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ambrosiapsyche
---- Oh! What a performance! The songbird is so very breathless, lost in an eunoia of euphoric happiness... ah! Her aria was splendid, they had said, and it seems her palinoia of practicing proved well-spent. A rutilant costume rustles, swings about the rug of the Opera foyer; the most ephemeral scintilla of pride dances in blue eyes. Evident meraki is quite bright on a curious countenance--
"Mademoiselle-- enjoyed you the show?"
♤
Send me a ♤ and I will generate a number for what my muse will say to yours. - #2
“Don’t come near me!” cried young Christine Daaé, and she cowered from the man who had followed her from the Opera— the soprano had fled to the roof in reaction to another murder in the Opéra Populaire.
“How many fingers can you see?” ((I bet R and Christine is a hella rad contrast--))
"—Hmm?"
The Soprano did a double-take of the stranger whom she opened her eyes to see; alas, falling from the stage of the Opéra Populaire had not been her intent, and Christine winced when she rubbed her forehead. “Three?… no, five?”
[continued from this ask]
Hénrie breathed out a displeased sigh, scratching the nape of his neck with furrowed eyebrows and a disoriented countenance.
❝ I do wish you hadn’t found out this way…
—I do wish you hadn’t found out at all, to be quite honest.❞
He took his precious time, wiping the gore blandly off of his knife with his handkerchief, as he looked at her casually.
❝ You’re a lovely woman, Miss Daaé. It displeases me to know that you have had to become a victim to enduring such a violent affair. If I had know you were standing there… ❞
He glances down at the anonymous man laying at his shinned shoes.
❝ —…then this man’s fate may have taken a different turn. ❞
Christine wept.
--Oh, the unparalleled horror! The pain stung, that constricted her chest until it felt she couldn't breathe-- such a gentleman he'd been! He deceived her! The blood, so much blood!
❝ H-He-- has done nothing to you! How--? The-- murderer! Murderer!
I'm-- I'll alert the police, I'll-- ❞
Frantically Christine bent to the level of the slumped over gentleman, mapped shaking hands across his limp form. "Monsieur! Wake up, wake--up!"
