Difficult -- difficult -- it was difficult to pull his eyes away from her grace. He watched her lashes sweep over her cheeks and watched her slowly perch on the chair and watched her fingers clasp over the rose he'd given her, and his heart ached for her. This delightful creature had just willingly ... kissed him, and the stunning effect of this simple touch that all of humanity took for granted... it still shocked him, still shook him to his core.
"Ah, Christine," he sighed, sitting at last in the chair across from hers. With black-gloved fingers, he gently lifted her chin so that she'd look at him. Was she embarrassed? He didn't think he could endure her shame, not for having kissed him, although he would understand it too well if she --
-- An aching pain shot down his left arm. That again. He grunted under his breath and flexed his hand, trying to work out the ache that traveled down to his elbow. "Christine," he said again. "I have much to tell you -- very much that you should know. First, I want you to know that although the whole world will be told that I have been composing these last few days, it isn't the truth. You and Enigma are the only ones who will know what has truly happened."
He rubbed at his left hand and frowned. That terrible weariness was sinking into him deeply now. It was distracting. "I fell ill," he said simply, lowering his voice. "It was sudden, and I was insensate for most of it. Enigma happened to have been there when it happened, and she was good enough to endure me for the time I was incapacitated. It would seem that she neglected her own health because of it, which is why I have demanded that she stay at Mazenderan with us - and off the stage - until such time as I deem her well enough to perform again."
He dropped his hands into his lap and measured Christine's reactions.