Page 44 of Our Strange Duet

I remembered the organ from last night, both it and the room which housed the monstrously large instrument. There’d been so many other types as well, and shelves of strange objects: Automatons and tinkerings. Music and sketches. And the man—the angel—who had made them all.

I turned a corner, and there he was, seated before the organ’s console, surrounded by swells of keyboards and gleaming pipes of all sizes.

He’d changed into a new jacket of burgundy velvet. His attention was fixed on the work before him. He would play a string of notes, then scribble them down in a large ledger with near frantic intensity.

He wore the mask once more.

Because he’d never taken it off. That was only a dream.

And he did not notice my approach.

As I got closer, the veil between reality and fantasy began to blur. I saw him as he was, here and now, but also as he’d been then, both last night and in my dream. There were flashes of black silk, then dark-red velvet, a white mask, then a beatific smile. My Angel ensconced in a cloak. Him again, naked above me.

It couldn’t have been a dream. I could still feel the imprints of his touch all across my body. Our cries of passion still echoed in my ears.

I had to know.

I had to see.

One quick peek at his face was all I’d need to put an end to my misery. One small look would confirm everything.

I stood at his side, waiting for him to acknowledge me, certain he’d stop.

But he only continued to work.

After an interminably long pause, I decided to take matters into my own hands. “Good morning,” I said, taking another small step closer.

Nothing.

“Angel,” I tried again, sitting next to him on the bench.

He sighed and crossed out a section of notes before beginning to play again.

I leaned forward, trying to catch his eye, but I’d sat on his right side and I was worried the mask obstructed me from his view.

I knew of only one way to fix that.

Seizing every bit of courage within me, I reached out and plucked the mask from him. My lips had already begun to rise into a smile, ready to once again behold that otherworldly, beautiful face.

Instead, I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

The Angel whirled around on the bench, giving me full sight of his ravaged visage, and began tearing into me with words so sharp and harsh I felt as if I were being flayed alive.

“Damn you! You little prying Pandora! You wicked viper!”

It was like encountering a wall of fire. I could feel the physical heat of his fury lick across my skin, scalding and cruel.

I had to get away.

I had to put as much space between me and his rage as I could.

I fell off the bench in my hasty retreat and crawled backward across the room like the miserable wretch I was.

Still he pursued me, shouting hatred and spittle.

“Curse you, Christine! You evil Delilah! You’ve damned me. You’ve damned yourself!”

“No,” I whimpered, tears I hadn’t even realized I’d cried spilling down my cheeks, unchecked and unbridled. “Angel, please. Forgive me! I…I…” I had no explanation. There was no excuse.