by J. Smith
His breath caught in his chest. Why would she carry his rose with her? She did not seem to be the type of girl who walked around with flowers in her hair. In fact, there had never been even the hint of such vanity any of the other times he had seen her—she was always so modest and meek, almost trying to detract attention from herself. But today, she wore his rose. Could it be that it…meant something to her?
Carlotta gave a little flinch and a yowl of pain when her fidgeting caused Christine's needle to miss and nick her skin. “Be careful, you fumbling fool!” she bellowed, rounding on her, raising her hand as if to strike. Erik's eyes narrowed and he felt his fingers curl into fists. If that sow dared to lay her hands on his Christine once more… His own thoughts hit him hard in the chest, momentarily distracting him. His Christine? Jenna's words echoed in his ears, “…It is obvious that you love Christine.” Was she right?
Christine's own trembling voice brought him back to the present. “Signora,” she pleaded, “just be still and my needle will not touch you.”
“Your needle had better not touch me, impertinent brat, if you know what's good for…” Carlotta's disdain laden tirade stopped short as she too noticed the delicate bloom tucked into Christine's tresses. “What is this?” she demanded, as she inelegantly pulled the rose from behind the girl's ear.
A look of pure distress washed over Christine's features. “Please Signora,” she begged, reaching her hand out toward the diva, “give it back.”
“Where would you have gotten a rose, little wench?” she asked, moving away, holding the flower just out of Christine's grasp, her voice dripping with scorn. “Are you a trollop as well as a dolt?”
Erik felt a low growl rumbling in his chest. The diva was playing with fire, and so help him, if she continued this abuse of Christine, she would be burned.
“Signora, no,” Christine implored, continuing to reach for the bloom that was still tied with the black ribbon. “It was no gentleman caller.”
“Then where?” Carlotta again insisted haughtily, holding the rose even farther away from the desperate seamstress.
The other actors and the conductor had all taken a step away from the pair, watching the scene with curiosity. They had seen La Carlotta dispatch underlings before, with her wicked temper and her unholy tantrums. Erik held his breath. Once again, Christine was in an impossible position because of him. He waited to hear if she would tell—if she would reveal her Angel of Music to this bullying diva, as she had to her ballerina friend.
Christine lowered her gaze and stared at the floor. “I cannot say, Signora.”
Carlotta's eyes began to darken and she tilted her head, as if in realization. “You have been in my dressing room.”
Christine looked up at the diva and her eyes flashed in horror, “No!”
“Of course you have! You need to go there to collect the mending—not that you do any of it right!” she spat at Christine, moving a bit closer to her.
Christine backed away, “Yes, Signora, but—”
“Carlotta,” the tenor Piangi approached, placing his hands on her shoulders in an effort to calm her down.
“No, Ubaldo!” she declared, shrugging him off of her easily, and continuing her advance on Christine. “You stole from me!”
“No!” Christine shook her head back and forth.
“This is my flower—I earned it with my hard work on the stage,” she bellowed at her. “And you, in your jealousy, and your knowledge that you will never amount to anything, decide to take it for yourself!?”
“No! Signora, please…” Christine stumbled back in her efforts to get away from the incensed soprano, and fell, a quivering mass, onto the stage.
“Well, nobody steals from La Carlotta and gets away with it!” She lifted her hand to strike the cowering girl, when a large, heavy backdrop and its batten suddenly fell from its suspension in the gridiron, and landed right on the diva's back, sending her sprawling on the floor.
The unintelligible shriek that ripped from the soprano's lips was almost enough to bring down the chandelier, as Piangi and the rest of the cast hurried to Carlotta's aid. The tenor lifted her in his arms, as she continued her rant in hysterical Italian, and carried her off the stage. The managers called irately for Buquet as they began to ascend the ladder to the fly tower. The cast deteriorated into a cacophony of gasps and cries. “He's here! He's here,” came the chorus from the Corps du Ballet. “He is with us! It's the ghost!” Madame Giry tapped her cane against the stage, in an effort to quell the madness. “Silence!” the ballet mistress roared, and girls’ cries immediately quieted to whispers. Meg rushed over to comfort Christine, who was shaking and sobbing on the floor, holding the now mangled red rose in her trembling fingers. And as Meg took Christine into her arms, she glanced up toward the flies to see a billow of a black disappear into the dark.
