted her song while he played. Although there was a marked improvement, often her eyes would flutter open, as if she could not help herself, and she would then falter in her words. This, too, seemed doomed to fail, and he searched through the fast dwindling repertoire of ideas in his mind, when one rather unorthodox stroke of genius that boded of desperation came to him.
He ceased with playing and put his hands to his ascot, untying the knot there. Her eyes widened in apprehensive shock and she took a small step backward.
"Wh-what are you doing?"
"I am helping you to achieve your goal."
He rose from the bench. She backed up another step.
Erik shook his head grimly as he steadily walked around the bend of the piano, her anxious reaction causing him to feel much like a dangerous cat stalking a fretful canary. Again he struggled not to rise to impatience.
"Do you no longer trust me, mademoiselle?"
She looked down at his hands and the long strip of maroon cloth he held.
"What do you need that for?" she asked guardedly.
"This?" He looked down at the stretch of silk between two fists. "Why, to use as a blindfold, of course." He raised a sardonic brow. "Did you suspect me of foul intent?"
"A blindfold?"
"A fold of cloth used to blind the eyes," he explained dryly.
"I know what it is - but what I don't understand is why you wish to use that on me?"
"To help you achieve the pretense needed, without the distractions that so easily beset you," he said smoothly.
Her eyes wary, she continued to watch him as he drew near, her head turning to follow his movements.
"Relax," he softly commanded, taking a step to the side so that he was directly behind and bringing the silk over her eyes. She gasped as he tied the cloth in a gentle but firm knot against her skull then stepped back around to peer at her face. He made small adjustments, tugging the cloth so that it fully covered up to her brows and rested above her cheeks, with no gaps for her to peek through.
Her rosy mouth parted further in bewilderment, and his attention lowered to it. Out of nowhere came a powerful urge to lean down and kiss those vulnerable, trembling lips, to revisit their sweetness… with her sight thus restrained, to remove his mask and kiss her deeply without the hindrance of hard leather scraping against such delicate flesh…
Swiftly he stepped back, then spun around to the piano before he could follow through with the forbidden desire.
With the mask, he'd given in once. Twice. Never again.
His opening notes came too hurried for her to join in properly, and he broke off to give them both a moment's calm, before proceeding.
"As you sing, I want you to envision how the words make you feel, where you imagine yourself to be while singing them. Perhaps at the window, looking out to sea or up at the stars. Or in a field of wildflowers as you once journeyed with your father and sang as he played his violin…"
She gasped. "How - how could you know…"
"I hazarded a guess from what you have told me and what I have seen. Let us continue…"
At first, he could detect a slight improvement, but all too soon her words became uncertain, her voice again fading as if she wished to disappear…
And a revelation struck him - perhaps if she was not alone in the music, she would not feel so vulnerable in the notes.
Without ceasing to play, he, too, began to sing the song of the Angel that so softly fluttered from her lips.
xXx
A/N: Ah, Erik…let us hope you have found the key. At last, you sing for her.
We shall soon see… ;-)