The singular sound of a woman's skirts across his cold floors... Erik closed his eyes and tightened his gloved hand around the bottle in his hand. Some time ago, he'd given up using the highball glass resting on his thigh. There was so little point to using a glass when he knew he was going to be drinking the entire bottle. He was almost through it, he realized, giving the neck of the bottle a brief heft.
It was dark in the library - only the moonlight from the window illuminating anything. Still, he saw her very well. She was full of grace, so much grace that he could almost see the bare quality floating around her. She was singular, and he could appreciate her for that.
"You are a fine diva," he mused, mostly to himself. "Born to the limelight."
His words came slowly and carefully. He would not embarrass himself by slurring, even now, when the alcohol had begun to marinate his brain. He had far too much dignity for that.
"Do you live on song and grace alone?" he asked, and the question was for her abstractly only.