It was quiet outside her room. For a while, Jenna had heard Omid and Erik yelling at each other. She had not been able to make out their words, but she could imagine what they had been yelling about. Omid had found them, wrapped in each other's embrace, curled up tightly together on the settee. Jenna recalled how she had felt in the seconds before Omid's discovery had caused her to be so unceremoniously dumped her on the floor. She'd been warm, she'd been cozy, and she'd felt Erik's arms tighten around her, pulling her nearer, as he curled closer to her in his sleep. Jenna had never before floated so close to heaven or clung so dearly to a dream. And when she reluctantly opened her eyes, it was impossible for her not to touch him—to caress his face with her fingertips.
She sighed deeply, remembering how much had happened last night. When Erik had come to her room, shattering her first blissful dream, he'd been angry enough to strangle her. Accusations, and condemnations had flown from both their lips. But then he had shared with her the sorrow of the life he had lived—had revealed to her the horrors of his face. And she had held him as he cried and dried his tears with her words of comfort. And they had ended the night wrapped in each other's arms. She knew it had not been intentional—that they had simply dozed off watching the fire, and their bodies had repositioned themselves in their sleep. But still, nothing had ever before felt so…right…to Jenna than to be cradled in Erik's embrace.
She brought her own fingers to the spot where he had touched her cheek. His fingers had been so perfect, as he'd gazed into her eyes, unmasked, exposed—just Erik, just for her. She shuddered again at the memory. How she had wanted to kiss him! She had longed to tangle her hands in his soft black hair and pull his face toward hers and just press her lips to his—feather soft kisses at first, leading to deep, searing ones later. She was not an innocent—she had been around. And still, never in her life had she longed so greatly for a kiss, yearned so deeply for a pair of arms to encircle her, to crush her in their passion. And this morning, when he had begged her not to go, she had almost done just that, her senses leaving her as she had leaned in for a kiss.
But it could never be. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head back and forth. Christine. She knew his heart belonged to Christine. And though she knew she could have seduced him in that raw, vulnerable moment, she would never be Christine. What good would it do to feel his desire, if she could never have his love?
Jenna rose from her bed and paced the floor, running her fingers through her hair. This was ridiculous, she told herself. There was so much about this situation that was impossible—starting with the fact that she was here in the first place! How could she even consider being in love with Erik when she did not even belong here? She had to find a way back to her time—to her job, to her…cat. She had to somehow get back. She had to… right? Oh, his arms…
Stop it! she scolded herself. Of course she had to go back—and that was just…that. In fact, Erik said he had been looking for a way to get her home. It was quiet out there now—that had to mean Omid had gone because those two could never stay quiet for long. She would go out now and ask him about the progress he'd made. She would not gaze deeply
into his eyes or get so close that he took her breath away. She would simply ask him how she was going to get home.
Jenna straightened her gown and smoothed her hair before determinedly turning the door handle and entering the sitting room. It was empty, except for Samineh who immediately started slinking around her ankles. Erik was nowhere to be seen. There were no glorious, intoxicating sounds from the piano, no gentle whisper of a page being turned at his reading chair. She walked over to the small dock by the lake, but she could see, halfway there, that the boat was gone. Had Erik left her here alone?
“Erik,” she called, although she knew it was futile. If the boat wasn't here, he wasn't here. “Erik!”
“Oh, he's out,” Omid said, as he emerged from the kitchen, giving Jenna a start for the second time that morning. “Something about a rehearsal he had to go foul up. Or some such nonsense like that.” Omid waved one hand in the air while sipping the brandy he held in his other hand. “I found his new hiding spot for the brandy!” he smiled, raising his glass in the air. “Kitchen cabinet this time. I honestly just don't think he's trying anymore.”
