25 January 2013
"Darling, let me tie your scarf for you. Your little hands are so clumsy; you're fixing to strangle yourself!" Christine felt frustration creep up in her tiny cheeks. "I can tie a scarf myself!" she tried to say, but all that came out instead was a childish, "Humph!" A thick curl fell over one eye, and the eight-year-old blew it away angrily. It was she who had made up her own mind to look as beautiful as her dead mother in the scarf they had made together, and therefore she who would do the tying, even if her hands wouldn't cooperate.
Success! Even if she would never be a world-famous violinist like her father, the wearing of the red scarf was all her own. The nurse buttoned up Christine's coat--all right, she could tolerate that--and the knit hat was set precariously atop her jungle-like curls before the two set out to the shoreline hand in hand.
The day was overcast-- the beach had said goodbye months ago to its booming tourist season--but Christine liked it that way. Being sheltered by a grieving father, her swimming was dreadfully sub-par and she worried herself sick with the possibility of quicksand. But today offered a lively distraction--a tall, well-dressed boy of about fourteen, lanky but with the strong features and jaunty demeanor of any child born into aristocracy. His determination to take care of himself was obvious in his nurse's distance of about ten feet from the boy; her walk possessed a certain slouch which suggested exhaustion caused by the headstrong attitude of her young master. The boy caught Christine's eye; she turned away sharply, blushing (eight years old is too young to understand the art of flirting).
It was then that an abrupt gust of wind caught the beach in its fingers, teasing Christine's hair. She laughed innocently before she noticed the bitter cold on her neck--the scarf! The boy saw it first--diving into the sea, to his nurse's dismay, awkwardly he retrieved the treasure. Christine laughed with relief as he brought it back, kneeled before her and wiped away her tears with it. "For you, little mademoiselle." His voice was enough to soften Christine's tears forever, warm, deep, comforting. "My name is Raoul. Would you like to walk with me?"
Before The Opera: Chapter One • Opuss № I