His Muse (Closed for Maka)

Saila felt the tug of someone's thoughts, starved of a muse to help bring them to life. She'd only just left her last mortal... a little boy who'd had a beautiful mind and heart, who's soul had been endless. When he died, taken by childhood cancer, Saila had been left with a feeling of helplessness. She'd wanted so bad to help him... to comfort him, but she hadn't been allowed. She'd had to stand by and watch him fade until she felt the hold of his mind to let her go.

She had only just begun to settle in to wait when another tug pulled at her, dragging her from her rest and toward another mind. As she was pulled through the swirls of light and sound and sensation toward her end destination, she felt her own awareness being filled with knowledge... knowledge collected by a muse before her. That was... odd...

He was older... much older than she expected. His thoughts felt like a vacuum... they sucked her in almost violently, desperately, and when they enveloped her, they were sad... forlorn... lost. He was... mourning something, but from the way his feelings translated to his thoughts, she could tell he didn't know exactly what he had lost.

His muse...

His sadness swept over her like a wave and Saila felt like if she needed to breathe to survive... he would have been suffocating her, making her gasp for air. His thoughts swirled around her... melancholy and oppressive. When they cleared, she was left hovering in the middle of a dark expanse... This would be her space... this would be where she rested until he had need of her. Settling in, she calmed herself, slowly taking in his thoughts, his dreams, his creative process... beginning to learn him despite not having the benefit of years of experience with him.

The rain was falling outside. It had already been dark when Anton woke up from troubled, murky dreams. He felt like he was a long way underwater, in a black abyss at the bottom of the sea.

Underwater, with the eyeless fish, the wrecked ships and the drowned sailors...

His phone rang and he ignored it. He'd made himself a cup of coffee but now it was slowly cooling. He kept on staring at the rainstreaked window into the darkness. Where had things gone wrong. He kept typing, hoping to find the words that had once come so smoothly and so easily, like every new word was a joy in itself.

I lie underwater and she comes to me...

He frowned. Who came? Why had he written that?

...she comes to me...

Saila felt the tug and before she could react, her world was spinning again. Nanoseconds before she was engulfed in his imaginings, she was given the information needed about his current fantasy world and her form shifted. Suddenly submerged in water, she was already swimming, her hair floating around her as if an aura all on it's own, a shade of blonde so pale it looks nearly white in the murky depths.

A pair of vivid azure eyes looked out at him from a ring of long white lashes set against pale skin and as he came in to view, soft pink lips curled in to a small smile. She wasn't a mermaid as so many would likely expect... she seemed more like a nymph, her pale skin tone tinged just slightly here and there with gleaming silvery scales.

The oddly ethereal shreds and strips of clothing she wore floated around her in the water but did not seem to hinder her movements as she gave a small kick with her feet and pushed herself closer through the tides to him until she was floating just above his form. A small push of her hands against the water and she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips against his own, pressing air in to his mouth and lungs, urging him to take it.

Moments later, she was pulling back, accompanied by the sound of an ethereal giggle that echoed through the water without any explanation as to where it had come from, though instinctively one would know it was her own as she swam backward a few feet, making a beckoning gesture with one hand as if to say "come play with me".

The kiss surged through him, making him feel suddenly awake and alive. The pressure of her lips on his, of her small hands around his neck. He wanted to hold her and possess her... and she was gone, darting through the water, an impish smile on her full lips.

Inspired. The word itself meant 'breath'. But was this...? Anton stared at the words he'd written on screen.

Is it you? Let's take a look at you.

And now the setting is a theatre of the Victorian era, all red velvet and gilding. Anton sits in the centre of the seats, an audience of one, waiting for the red curtains to part.

Is it you?

The curtains parted, exposing what would appear to be an empty stage before a young woman stepped out from the shadows along the back, revealing herself to the empty audience. Flame red hair was piled high atop her head, and a pair of vivid blue eyes stared out at the empty chairs with a look that bordered on longing, on sadness.