“Oh,” Jenna responded simply, slowly walking over to the settee and sitting down. Samineh immediately jumped up on her lap, and Jenna absently stroked her fur, her mind so many miles away.
“So, Jenna,” Omid made himself comfortable on Erik's chair, “I'm sorry if my entrance this morning interrupted something…”
“Oh, no!” Jenna was quick to refute. “It was…” she swallowed a lump in her throat before she could whisper, “nothing.”
Omid looked at her quietly for a moment before continuing. Judging by the way she couldn't look at him and the sadness in her eyes, the girl certainly seemed extremely affected by nothing. “I see,” he said quietly, taking another sip of his drink. “So I noticed his mask was off.”
“Yes,” she nodded, still not looking at him, still petting Samineh.
“Well, considering that you're still breathing, he must have agreed to removing it?” he asked, with an eyebrow raised, realizing that getting information out of her was almost as hard as getting it out of Erik himself.
“He did,” she nodded again, not adding any more.
“Oh, for heaven's sake, Jenna,” Omid finally lost his patience, throwing up his free hand. “You two are both so somber. Did somebody die here last night?” Omid paused, as if remembering something. “No…can't be… That wouldn't make Erik somber at all.”
“Omid!” Jenna gave him a scolding look.
“Well, what is it then, Jenna?” he asked her point blank, in exasperation. “What happened here last night?”
Jenna sighed, and saw no real reason for keeping Omid in the dark any longer. “He told me everything, Omid,” she finally admitted. “All about his mother,” she said the word with disdain dripping from her lips. “All about the horrible gypsy camp, all about Persia…”
“He told you about Persia?” Omid questioned in surprise.
“Yes. He told me about Persia,” she nodded.
“He told you …what he did in Persia?” Omid clarified.
“Yes, he told me about the drugs, and the torture, and the killings, and how he had to escape because of losing favor with the Shah over a slave girl.”
“I am amazed, Jenna,” Omid looked at her in awe. “He never talks about Persia.”
“Well, like I said, he told me everything.” She took a deep breath. “And then, he showed me his face.”
“He just…showed you his face? After telling you his life story?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, come on! He would never just do that! How did you manage to persuade him?”
“Well,” Jenna looked thoughtful, as if she were remembering details of the evening that had just passed. “I tried to get him to strangle me…”
“Oh Allah save us!” he swallowed down the rest of his drink in one swift gulp, slamming the glass on the side table so hard that Jenna was surprised it didn't shatter. “Are you insane, Mademoiselle?”
“Omid…” she tried to continue her tale, but Omid just continued on his diatribe.
“Oh you are definitely going back to the asylum—”
“Omid—”
“For your own safety's sake. I told Erik you were a mental patient and that it didn't matter how pretty you were—”
“Daroga!” she shouted, finally halting Omid's tirade, as he looked at her in shock. No one but Erik ever referred to him by his former Persian title, and it was a bit unsettling, coming from her. “I only did it to prove to him that he was not the monster he thought he was. I knew I had nothing to fear.”
“You have such faith in him, but, oh, Jenna,” he began in a worried tone of voice. “That was very dangerous. You don't know Erik. His past—”
“I know,” she interjected, cutting him off, “That he could never hurt me. And I proved it to him last night,” she continued, her eyes getting a faraway look. “I placed his hands on either side of my neck, and listed all the reasons his life would be better if he just killed me right then—if he just snapped my neck. But of course, he didn't.”
“You are a brave woman, Mademoiselle.” Omid's look of shock turned to one of awe and respect.
“No,” she shook her head. “I just knew he wouldn't hurt me. And I knew he needed to know he wasn't a monster. And when he protested that his face still made him one, I swore to him that he was wrong, and if he would just show me, I would prove it. It took a little convincing, but he finally did.”
