Unmasked (4 page)

Unbidden thoughts came then, about what might
happen between us here, in this world of permissive darkness.
Thoughts of him kissing my hand again, his soft lips brushing the
inside of my wrist, whispering above the surface of my neck,
caressing my heated lips. Perhaps even quelling a deeper
fluttering...

I jolted myself out of these romantic
fancies. I firmly reminded myself that men, especially ones
possessed of fine physiques such as Erik’s, do not lavish affection
on one such as I. He wanted companionship, that was all. Someone to
dispel the loneliness. I was to be his Persephone, nothing
more.

“For a time,” I said, irritated at the catch
in my breath. I had thought my reserve to be impenetrable, but his
flattery was intoxicating. Sometimes I wished that I would grow old
quickly, so that being old, fat, and ugly, I should finally lose
all hope of having someone falling in love with me, and never again
be plagued by these romantic fancies that crush me with
disappointment. “We shall keep each other company for a time,” I
said, acutely aware once again of that metal door slamming shut on
my heart.

He nodded curtly and left me in the
chamber.

The room, so lavishly furnished with romantic
opulence, seemed remarkably empty now that he’d left. I looked
around. It was decorated with great love and attention to the
comfort of its occupant. I saw his touch in every article, from the
jeweled hairbrush to the Oriental silks on the bed, all placed in
reverent care of the woman for whom it was really intended.

Christine
Daaé
.

I could not tell when morning arrived;
sunlight dared not encroach upon the Phantom’s lair. I remained
abed, bathing in the syrupy languor brought on by the memory of my
conversations with Erik.

My thoughts turned again to the woman he had
been smitten with, the woman whose bed I now occupied. I could not
fathom the nature of the kind of love that makes a man pursue even
the one who hurts him. It would be akin to my loving the blacksmith
who moo’d at me whenever I walked past his shop. How beautiful must
this Christine have been to drive a hardened man like Erik to such
extremes of longing?

I went looking for him and found him in what
appeared to be a conservatory. The room had an unloved feeling, the
instruments dusty with neglect. He came to the door to greet
me.

“Good morning. Was the bed to your liking?”
He was wearing a richly colored dressing gown and a pasha’s cap,
reminiscent of his time in the Orient.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a
breakfast for you in the other room. I trust it shall be dark
enough.”

I was at once touched by the gesture and
embarrassed by it. I didn’t wish to eat in a corner like an animal,
but this man had shown a sensitivity to my feelings, and I chose to
be grateful. Anxious to converse with Erik, I raced through my
meal.

I found him back in his conservatory. He was
tearing the room apart.

“Have you lost something?” I asked.

He stopped and gave me a long measuring
stare. “To the contrary,” he said softly. “I think I have found
something quite extraordinary.”

I wondered at his meaning as he continued.
“There is much I have to collect from the world above. For one
thing, I seem to have run out of parchment.” It was then I noticed
the sheaf of papers tucked under his arm lined and dotted with
musical notation. Just then, he overturned a heavy volume, under
which lay a stack of paper. “Ah, here we are.”

“What are you doing?”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I am
committing ‘Paulette’ to paper.”

Blinking in disbelief, I took the sheets from
him. Inscribed at the top, in a fine bold hand, was the title of
the piece:
The Resurrection
. Beneath it, just above the
lines of music, were the words, “Paulette’s Song.”

I smiled at the tribute. It pleased me that
such a man would honor me, of all people. There were pages upon
pages of music, the same unearthly music that had enraptured both
of us last night. I turned the pages over delicately, letting the
notes rise from the page and float around me like freed
butterflies.

I turned to him, a thousand thank-you's
forming on my lips. I looked incredulously at the man who stood
before me. As he stood there, absorbed in the task of sharpening a
feather quill with a large dagger, I felt the wall around my heart
– the one I had spent a lifetime building – crack. Those tender
feelings, the ones I never voiced, bubbled up inside me.

But just as I opened my mouth, I saw
her
.