She wore a gown in the traditional Victorian style, one of deep blue velvet, with a low cut, square neckline, a bodice that showed her obviously cynched waist, and a bustle. Tiny black heeled boots, so popular in that era, were on her feet and her hands were covered by lace gloves. The Parisol in her hands was folded and as she stared in to the empty audience, she didn't seem to notice his presence.

She seemed lost in thought, as if she were heartbroken over something. A soft sob left her and she produced a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab at her tears.

"You are not her."

Anton was now standing in front of her. Long dark hair fell to his shoulders, he was dressed in the long dark coat and breeches of a Victorian gentleman. His grey eyes met hers with a furious, sparkling intensity. He paced around her, his eyes angrily taking in the heave of her generous bosom, pressed tight against her blue velvet gown and the sweep of her long legs underneath.

He reached out, catching her by the chin, and forced her gaze to meet his.

"Do you understand? You are not her."

Saila's eyes went wide as he suddenly appeared in front of her, and she nearly took a step back, but managed to hold her ground and simply give him a confused stare. She didn't understand what he was talking about, and it showed. When his hand grabbed for her chin, her already wide eyes only went wider, staring at him in fear. A tiny whimper left her, the look on her face still confused, but more fear than confusion now.

"I... I don't understand..." she whispered, eyes locked with his as he held her delicately sculpted chin in his strong fingers. She was helpless, she knew... it was his fantasy... his thought process... she couldn't disrupt it too much by changing the script.

Anton stopped typing, again shocked. Anger was surging through him, raw real anger. Why? And why now? He hadn't felt anything at all for so long. He hadn't been able to write as fluently and with as much fire as he had for so long. What was he writing? What was the story?


"They told me that I could find her here."

Anton.... Victor maintained his grip on the girl's chin, exerting just enough pressure to keep her from squirming away without hurting her. Her delicate, beautiful features were fearful, like some timid wild creature of the woodlands.

"You know who I mean. My ward, Alice."

Heir to the vast acres of the Thornton estate and, if she was not found, Victor's hated elder brother Lawrence would inherit it all. Fury rose in Victor's heart at the thought. He clasped the girl's head and brought her to him. He could feel her little heart beating and skipping frantically, could feel the life fluttering beneath his hands.

"Is this a joke? Did they send you forth as a substitute?"

Pulled toward him, the girl looked up at him with wide eyes, suddenly brimming with tears. A sudden swell of panic filled her, but Saila knew instinctively that the panic wasn't her own. It was the girl's. It was the actress, the near duplicate of Alice, who stood there, her delicate chin in his strong, unforgiving hand as her body came dangerously close to his own. She breathed in his scent and shivered, fear still running it's icy digits up and down her spine. The fear grew more intense, coupling with the panic. She knew things suddenly then...

She knew her name. She knew how old she was. She knew that she had to be Alice... she had to pretend to be Alice even when he saw through her. She had to not just because they were paying her... but because they knew where her mother was. They could kill her... and they would, if she failed. She had to be Alice... had to convince the world, at least long enough to be able to sign the real Alice's estates over to Lawrence. Then her mother would be safe... then they would have enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. But first... she had to do the job. Take over Alice's life, and transfer the estate to Lawrence. And that meant dealing with Victor.

Tears still brimming in her bright blue eyes, she let out a soft sob. "Please, Sir... you're hurting me," she lied on a whisper. "I don't know why you don't think I'm Alice, but I assure you I am," she said, still barely speaking above a whisper.

"Do you think you can lie to me? I've known Alice since she was ten years old."

Victor had become Alice's guardian after the death of her parents, distant cousins. He had been a student in Cambridge at the time, and taken her to live with him on the Continent, every day becoming more and more fascinated with the flamehaired minx...

The actress before him did look remarkably like her -her wide, sparkling blue eyes, her pale features and red hair. Somebody who did not know Alice as well as he did, Lawrence for instance, might well be decieved.