Omid was on the edge of his seat, by now, intrigued by her tale revealing a different side of the man he had known for years. “And what did you have to do to prove it to him, Mademoiselle?”
“I stayed,” she said looking in his eyes intently. “All I had to do was stay, and not run from him like so many other people had done before me. That's all he needed.” Jenna swallowed and looked away, “And after that, we had some tea in front of the fire. It was late, and we must have fallen asleep.”
Omid looked at this woman before him who possessed the strength of a mountain to be able to confront so many demons with his maddening friend and come out triumphant on the other side. Of course, he knew the pain that Erik had faced. He'd even mentioned some of it to Jenna himself. But he had gleaned bits and pieces of the information from Erik over the trials and tribulations of many years. Never had he expected his friend to be so open with another. Never would he expect Erik to agree to show his face or to be so comfortable with another human being that he could fall asleep in her arms. “You are truly amazing, Jenna,” Omid declared in a voice filled with soft reverence. “To have done what you did for him. You are like no other.”
“Oh, Omid,” Jenna shook her head, suddenly bashful when recalling the position in which the Persian had found them. “I didn't really do anything but listen.”
“You did everything he needed, Jenna,” Omid refuted her dismissal. “You listened, and you cared, and I daresay, you showed him the first affection he has known in his entire life.” Jenna took a deep breath, but remained quiet, because she knew that what Omid said was true. “Oh, I am just so happy that he will no longer be alone!”
Jenna looked up at him with a start. What exactly did he mean by that? “Um, excuse me?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”
“You just told me that all he needed was for you to stay with him. I agree. You stay, and he can forget this nonsense about trying to somehow send you forward in time. You'll be happy together, and I might finally be able to stop worrying about when he's going to next kill somebody. Although, I will say, you haven't been able to convince him to leave the diva alone. Hmm…maybe I will still have to worry about his murderous tendencies—”
“Omid, I can't stay,” she said plainly, stopping his excitement in its tracks.
“What? What do you mean? You just said Erik needed you.”
Jenna felt as if a knife was slicing through her heart, at Omid's misinterpretation of her words. “No, Omid,” she sighed,
“he needed me last night. Not forever.”
“After what you told me about last night,” Omid countered, “I'd say he wouldn't mind having you around forever.”
“No…” she shook her head sadly, “He doesn't want me.”
“Jenna, don't forget, I saw you,” he replied, reminding her once again of how he walked in on them. “I saw both of you—in each other's arms.”
“I told you, that was not intentional.”
“Intentional or not, it looked pretty comfortable to me. Jenna, I have known Erik for many years, and I had never seen him look so…happy.”
The knife in Jenna's heart twisted at his words, for she knew where Erik's true happiness lay. “Omid, he was sleeping. He probably didn't even know it was me.”
“Well, who else could he have thought it was?” he asked in exasperation. “Certainly not me!”
“Christine,” she said, through melancholy eyes. “I am sure he was dreaming about Christine.”
Omid looked at her through narrowed eyes. “The seamstress? Really?”
“His …angel.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “He's in love with her, Omid.”
“He…he told you this?” he looked at her very intently, having a very difficult time believing that his friend would admit to loving anyone.
“He did not have to,” she shook her head. “I was there for their lesson yesterday. I saw the way he looked at her.”
“It cannot have been very different from the way he looks at you, Mademoiselle,” he said in all seriousness, for truly, he had seen the way Erik's eyes lit up in Jenna's presence—the way the two of them seemed to spur each other on to one mischief or another, the way she stood up to him, and the way he seemed to relish it. The blush on his friend's cheek this morning, when Omid was good-naturedly teasing him, said much to his inner feelings, and he just could not believe that Erik felt nothing for this lovely visitor who had happened upon his home through some miracle of fate. His comment seemed to render Jenna speechless, and when she made no reply, he asked, “And what of your feelings, for him, Jenna? Do you not wish to stay?”