“I’ve missed playing,” Erik admitted, his timbre quavering with a poignant din of longing. “But only when she’s at last with us, fully complete, can I resurrect our music once more.” He was pencil thin in an untucked white shirt, gray slacks, and flesh-colored mask. So deceptively frail to the untrained eye, but his mind was a lethal trap for anyone who dared judge him by appearance alone.
Still, it was unsettling to see him in disarray. All the years Thorn had lived here, Erik was never less than meticulous with his clothes and surroundings. Lately, he’d been letting such things go, too preoccupied to notice.
“After such a long silence, to hear you composing again this past week has been divine.” Erik’s smile bloomed at the lower edge of his mask—wide and perfect. Many had fallen prey to the stunning charm of that partially hidden expression; even Thorn couldn’t resist feeling soothed, in spite of his storm-tossed mood.
Erik padded across the black marble that stretched from end to end and up the walls. Ange waddled at his feet. Dust dulled her feathers, an indication she’d been in the laboratory, too. The swan rarely left his side, and was only with Thorn earlier because she’d followed when he’d slipped from the apartment—activated the trapdoor in the baptismal with her bill and swam her way into the chapel.
Being Erik’s familiar, she was able to sense when Thorn was doing something to help him reach his goal. She’d trailed Thorn to assure he didn’t mess things up. And then he had after all, except she and Diable had a hand in that . . . or more like a wing and a paw.
He was lucky the bird couldn’t talk, or Erik would already know.
Thorn pulled a gray, long-sleeve shirt into place over his arms and shoulders and fastened the buttons. The soft fabric absorbed residual droplets of water from his shower. He’d come into his room still dripping and dropped directly into his chair to play without putting on anything more than pants. When he was younger, he’d often be overtaken by his muse in such a way, stopping to compose half-naked, barefoot and shirtless. Erik would tease that he couldn’t escape his upbringing, that he was a peasant violinist if ever there was one.
Erik took a seat at the edge of Thorn’s four-poster bed and slumped, elbows on knees. His eyes looked dull behind the mask . . . drained. He’d spent too much energy in the lab. Thorn knew it couldn’t go on much longer. Erik was practically committing suicide, spending all of the extra life he’d obtained through bloodshed and butchery. Thorn had been the one to convince him to stop his murderous ways, years ago, although he had blood on his hands, too. Now he’d thrown a wrench into everything, and would have only himself to blame should the killing start again.
He strode to his fish tank and settled on the far side so he could face his father with the glass and water between them. He sprinkled flakes of food atop the surface. The bluish glow tinged Erik’s gaunt, bony outline, and the ripples in the water created waves in his image, causing him to resemble the ghost all the rumors made him out to be.
“Busy caring for your pets and animal patients as usual.” Erik batted Ange’s bill playfully. “But have you eaten today?” He’d always been diligent about seeing to Thorn’s physical needs: clothing, food, shelter. It was as if he was trying to make up for all Thorn lacked as a child before he found him . . . or possibly, all he’d lacked himself.
“Before I showered,” Thorn answered, battling even more guilt for his father’s kind concern. “I had some dried beef. Some figs and cheese. And wine.”
“So, your body is fed. Then why this discontent I sense? It’s been some time since you’ve written new music, but from what I remember, your compositions were never so insatiate or bleak.”
“I came face-to-face with her in the chapel.” Thorn leaned against the cool glass, his arms propped in place at the top. His fingertip tapped the temperate water, bringing the fish to tickle his skin with eager, puffy-lipped kisses.
Erik stiffened, sitting straighter, his golden eyes fixed on Thorn.
“I was wearing a half-mask. She thinks I’m you. The phantom from the stories.” Ange tottered over and pecked Thorn’s toes with her bill, as if prompting him to confess everything. He frowned and nudged her away with his foot.
Erik’s flawless chin twitched—a tick that always made Thorn uneasy, as it indicated a shift in mood. “You were wise to wear a mask. Surely she’s wise enough not to tell anyone. Our spy within the academy has informed me that the staff now thinks she hid her own uniforms. No one would believe her, were she to claim she saw a fictional character from a book. But you sparked her curiosity, yes? Offered the clues that would bring her to me for answers.”
Thorn silently relived what he’d shared with Rune. How he’d allowed her to look upon the reflection of his identity. She knew she was like him. Now all she needed was to discover what he was.