Victor let go of the actress' chin, but did not step back. Her breath was still coming in short, terrified gasps.

"Let me see you, girl. Make a turn," he gestured, like a dancing master.

Tears began to slide down the girl's cheeks as she stared up at him, blue eyes locked on his own as he told her she couldn't fool him... he'd known Alice too long. She wanted to beg him... to plead with him to go along with everything. He'd lose nothing... the estate didn't belong to him, after all... and she would not only be able to rest easy knowing her mother was safe... she would have enough to take care of her for the rest of her life. It wouldn't be a lavish life... but it would be comfortable.

When he told her to turn, she bowed her head slightly, fighting back the urge to sob as she turned in a slow circle for him, her hands holding her skirts out slightly to give a better view of them. Truth be told, she'd never worn a dress this nice... and Saila instinctively reveled in the lush fabrics that engulfed and hung from her body.

"Please... I don't know why you're doing this! I promise you I am Alice!" she insisted, turning to look up at him once more, blue eyes pleading with him even as tears continued to slide down her cheeks.

Victor glared at her, poised on the brink of anger for a moment, then he laughed.

"You're a persistent little thing, anyway. Don't you think I'd know my own ward? Don't you know the way her every little glance and movement could set me on fire? She inspired me. She gave me life. Without her, there's nothing for me..."

He looked away. He was confiding in this little minx, perhaps because she looked so like Alice.

"Nothing but revenge," he finished, his voice grating iron. He watched her shiver of pleasure as the rich fabrics of her gown brushed against her skin, her eyes widening with pleasure in a way that would have the hearts of most men racing.

"Do you care for silks and satins?" he asked. "Would you like to be Alice, in truth? You do look very much like her. But you know how I can tell the difference?"

He seized her by the slender shoulders.

"Alice obeyed me absolutely. Will you?"

The red haired, blue eyed actress stared up at the man, her eyes going wide at his talk of the effect Alice had had on him. She hadn't had any idea their relationship would be like that... Why hadn't they warned her? She would have of course still gone through with this... she didn't have a choice, really... but it would have been easier to attempt to be Alice if she'd known they'd been romantic... or at least that there had been those kind of feelings between them.

A blush had begun to build on her pale cheeks at his talk of the effects Alice had had on him... but the blush grew deeper when he somehow managed to recognize her enjoyment of the dress around her. She cursed herself for being so simple that something like nice fabrics had given her enough enjoyment that she had reacted to it. He had seen her reaction... and now he mocked her for it.

When he suddenly rounded on her and grabbed her slender, delicate shoulders, the girl whimpered aloud, her eyes wide in her face as he gave her a gentle shake and asked if she could obey him absolutely. She was trembling slightly, staring up at him wide eyed fear before nodding shakily, her red curls bouncing against her ivory skin. "Yes," she whispered, the sound barely escaping her lips. "Y-Yes."

"If you are as good as your word, you will be rewarded. Silks and satins. Servants. A horse of your own to ride. A summer house in Tuscany or Geneva or wherever you care to live. I always honour my debts. Remember that."

There was a clear air of menace to his last words. A chair had been placed in the wings, and Victor brought it forth. He sat down, and casually hooked an arm around the actress, bring her down on to his lap. He could smell her subtle, sweet perfume (the same that Alice had worn -they had clearly done their research), feel the faint flutter of her pulse and the heaving of her breasts, laid bare by her lowcut neckline. Her tender buttocks squirmed against his knees in a manner far from unpleasant.

"You may begin by telling me the truth. As long you are completely honest, no harm will come to you. But if you lie to me -telling me what you think I want to hear, for instance, you will be punished. Are you a virgin, girl?"

His words made her eyes went wide. Lawrence had promised her a comfortable life... but nothing as lavish as any of the things Victor was promising. She looked at him, baffled, before he produced a chair and brought it center stage where she was standing. At first, when he sat down, she was certain he meant for her to stand before him as he spoke.

