RoseBlood(62)

Those moments are the most peaceful of all, for both of us. I sense the quiet calm inside him with every word. It’s that serene bubble encapsulating us that prevents me from asking the questions I’ve been plagued by: Why did you cut up my uniforms? Why did you place the dead bird in my chair? Why is Diable my shadow now? How old are you? What are we?

One night, while I’m snuggled beneath my covers in bed, listening to him read, the ache to have him sitting beside me in reality grows too intense and I can’t keep from bursting through the bubble.

“Etalon.”

There’s a sharp intake of air and he grows silent, as if my speaking his childhood name shocks him.

I roll over, facing the vent in the wall, stretch my arm, and push my pinky between the slats. The warmth of his fingertip touches mine back. I gasp as a spark passes between us, shocking in spite of how slight the pressure.

Riding the wave of sensation, I find my voice. “Tell me something about you in the present. I only know you from your memories. Do you have a hobby?” It feels strange, asking such a simple question to someone who might’ve been alive for centuries.

His fingertip drops from mine. A few minutes pass. He becomes so quiet, I’m afraid he’s left. But then his clothes rustle, and he answers. “I tend the animals of the forest. I suppose you could say I’m their . . . doctor.”

I smile in the darkness, envisioning him caring for the wild creatures no one else would ever give a passing thought to. It makes perfect sense for such a quiet soul. He’s so much like them, hidden away and asking nothing from anyone but to let him survive. Like me, with the plants and flowers I love. “I think that’s beautiful,” I whisper.

A soft grunt breaks the following hush and there’s sadness in it.

Scooting closer to the vent, I brave asking another question. “You said we’re the same. I think I knew that before you even told me. But I still don’t know what we are . . . or how I got this way.”

“You were born into it. It’s in your bloodline. Look back through your family’s history.”

I grow silent, frustrated that his answers are always so cryptic. Why can’t he just give me details? I’m not ready to let him off that easy. “Why did you give me an invitation to the club? Will you be there? Can we finally see each other if I go?” If I can just be with him, face-to-face, I can get the answers to everything I’ve been dying to ask.

His breath seems labored. He’s torn . . . aching to be sitting beside me, too, wanting to be forthcoming, but something is holding him back. Instead of him answering me, his violin whispers through the vent—a hypnotic melody. And although I try to fight it, the song lulls me to sleep.

I want to be angry when I wake up and find him gone in the morning, but the mental intimacies we share, however unusual, always leave me stronger, always help me find my footing. Because of him, I no longer have to worry about bulldozing over anyone at the final auditions that are on the horizon.

So I choose to be grateful for whatever moments he can offer.

During our daily rehearsals, Madame Bouchard seems as annoyed by my newfound silence as she was by my unplanned outbursts. At times, she even tries to goad me into breaking down by cranking Renata’s arias full blast in the background. When I don’t react, it seems to unsettle her. Then, when she forces me to sing for a grade, and I manage the songs without fading or weakening, she’s just as upset. It’s as if no matter what I do, it’s not what she expects or wants.

I don’t let it get to me, because my control has given Audrey the confidence she was lacking. And with my own growing abilities, I’m able to offer her tips for reaching that final note with a more consistent flow of air and forward consonant delivery. Almost four weeks have passed since the chapel incident, and now Audrey’s nailing her part like a pro. All she lacks is the intensity and hysteria that the role demands, which Kat hasn’t quite mastered herself. This puts them on level ground, and Audrey has a real chance of claiming the lead at the upcoming final audition on Sunday.

Even though I’ve chosen not to try out for any roles, the fact that I’m helping Audrey with her technique lands me back in Kat and Roxie’s bad graces.

Thursday, during lunch break, they decide teasing me about my “homespun uniforms” isn’t enough for them anymore.

Kat steps into the bathroom as I’m washing my hands. She opens her purse on the counter, digging through her makeup.

I try to hurry, not because it’s her, but because I’m uncomfortable being alone with anyone now. Even on our day trips to Paris the previous three weekends, I was careful to always be with the group, or by myself—like when I left everyone long enough to purchase gray and black yarn and emoticon appliques for my newest knitting project.

I’m making toe socks for the Phantom, in honor of how he used to draw faces on his toes and play puppets when he was little to distract himself from holey stockings and lack of friends. Maybe it’s a silly gift for a guy, but I want his toes to never be cold again. I want him to never feel alone again. I’ll do whatever I can to thank him for giving me my power back. Because of his help, I’m in control of the music and can appear normal.

The downside, though, is now I know without a doubt that I’m the furthest thing from it. I’m different. Understanding I’m not the only one like me makes it easier to swallow, but I have to take precautions to keep others safe until I can make sense of who I am. What I am.