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Her captor was a generous host, though, being somewhat unused to company, he was, perhaps, a little overeager. Before a request could even form on Christine’s lips it was fulfilled – a spoonful of sugar dropped into her tea, an empty dish spirited away, a blackberry wine or a dish of sweet almonds when her hands were idle. Mealtimes were light, but constant, flanked always by a never ending stream of cherries, custard, roast veal, pepper pot soup, fruit wines and cordials, cod, halibut, spice cake, hot chocolate, and any possible delicacy she could crave, all of them served to her so suddenly and secretly, that sometimes Christine would look up from her reading or needlework and find a raspberry tart and a glass of milk deposited surreptitiously on the nearest tabletop, its sender already seated comfortably in a sofa across the room, his attention drawn to a few sheets of music.
She’d learned quickly that this was his way; without any outward emotion, he lavished gifts on her, parcels and baking and other “toys” a lady might like. However, he never ate. In four days of feasting, he hadn’t served himself a single plate, not so much as a cup of water, that Christine had been witness to. She supposed it had to do with his mask, for although she had seen his face already that horrible night, he went on wearing it.
It unnerved her that he didn’t eat at mealtimes, but she supposed he must eat privately, but she began to wonder on the fifth day if that were the case, for while they were sitting together in the parlor, she caught a glimpse of him as he rose from a chair and swayed suddenly on his feet. He sat again immediately, his hand lightly pressed to his temple.
“Erik?” Christine said.
“Yes, dear?”
“You look faint; I hope you feel well.”
“Quite well,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual strength.
Christine put aside her work and went to him. His forehead, peeking out from behind his mask, looked pale and clammy, and when Christine touched it, he gave a disoriented jerk and stopped her hand.
“You don’t look well at all; shall I bring you a tea?”
“No,” he said weakly.
Christine observed him, for he often averted his eyes when she stood in close proximity to him. She guessed closeness made him uncomfortable. As it was, his head nodded on his shoulders with a fatigue Christine had seen in many an overexerted ballet girl. She laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder and, because he offered no resistance, she leant him back against his chair to rest. His eyes, guarded as they were, flicked up to observe her.
“Go sit at your writing table,” he commanded, though he did not manage to sound especially commanding.
Christine squeezed his arm instead. “I’ll make you that tea.”
She did more than make tea. She puttered about the cooking stove and pantry collecting a tray of bread, butter, cake, and nuts until she worried Erik might have taken advantage of her absence to recover himself and make an escape. However, to her relief, she emerged into the parlor with the tray and found Erik reclining in the chair as she had left him, apparently resting his eyes.
“Tea,” she announced simply.
He did not open his eyes. “No, thank you.”
Christine sat the tray down on the coffee table. “You don’t eat as well as you ought to.”
“Erik never feels hungry,” he claimed.
She knelt by his chair and grasped his arm. He didn’t stir, so she unfurled the fingers of his hand and grasped those too until he opened his eyes and blinked owlishly at their entwined fingers.
“Eat a little,” she prompted.
He seemed greatly affected by the closeness of her face to his, saying, “Erik eats privately.”
“Then he is familiar with the mechanics of it,” she teased, and she took a strawberry from the top of a little cake and held it before his face, or rather, his mask. “Come, eat. You will have your strength back.”
He made no motion to acquiesce, but raised his free hand in refusal.
Christine herself took a bite from the strawberry, projecting (she hoped) much satisfaction in its sweetness by humming appreciatively. Erik’s eyes, drooping only seconds ago, took on a keen look.
“I shall have to enjoy it by myself if you refuse to eat,” Christine warned, and she saw his throat bob when he swallowed. He must have secretly been very keen to eat because he was looking at her hungrily. He had seemed tempted by the strawberry, so she drew a piece of the cake off the tray and held it close to him. “It would please me very much to see you take tea.”
“Go and sit in your little chair and take up your work again,” he said, his voice frayed.
“If you take a bite of cake, I shall do all that you bid me do.”
He regarded her warily. “One bite?”
“One.”
The deal was struck. Radiating displeasure, he placed a hand over his mask and, trembling somewhat, uncovered only his lips. Christine still held the cake, and he didn’t bother to take it from her, but leaned forward to take a single bite of it, and then leaned away again.
When he swallowed, Christine said, “One more.”
“You said only one!”
“You have already shown me your lips and eaten a piece of cake; will it do you any further harm to do it again?”
He seemed dismayed and cast his eyes around, possibly drawing up a counterargument. In the meantime, however, Christine pressed the cake against his lips, and he took a second bite. Before he could even finish it, she was urging him to take another, and then another, to suppress his arguments.
While Erik wrestled with the last of the cake, Christine drew a teacup off the tray and pressed it into his hands. “Drink up. You’ll have your strength again soon.”