But when unyielding arms wrapped around her and pulled her in to his lap, her eyes went as wide in her face as they could, a tiny gasp leaving her as her breasts strained against the fabric of her gown once more, her pulse fluttering wildly under her skin like the panicked beating of a bird's broken wings as it tries desperately to lift itself off the ground.

She was breathing unevenly, gasping in softly as she stared at him in a mixture of awe and fear, squirming slightly in his lap, trying to get comfortable despite the fact that she likely never would... this was highly unusual and inappropriate.

When the question of her virginity was posed, she went pale but nodded, speaking barely above a whisper. "Y-Yes... yes, Sir..." Her hands were wringing themselves in her lap as she looked at him, unsure what else to say.

Anton was typing furiously now, his breath catching in his throat. He was more invested in and excited by writing than he had been for so long -but he was somehow angry too. Was he kidding himself? He didn't feel the same way he had before. This was new... and better, in some ways. The thought made him angrier than ever, as though he was betraying someone somewhere.


The actress' eyes were wide. She did not struggle against him, although she squirmed and wriggled against his hard, unrelenting body.

"Good. And you needn't worry," he added, his voice scornful. "You'll keep your maidenhead. The marriage I have planned for us will be all outward show. You're not Alice."

Yet even as he spoke, he found his thoughts going against him. The girl writhing in his lap might not be Alice, but she was a ripe, luscious fruit ready to be plucked. There was a spark in her gaze, despite the fear, that he had never seen in Alice's demurely lowered eyes. There was something about the way her body moved against him that called the bedchamber urgently to mind. Had his cherished, idealised Alice ever moved him in the same primal way?

"Next question. Who hired you to come here? Was it my brother Lawrence?"

"M-Marriage?" the word escaped her lips as a breathy exhale, but fear was more evident in the syllables than ever. No... no, no... marriage, even a fake one, was not part of what she was supposed to do! She was supposed to get in long enough to sign everything over to Lawrence... and then she was gone! Then she could go home to her mother! Her heartbeat was visible as the skin of her neck stretched tight over her pulse point. When his tone turned almost scornful though, she felt her pride somewhere deep within her leap to life as if he'd just dealt her a grave insult. Was the thought of bedding her really so awful? Was she really so short of the girl he pined for that he felt the need to be so... cruel?

Her hand had just begun to ball in to a fist as anger flared to life within her when her common sense rose up and smacked her anger back down. What on earth was she getting angry for? The fact that he didn't want her was a good thing! It didn't matter how her body felt as if there was a low fire deep in her belly, ignited moreso by his touch, his arms around her. All that mattered was that once this entire thing was over... if Lawrence didn't kill her and her mother... she'd be able to go back to her life and perhaps one day find a husband of her own... not a man pining after another girl so much so that not even her look-alike could draw his attention.

When he asked about his brother, she seemed to go paler than ever, terror in her eyes as she looked around them, as if terrified they were being watched. When she was more certain that no one was there... and if they were... that they would not be able to hear her whispering... she leaned in and spoke in to his ear, her voice a low humm-like whisper. The angle put her cleavage tantalizingly close to him, her lips breathing warm air over the sensitive lobe of his ear, though she hardly seemed to notice. "Please... not so loud... he... he'll kill my mum... he'll kill me if he finds out you know I'm not her." she whispered, and one hand lifted, laying itself against his chest, as if to further enhance her soft begging.

The girl's firm, irresistibly rounded breasts were in Victor's face. He could smell the scent on them, could have pressed his face into that deep, soft valley. She whispered in his ear, her voice husky and hesitant, her lips so close to his ear she was almost kissing it.

He grasped her firmly by the shoulder and whispered in her ear in turn.

"Lawrence would have killed your mother when you were done, anyway. My brother likes to make people suffer. He think it's the only kind of power worth having."

Victor's grip was iron.