Tacked to the wall behind him was a dusty
poster of the opera he had written, and on it was depicted the
image of its star, his beloved Christine. She was even more
beautiful than I had imagined her, her face illuminated by an
angelic beauty. Her eyes were unapproachably lovely, like a doe’s
eyes, soft and full of passionate mystery. Her mouth was sensual
and full, begging to be kissed. Her hair fell down her back in
sensual curls. And her figure…

My feelings of delight turned cold, dampened
by the thought of him laughing to himself at how easily he tricked
me. I cursed myself for a fool at my romantic sentiments, and
bricked up the hole on my heart. “Are you in the habit of writing
songs for all the ladies who come here?”

His blade stilled. The mask turned to me.
“What do you mean?”

I swallowed hard. “That song. Does it by
chance go by any other name? I mean, is it your custom to trap
women in this place and play some hackneyed tune so they will want
to stay with you?”

He stood up and advanced toward me, knife in
hand. “Are you implying that my creation is some sort of sordid
lure to enthrall women? Is that what you think?”

I had to know. “Is it?”

“Only two women have ever been down to these
depths and lived. You very nearly weren’t one of them. As for my
music, I wouldn’t denigrate my talents for such an ignoble aim. The
sacrifices I have made for my music are beyond your comprehension.
It is above any price, any pleasure, any thing. It sickens me that
you thought less of it.”

There was no time to scream. He raised the
knife in his fist and drove it down. I closed my eyes, and my heart
stopped. I felt the blade whisk by my head, and embed itself on the
table beside me. My eyes flew open. He had severed the quill in
twain.

He snatched the sheets from my slick hands,
and stormed off. The parchment crumpled in his angry fists,
crushing the ethereal notes of “Paulette’s Song,” and with an angry
grunt, he flung them into the fire.

I reacted on pure instinct. I threw myself on
the hearth and gingerly plucked the pages from the fire. The flames
devoured the paper at an alarming rate, and I tried to stamp them
out against the fabric at my bosom. My hands screamed from the
heat, but I had to rescue the exquisite, precious notes that were
created for me.

Only me.

I felt him lifting me in his arms as I
strained to pull one last sheet from the fire.

“Oh, Erik, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I
said. I loved that piece, really I did. I just couldn’t believe you
were offering such a beautiful thing to me. I was afraid you were
deceiving me. All I could think of was your lady friend. Please
forgive me.”

I thought he would be angry with me, but he
simply smiled. His face changed when he did so – even the hard
lines of his mask seemed to soften. “Oh, chérie. Do you mean to
tell me that you were jealous over me?”

I blinked away my tears. Jealousy and
insecurity were my lifelong torturers, though I tried never to give
them voice. Again, that painful feeling of vulnerability gripped
me, and I felt naked in his arms.

He plucked the charred bits of paper from my
hands and let them flutter to the floor. His warm, strong hands
pried open mine, still red and stinging from where the fire seared
them, and placed long, gentle kisses on my fingertips.

I dare not speak the womanly sensations his
tender ministrations stirred in me. Though his lips felt cool on
the burning flesh of my hands, they kindled a fire somewhere else
on my body. I closed my eyes, hoping he could not read the turn my
mind had taken.

“You have conferred upon me a great honor,
one I shall always remember. That you would reach into the fire to
save my symphony from destruction…I never forget a sacrifice.”

He was so close now. My hands were imprisoned
in his, and he held them against the solid wall of his chest. His
shoulders loomed over my head, and the nearness of his body sparked
a vague warning in me. His face was just inches from mine, and I
could see him clearly now, more so than ever. The jaw, solid and
square, darkened by the promise of tomorrow’s beard…dark sideburns,
like black columns along his head…thick black lashes fringing the
impossibly blue eyes.

Curious that I did not notice the mask.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured. His eyes
regarded me intently from the shadows of the mask, and I was forced
to look away. “Why?”

I pulled my hands free. “I do not know.”

“Yes, you do. When the pulse races, the
breath quickens, the mind flusters…these are ways that the body
conveys fear.” He lifted my downturned chin. “Or love.”

