Page 39 of Our Strange Duet

I balled my hands into fists, sinking my fingernails into the fleshy part of my palm to keep from fulfilling any of the incendiary desires running through me, which wanted me to act soon, act now, act—

“Christine,” he repeated, and I thought I felt the soft trail of his fingertips running down my shoulder blade, an attempt to have me turn and face him.

I wanted to.

But it was impossible.

I knew the second he saw my face, stained red by the treacherous impulses taking possession of me, he would understand everything and cast me away.

I crossed to a worktable, using the pretense of interest to put as much space between us as I could. It was covered with a collection of walking sticks which concealed a multitude of mechanisms. Some contained swords or daggers. Others had hidden tubes sloshing with unknown liquid or the tips of flint, like a gentleman’s lighter. Some were capped in silver skulls or the rosin heads of wolves and ravens. “So many wonders,” I said, only daring to look his direction once I was safely behind the table’s breadth.

“A whole kingdom of them,” he said, tipping his head up to fondly take it all in.

I glanced across the room and noticed a large wooden chair in the corner. Its towering back was topped by dark filigreed faces and rose blooms carved with such detail I almost believed them real. “Complete with a throne.”

I could so easily imagine the Angel sitting upon its black satin cushion, as noble as an emperor, as potent as a sultan. I pictured myself sprawled at his feet, paying him homage with my voice as I sang higher and higher, belting his praise for the whole world to hear.

“Your opera,” I said, turning again to the shelves of music behind me while I tried with all my might to ignore how my thoughts whirled, warring and out of control. I’d never felt such wanton urges. It was as if my mind had been trussed by a puppeteer, set to make me dance a pantomime of their own creation. I wanted nothing more than to cede control, and yet I feared that the moment I did, I would lose the Angel forever.

“Yes?” His voice was just behind me now.

So caught was I in my inner turmoil I hadn’t noticed he’d come closer. He moved like a cat, easing in and out of the shadows with silent fluidity.

“Is it…here?” I asked.

He pulled out a stack of pages from within a drawer, then brought them to his chest, suddenly reluctant to reveal too much. “It’s not finished.”

“Will you play it anyway?”

When the Angel turned toward the piano, the mask made it impossible to read his expression. He took so long to respond that I wondered if he’d heard me at all. Our conversation had been made up of nothing but whispers, each softer than the one before it. It was as if the last note I’d sung had broken something vitally important between us, leaving everything after exposed and raw, new skin beneath a clotted scab.

It felt as if the room held its breath, waiting, wondering what would happen between us. Though I knew it was nothing but a trick of candlelight, I swore some of the strange automatons tilted into a better angle, watching: The wooden figure posed before a mirror shifted, casting its blank face toward me. Even the furred monkey’s eyes darted our way.

I wanted to say something that would cut the building tension, but every muscle in my throat was pulled taut, just on the verge of trembling. The air was charged like just before a heavy storm broke, ripping open the heavens with sizzling lightning and body-quaking thunder.

With infinite care, the Angel removed his gloves, pulling free one finger at a time before setting both the gloves and the music aside.

With the pages safely resting on a crowded worktable, I finally felt as if I might relax. I couldn’t begin to fathom how I would have reacted had he actually sung.

But then, he placed his fingers on the piano keys and pressed down. As the initial chord rang out, I forgot how to breathe.

He picked the notes out slowly, tentatively, but each one pierced deeply into my soul.

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation,” he began, his voice achingly tender. “Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…”

He filled the pregnant pause with a little run of notes, which drew me around to the curved, treble side of the grand. I was transfixed, helpless to do anything but watch his fingers. I’d never seen any so perfectly elongated and strong.

They were nothing short of mesmerizing, moving up and down the keys with a masterful grace. There was no hesitation, no breaks to remember which chord came next. It was more than memorization. He was the music. He was its composer, its lord. It flowed up out of him, a natural extension of his thought.

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor,” he went on, his gaze rising from the piano to meet mine.

I found it impossible to look away, impossible to even blink. I didn’t want to miss any of this: my Angel, singing his creation—to me.

“Grasp it, sense it…” he murmured, and it felt as if he were behind me, whispering his words into the curve of my ear. “Tremulous and tender.”

He nodded to the open length of seat on the bench beside him. I couldn’t remember willing my feet to move, but suddenly, I was there, the closest to the Angel I’d ever been. Our knees bumped as he pressed the foot pedals, and I was all too aware of the thin layers of silk and wool which were all that separated me from him.

Perched on the left side of the bench, I could study the exposed side of his face and imagine what the rest of it would be like without the mask. His eyebrow was a thick, expressive line that furrowed as he sang about the garish, unfeeling light of day.