"And his agents will be watching us now, from the gallery. They can't hear us, but they can see what they do. If you're to see your mother again and I'm to gain the Thornton estate, they have to believe that you've fooled me. And if I thought you really were Alice..."

By way of finishing the sentence, Victor seized the girl by the chin again and locked her in a ruthless, passionate kiss. One hand strayed down to her buttocks and pushed her against his hard body until the breathless girl was virtually straddling him.

His words that her mother would be killed anyway pained her on a level that left her trembling, and for a moment, she looked ready to bolt... to turn and run, to try to get to her mother before they could. But he continued speaking, and even though tears glistened in her eyes, she didn't pull away.

When his hand suddenly gripped her chin, she squeaked, a second before he was kissing her, pushing her close to him and she was left to allow him to pull her in, her small body trembling against his own as his hand on her soft supple ass pressed her in close enough her curves were flush with the hard planes and lines of his body. She didn't break the kiss... instead, she lifted one tiny gloved hand to touch his cheek, caressing the skin there in an almost tender looking manner, though truth be told her fingers were trembling, as was the rest of her, as he gripped and pressed her tight.

Her instinct was to pull away, to slap him and run... but if he was telling the truth... if he really could save her mother... she'd do anything to make sure that happened. Anything at all.

And Anton was writing again. The prose was responding intimately to his touch, coming to stirring, breathing and sighing life. How was he able to do it again? What had changed? He was enjoying this so much... but he still felt suspicious. t wasn't the same as it had been before. Maybe he enjoyed it more but... it was like being with another woman.


Victor drank in the girl's kiss, satisfied that he was giving Lawrence's men a convincing show. Really, it might almost have become the kind of show that sailors on the east end docks would pay for, given the undeniable charms of the girl's slender, shapely body, the trembling willingness with which she yielded to his hot, commanding kiss. But she wasn't Alice, so at last he stood, still kissing her, and set her down on her feet.

"That was a good performance, girl. No wonder you took to the stage."

He'd caught a movement from the back of the theater. Lawrence's men were satisfied, too. They'd be on their way back to report success to his brother now. Victor beckoned imperiously to the girl.

"Come with me."


His coach was waiting outside. The driver, a scarred veteran of the campaign against the Mahdi, let a grin slip across his ugly face.

"See you found her, sir."

"That I did, Hodgkins. And I won't let her out of my sight again!"

Victor once again seized the girl and kissed her hard, letting his lips brush against her eyelids, cheeks and finally the sensitive earlobes. He whispered:

"Hodgkins has known Alice as long as I have. If you can fool him, we have easy roads ahead."

Hodgkin leapt down and opened the door for the actress. Victor helped her inside but remained outside, in the swirling London fog, to talk with Hodgkins.

"I'll call off the search, sir."

Hodgkins' talents extended beyond his ability with horses. He was a hardbitten criminal, with connections in the underbellies of a dozen world capitals from Paris to Cairo, from New York to Buenos Aires. Victor had had the villains of five continents looking for Alice.

Victor hesitated. He would trust Hodgkins with his life, but Lawrence must not get even the slightest hint that Victor had not fallen for his bait -and Hodgkins liked to talk. Victor would find Alice eventually, but time was of the essence at the moment.

Could it possibly be that the lowered eyes, trembling, sweet voice and lovely body of the vixen waiting for him in the coach had had any influence in dissipating his interest in finding Alice, even slightly? Victor shrugged the thought off angrily. Of course not. The girl was merely another pawn in the game between Lawrence and himself, of no more interest to him than her many sisters plying their trade in Covent Garden.

"Yes, call it off. And find someone else for me... an old nursemaid of Alice's. She says Lawrence's men have her in custody, that's how they got her to run away..."

He relayed the actress' description of her mother.

"You're to find her, free her and... make sure her captors suffer in the process, won't you, Hodgkins?"

Was he getting sentimental? The thought drew a bitter laugh from Victor as he climbed into the coach.