“I drink plenty when I am in private,” Erik insisted.
There were no crumbs on Erik’s face, for he was truthfully fastidious, but Christine pretended there were, and she “brushed” them away with her fingers, taking care to dip her fingers just below Erik’s mask with a gentle swipe. Reacting to the gesture, Erik took in a sharp breath.
“Humor me,” Christine said. “It pleases me to know that you are well and fed.”
He said nothing to this, but raised his teacup. On its way to his lips, it rattled in its saucer, and when it met his lips, it also bumped gracelessly into the edge of his mask, spilling a little.
“Perhaps you ought to remove your mask.”
“No,” Erik said quickly, “Erik’s mask –”
But Christine had taken Erik by the wrist, and giving his hand a turn, remarked, “You’ve spilled tea all over yourself.” And without hesitation, she drew Erik’s hand to her lips and kissed the droplets away, lingering on the pads of his fingers, which she suspected would affect him most successfully.
It certainly did. Erik’s protest stuttered to a stop. He went practically limp in her hands. And when Christine moved her lips over the inside of his wrist, Erik trembled again almost violently, and a quiet moan escaped him. When she drew her lips away, he looked almost as though he had turned into a liquid.
“You will remove your mask?” Christine asked.
He seemed to be in a fog. “As you wish.”
She removed it for him and set it beside the tea tray, keeping her eyes averted politely. She could see him peripherally, could sense his tension emerging immediately from the fog. He practically rose out of his seat following the mask, but she drew his fingers back to her lips and resumed kissing them, and this quieted him again somewhat.
Christine said, “Drink, Erik.”
There was the telltale rattle of his teacup as he obeyed, but Christine only had eyes for the hand she was lavishing attention on, caressing its palm, massaging its joints. At one point she drew his index finger just barely into her mouth, suckling, and Erik made a choking sound, spluttering on his tea. It was a most effective persuasion tactic.
“I’m feeling more myself again,” Erik announced presently. “My tea is finished.”
Christine took the empty cup, turning her eyes to Erik. He bristled immediately, being very conscious of her gaze, and the hand still in her grip flexed and curled into a fist.
His face was truly horrible, but much less frightening like this, being nearly frozen with trepidation. She was reminded now of his timid manner when he first showed her his bedroom, and how unafraid she felt whenever he happened to reveal that he too was afraid of her. She set the teacup aside.
“Eat a little bread; it will nourish you.”
“Give my mask to me.”
“A little bread first.”
“No, thank you; my mask.”
He reached for it, and feeling bold, Christine stopped him by sliding onto his lap. He looked up at her, astonished.
“Christine?”
“You will eat a little bread, and when I am satisfied that you have eaten enough to keep you well, I will let you alone.” Reaching behind his neck, she readjusted his collar until it fit him more loosely. “And if you listen to me, and obey me well, I will give you something sweet for a reward. Understood?”
He gave a curt nod of his head, though his expression was one of great anxiety, and his body squirmed almost imperceptibly beneath her.
She raised a piece of bread to his lips. “Good.”
Dutifully, Erik took a bite. Christine’s free hand lay folded together with both of Erik’s, and she fed him methodically with the other until he had eaten two pieces of bread and a few nuts. Perhaps she fed him a little too quickly, for he seemed hardly able to keep pace with her, and he seemed to grow more flushed in the face and more flustered. She was tipping a drop of tea into his mouth when she petted the side of his head and uttered, “Good boy,” and Erik’s body gave a subtle jerk, as though every muscle in his body had suddenly tensed.
When she drew the cup away from his lips, his breath came out of him with a ragged quality.
“What an unhealthy flush you have,” Christine said, pressing a cool hand to his cheek.
“No, my health has merely returned,” he countered. “My mask, if you please.”
“I do not please, but I did promise to let you alone. I will give you your reward first, if it pleases you.”
He made a weak protest, but Christine made quick work of it. With a finger underneath Erik’s chin, she tipped his face skyward and mouthed kisses along the line of his jaw. Drawing kisses down the column of his neck, she nipped a spot and sucked a bruise there, and she heard Erik’s shoes skitter along the floor, and he gave a little cry of surprise. When she drew away, her hands still grasping his suit lapel, he suppressed (or attempted to suppress) a shuddering intake of breath.
When she removed herself from his lap, he sat up a little straighter and crossed his legs.
“You wanted this?” She plucked the mask off the table and offered it to him.
He took it from her shakily and put it on, saying in a quiet voice, “Yes, thank you.”
“You will take it off again when we have supper tonight?”
The fog hadn’t quite lifted yet. “Supper?”
She leant forward and squeezed his knee. “Yes. And if you are very good and do all that I bid you to do, we might also have dessert.”