Chapter 14 #2
The force of the Angel’s high C sent shock waves through me, deafening my thoughts and drowning out the underscore. Even after it had come to an end, the note echoed in my memory and made the space around us feel as hushed as the first snowfall of winter.
He stepped toward me, closing the space between us. I could feel the warmth of him at my back and the heat of the candles surrounding us. It created such a drowsy, peaceful languor. I relaxed, leaning against him, certain he wouldn’t let me fall.
Sure enough, his arm came up, catching me in an embrace, and I tilted my head, resting on his arm as I savored how perfect this was.
I’d never felt so cared for, so guarded and cherished, and as he finished the verse, whispering “Only then can you belong to me,” I thought I truly might die of happiness.
The Angel swayed back and forth, rocking me as the aria slowed to an almost lullaby-like tempo. His words fell upon me with all the tenderness of a kiss on the forehead, and I closed my eyes, wanting to imprint every detail of this on my heart.
“Touch me,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if it was part of the song or a direct command.
I reached up, slowly bringing my hand to his face.
My fingertips ran over the cool curves of the porcelain mask.
He leaned into my caress, nuzzling my palm before his hand slipped over mine and spun me around to face him.
“Trust me,” he pleaded. “Savor each sensation.”
Slowly, cautiously, the Angel brought his hands up to my face, mirroring the gesture I’d just made as he gently cupped the swell of my cheeks. His fingers were cold, a delicious contrast to the fevered heat welling within me, and my breath caught as I realized he intended to kiss me.
His thumb brushed across the fullness of my lower lip, tracing it with a look of astonished curiosity.
For a split second, I wondered if he was as new to this as I was.
It was an absurd thought…but possible. What did angels know of mortal desires, of physical love?
Perhaps he needed as much guidance as I feared I did.
A swell of music rose once more, like a wave, a tide, a tsunami of sound, and I could picture how this would play out onstage.
I could imagine the baritone pressing a kiss to the soprano’s temple.
They’d embrace just as the Angel was holding me now—his face against the crook of her neck, his hands roaming across her body.
Her back would arch—as mine did against the Angel’s exploration.
My thoughts raced, unsure of what would happen after his final note. Every part of my body ached to know, guessing at what one was meant to do in the moment after a kiss had ended, but my thoughts rebelled, caught in a strange combination of desire and worry and shame.
In the opera version of this, the characters would lie down upon a bed of pillows, perfectly arranged at center stage, and the baritone would climb upon the soprano’s beautifully splayed body just as the limelights dimmed.
Their exit, made hasty to avoid the inevitable scene change, would be carried out under the audience’s rapturous applause.
But here, now, we had no audience. There would be no stagehands to take us to the next important part of the plot.
The scene would continue well past the final notes, lit all too well with the glow of a thousand candles, highlighting our every move.
And suddenly, it was all too much. My desires, my nerves, my chemise constricting me with every breath I failed to fully take.
And when the Angel laid his hand upon my chest, brushing over the curves of my breasts, the sensation—equal parts thrilling and terrifying—proved to be beyond me, and I backed away, breaking our connection.
I retreated to a corner where a grand gilt-framed mirror hung on one of the walls.
It appeared to be a twin of the one in my dressing room.
In its reflection, I watched as the Angel regarded me before returning to the piano.
He struck a few keys, trying out a new melody, and I reached out to trail a fingertip along one of the carved golden nymphs who made up the frame.
It was just like the mirror in my room, for the glass was there one second, then magically gone the next.
I didn’t see how it disappeared, didn’t see it dissolve or transform, flip away or slide out of sight.
I’d seen my reflection, looking wide-eyed and luminous in my long dressing robe, and then another woman was in my place.
She looked so like me, with dark hair and a diaphanous white gown of her own, that I almost didn’t notice the change, but then she moved as I stayed still, and I began to notice all the things about her that were absolutely not me.
She’s one of the automatons, I realized, spotting a hammered brass face.
I glanced back to the Angel. His eyes were on me even as he played. The notes were plaintive, beseeching me back to his side, luring me toward him.
The shimmering heat in my middle spread lower and lower, and I felt the urge to reach for him, to pull him toward me, to pull him on top of me, to see if he could make me feel as his music could.
My face flushed as I tried to push the thoughts away. They would not go easily.
“Let the dream begin,” he half sang, half murmured. His voice was low and impossibly soft, as if trying out lyrics he wasn’t sure he wanted to commit to. His eyes seemed to smolder. “Let your darker side give in…”
My lips parted. I found it impossible to breathe, impossible to think of anything but his words, his music, his very soul.
Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands dig into my shoulders, and I gasped. I’d been certain we were alone, certain that it was only my Angel and me in this room, this opera, in the whole of the world.
When I turned, I saw that the automaton from the mirror had moved.
She thrust herself at me, grabbing my arms with a painful ferocity.
Her face had changed. She no longer wore a blank, vaguely pleasant half smile.
Her metallic angles had shifted, turning her expression into a leering, cruel glare that seemed to wish me gone.
It startled me so badly that I fell backward, caught in a swooning stupor I could not stop. The Angel was at my side in an instant, saving me with his protective embrace.
I could feel the collective weight of the evening catch up to me—the performance, the applause, seeing Raoul after so long, finally meeting my Angel—and I let the approaching darkness reach up and swallow me whole.
Vaguely, I felt the Angel carry me away from the hateful automaton. There was softness beneath me, a bed, and I felt a cover spread across me with compassionate hands.
Before the Angel could step away, I grabbed the front of his jacket, waylaying him. “Stay with me, please,” I murmured, unsure if I’d actually spoken or had already succumbed to my dreams.
“Always,” he promised quickly.
There was a pause, and then the mattress behind me sank. His touch was as tentative as a butterfly, and though I knew it was a brazen act, I took his arm and pulled it around me, keeping him close.
There was a soft pressure at the back of my head—had he kissed me?
—and I felt my body entirely relax, every one of my muscles turning warm and languid against his stiffened frame.
Just as I slipped into a dark, dreamless sleep, I heard the last of his song, whispered earnestly against my temple: “Help me make the music of the night.”