Something inside me unclenched. His eyes,
those amazing blue eyes, searched mine. His voice became a
whisper.

“Do you fear me?”

Though it would cost me every shred of pride,
the weight of the truth was too much to bear.

Silently, I shook my head.

His chest filled with a tortured breath, his
expression a mirror image of mine. Tremulously, he lowered his
head, his lips thirsty for mine. His eyes became silken slits as he
waited for me to finish the journey he had begun. Although a
thousand uncertainties raced through my mind – familiar voices
pummeling me with doubts – of one thing I was certain: I wanted
this kiss more than anything I have ever wanted.

Slowly, I raised my mouth to his, half
believing he would suddenly disappear and I would find myself back
at Grand-mère’s cottage waking from this exotic dream. But the
moment our lips touched, I felt resplendently awake. All my senses
came alive in that instant, as if I had been living inside a glass
globe that now lay shattered about me. This man – this strange,
hypnotic, alluring man – was breathing life into me, and it rushed
through every vein.

Our lips parted, and I thought I would perish
for want of him. The nose of his mask brushed against my cheek, his
lips feathering my jaw. The scent of his warm flesh, so musky and
masculine, unleashed something primitive in me. I scrambled to rein
it in.

“I’m sorry I’m not more like Christine. I’m
not beautiful, or talented, or charming. I’ve none of the things
you prize.”

Shame dampened his voice. “I allowed myself
to be seduced by her beauty, it’s true. But such beauty cloys, like
a too-sweet perfume. There was very little substance to her beyond
the attractive shell, like cut roses decaying in the very instant
their beauty is being contemplated. You possess something that is
infinitely more valuable to me. Honesty, virtue, compassion. It
took me many years of solitude to learn, but it’s finally become
clear to me.” His finger stroked my cheek. “Kindness, not beauty,
is a woman’s most attractive feature.”

All my life, I had yearned to hear three
words:
You are beautiful
. Now Erik, in his own way, had
expressed it to me. Something thrummed within me.

I glanced at Christine’s image in the poster.
So different, so
deformed
, was I, that I felt sorry for
Erik. He should have been given that one pleasure in his sad,
neglected life. He should have been allowed the touch of her lithe,
slender body. He didn’t deserve one such as I.

“You always demand the truth from me, Erik,
so speak it now. Could you really come to care for someone like
me?”

“Care for you?” he asked, surprised by my
question. “I worship you.”

His mouth descended, and he placed the
gentlest, most reverent kiss upon my lips. What sweet nectar was
this? That a man could love me in spite of my flaws…could I do as
much for myself?

I returned the kiss with passion.

I do not think it possible to describe the
enchantment of the next few weeks. Erik was a study in contrasts,
possessing both the engineer’s analytical adroitness and the
artist’s ability to harness and translate emotion. His superior
intellect was but the least of his attributes, for he was generous
and companionable, as attentive to my present comfort as he was
sympathetic to my past. As time went on, our conversations
lengthened and deepened, and we never tired of each other’s
company. It seemed the more I shared, the more he hungered for. I
was mesmerized by his power, for he could obtain anything I asked
of him, and accomplish anything he set his mind to. He was like an
exotic gem carved into myriad facets, and I longed to explore each
one. Each day that passed, I felt more drawn to him, more
infused
with him, until I could barely remember a day before
we met.

Erik shared the secrets of the labyrinth with
me, and he showed me the entire opera house as no one else had seen
it. One day, a Monday, I think, I had just come from exploring the
opera house from within, using the skeleton of the foundation as
Erik had taught me. I found him at the pipe organ, a huge
mechanical animal that filled the underground chambers with
music.

"Come to the surface, Eric," I suggested.
"There is no one about now. We have the whole opera house to
ourselves."

"Not tonight."

I was disappointed. I had remained below with
him for some time, and I was growing weary of the opera house
altogether. I wanted to see Paris in its full glory, by night, as
Erik used to. Perhaps if I could persuade him away from this
dungeon, he might shake off the irritability he had manifested of
late.