Nichol entered the shabby parlor with misgivings. It was still difficult to believe that someone as elegant as Hildegarde might live in such deplorable conditions. Perhaps she did not use any of the rooms Nichol had seen, but then, which did she use?
She made a motion to draw back the velvet draperies and let light into the room, but a single pull at the cord, and a course of spiders trickled from the curtain folds. A shiver ran down her spine and she moved backward, not wishing to make greater evil with her tampering. Hildegarde showed no sign of returning from her errand soon and Nichol felt impatient for some distraction from the oppressive quiet.
She spied on a far table an antique phonograph which, despite its apparant age and neglect, was not broken. It was loaded already with a cylinder and Nichol was curious to hear the machine at work. Studied in Victorian technology, she was able to crank the phonograph and put it into operation without risking its destruction, though it appeared quite sturdy and pliable to her directive.
After a pause of crackling interposed with false starts, the cylinder elicited a slow, ponderous melody in a minor key. This, Beethoven's seventh symphony, was something Nichol had claimed for herself long before she learned Lysander loved it. That this might be the cylinder with which he had listened to his favorite music thrilled her to the point that goosebumps went down her arms.
She hugged herself for the sheer need for warmth and closed her eyes as the music's dark beauty washed over her like the chill comfort of starlight. She was so wrapped in aural pleasure that the jounce of the parlor door against the wall shocked her. The movement was so violent that the door vibrated on its hinges as Nichol stared, in dumb shock, at the wild-haired man in the doorway, towering over her like an ungainly devil. As he moved closer, sending her backward with fear, she saw that a slight limp accounted for his unusual posture, but for that there was no doubt of the unfathomable height and breadth of him.
"What the hell are you doing?" he asked in German: the words all the more unpleasant for their gutteral nature.
Nichol's eyes narrowed as she saw a bully who meant to intimidate her with brashness. "I am amusing myself with a cylinder till Hildegarde returns."
He swore as he brushed past her and swiftly cut off the music. Nichol's ire rose despite her good sense, which reminded her that the machine was his possession, not hers.
"This instrument is very delicate. You had no right to touch it." His voice shook with unexplainable agitation.
"It seemed sturdy enough under my hand," Nichol responded impatiently, despite reason. "I am knowledgeable with these machines, and if I had thought that my actions would harm it, I would never have wound it and set it."
"Knowledgeable?" He sneered at her, a hulking devil in the shadows of the parlor. "Who the hell are you?"
"Nichol Durand. I am here on business with Hildegarde Engel." As she spoke, she moved to the draperies and pulled them apart sharply. Light broke through spiderwebs and dust motes, flooding the velvet room in white. Nichol turned to the man, expecting him to cover his face in horror, or shriek at her, for the fact of some supernatural curse, but he merely looked at her.
For the first time she saw his face, which was not credited by his large, ungainly form. His eyes were pale as glass, like a cat's eyes, and his bright hair surrounded a face blanched and chiseled as a statue's, gracefully carved as though by a loving sculptor. His beauty was so unexpected that Nichol stared at him openly, almost unaware that he was surveying her with the same meticulous detail.
She had forgotten her shabby dress, her skirt and threadbare sweater which might have been fashionable for its thrift-store appearance, if not for its apparant authenticity and the lack of Bohemian grace with which she wore it. Her ash hair was looped sloppily behind her head, and her glasses, crooked, exemplified her large gray eyes.
There was nothing to provoke reaction in her dowdy look, but his eyes widened and his mouth curled derisively as he looked at her. His hands clenched into fists and he swore wildly, then tore his gaze from her and lunged through the door, snatching it closed behind him with a disruptive clash that reverberated through the now-silent room. Nichol stared after him with mingled astonishment and disgust.
What an animal he is, she thought derisively.
Sent from Amanda's Treo @-'-,--