Page 25 of Angel's Kiss
She released a shaking sigh, a deeper sound of relief and delight hiding behind it. She didn’t struggle or move as he pushed away the cloth covering her breast, exposing her tingling skin. Was it silent or was he singing to her again? His music encircled her like fog, his voice sang in that strange tongue. And he touched her. At last, he touched her, firmly and fully, and she moaned, her blood singing back to him.
She felt the weight of him upon her, with her, between the sheets. She heard him whisper her name, then sing it, an entreaty and a command all at once. And it was so easy to obey, spreading her legs as his hand slid down her belly, fingers carding through the hair that veiled her sex and... Yes. Finally. She bit back a moan as he found her, but not with his hands. It was only when he thrust into her that she opened her eyes.
She saw death itself above her, but she could not scream with his hand wrapped around her throat.
Christine sprang from her sheets, her eyes truly open now, as she gasped for breath. She quaked as she scrambled out of the bed, reeling from the intensity of the dream. She was safe and alone in her room and her door was still securely closed. She found herself in the gilded bath chamber and splashed her face and chest with freezing water to wash away the recollection, even as her body continued to ache shamefully for the imagined touch, which made her horror at the memory of his face all the more acute.
She had to be going mad; her days with Erik prizing away what little sense she had. It would be a relief to go home to her own flat tonight, where she could catch her breath and sort out what the hell she was doing with her strange teacher or what he wanted from her. And yet she felt no satisfaction at the end of her promised time with Erik.
Christine looked at her clock as she returned to her room. It was well into the morning, late enough that Erik might be up and about; though she was never sure when, or if, he slept. If she went out to find him, would he read her dreams from her face?
Cowed by even the possibility of him discerning from a blush or a sigh that she had been dreaming aboutthat, Christine took her time dressing. She made sure the laces of her corset were tight and every button of her mauve dress up to her chin was secure, as if she could rein in the deceit of her wanton body with enough fabric and determination. Her resolve vanished as soft music drifted to her ears from the parlor. It was the violin again today.
Christine emerged quietly, hoping to steal as much time as possible to take in the art of the virtuoso with whom she had shared a roof for the last few days. She adored listening to him on the organ and piano and harp, but there was something about watching him play the same instrument as her father that transported her to another world.
Today’s piece was like listening to a storm, a jagged melody rising and falling like waves. It was somehow familiar and yet like nothing she had ever heard. Christine lost herself in it as she watched Erik’s skilled fingers fly over the strings and the fluid, rapid motion of his bow. And if she was blushing when he finally noticed her, it was because of the music and nothing else.
He was not alarmed at her presence today at least, which meant he kept playing. Erik held her gaze, the violin singing under his touch like a wild, ravished thing. It made Christine’s mouth go dry, her pulse beginning to race in tempo with the music. In some ways Erik was so elusive, shy even, but when he was in the mood to show off, it was spectacular. The melody rose to a glorious, sweeping crescendo, and Christine nearly leapt to her feet to applaud. But Erik was still staring at her, his breath coming too quickly, and suddenly she couldn’t move.
“Was that one of yours?” Christine asked, not trying to conceal her awe.
“Yes, a variation on an old melody that’s been in my head,” Erik replied, looking away towards where a pile of half-finished music sat on the piano.
“It sounded familiar. Was it something you’ve played me before?”
“Sung,” Erik replied with a tense nod. From deep in his throat came a fragment of the melody and Christine suppressed a shudder at the sound. “Siúil, siúil, siúil a ruin. Siúil go socar agus siúil go ciúin...” She remembered now: the first song he had sung to her as an angel to lull her to sleep. “It’s an old folk tune.”
“From where?” Christine asked, eager and entranced. “That language, it’s the one you sing in all the time. What is it?”
Erik’s hands were tight on the violin and bow as he avoided Christine’s eyes for a long beat. “It’s Gaelic. Irish Gaelic. The tune is an Irish song.”
“Irish?” Christine echoed in fascination, stepping closer on instinct. Erik tensed at the movement. “Have you traveled there too? I confess, Ireland feels as distant to me as India.”
“I have, briefly,” Erik replied in the melancholy tone which told Christine there was much more to the story than he wanted to share. But today she was determined to dig more out of him. At the end of their time, wasn’t she owed that much?
“Long enough to learn the language? It seems special to you.”
“No, I learned it from...” Erik turned to her, his eyes full of clear pain. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me,” Christine countered.
Erik responded by setting down his instrument with surprising force, his hands splayed on the piano’s lid, tense and tight as the strings beneath. “It’snot important.”
“Can I tell you something I’ve only ever told one other person?” Christine blurted out, and Erik turned to her in confusion. “My father was illegitimate. I told you he was only Roma on his mother’s side. I’m sure you know how uncommon that is. Her name was Aud, my grandmother. When she was sixteen, she met a boy in a town that the caravan visited. Somewhere near Oslo. I don’t know if he was her first love or if he...” Christine swallowed, the shame of it still burning after all these years. “Papa never talked about it much. But all that man left my grandmother with was a babe in her belly and a name. Daaé.”
“The Roma aren’t welcoming of that sort of thing,” Erik remarked, still guarded. “It had to have been hard for her.”
“It was unclean, yes,” Christine replied. “But her parents let Aud stay, even though she was tainted. She gave her little Stellan his father’s name. But it was hard for her, and she died when Papa was still a boy. He wasn’t welcomed among The People after that. But he could play the violin, and he played himself into a real music school, then into one fair and orchestra after another, all the way from the north and down into France. He played for the ballet in Nice, where he met a dancer named Michelle and fell in love with her. But her parents wouldn’t allow her to marry a poor, half-Roma musician. Her career was bad enough. But nothing could stop them.”
Erik had turned to her fully now. Were his brows furrowed behind this mask as he watched a fool babbling in front of him?
“They eloped, moved to the closest thing my father had to native soil, found a house near Upsala, and made a life. A year later I arrived. Mama wanted to name me after her mother, Pauline, but Papa said we should honor my grandfather, Christian, instead, so I was named Christine.” She waited for Erik to react or say something, but he only stared, his lips shut tight.
“Papa had learned all sorts of languages among the Roma and in France,” Christine went on. “But Mama only knew French, so I grew up speaking all of it. Papa says I’d switch from Swedish to French to Romani in a single sentence sometimes. But I’ve forgotten most of it now.” Christine swallowed, old grief welling up inside her.
“When Mama died, Papa couldn’t stay in one place anymore. He had wandering in his blood, he said. We went back to France and to Mama’s parents, and they kept me for a few years, on and off. They only ever let me speak French there. But then they died too, and it was only me and Papa. He tried to reteach me, but I was too old. Now it feels like there is this missing piece of me.” Christine shook her head. “Which is a long way of saying thatit matters. If that tongue is special enough for you to sing, it has to matter. I wish you would tell me why.”
Erik stared at her, an ocean of sadness in his shining eyes. He opened his mouth, as if the words were finally on the tip of his tongue. But Christine made a mistake: she stepped closer and reached out her hand. Erik flinched away.
