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White Rose	By : CeeCee Category: X-men Comics > FemSlash - Female/Female Views: 10605 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the X-Men fandom. Marvel Entertainment owns these characters. I make no money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
Summary: New revelations come to light about Emma's mistress. Will she try to run again?
Author's Note: Updates will be slow. Life has been heck. I'm up to my neck in trouble at home, housework, artwork that I can barely eke out time for, and the lion's share of exhaustion at work. If you read my stuff in my other fandoms, then sorry. I suck. I've been neglecting those, too.
SANTO!
Emma concentrated fully on her surroundings, on her awareness of the psychic landscape that was within her range of reach.
She felt the cool, leaden weight of the creature sprawled over her lap, silent and disturbingly inert. Emma's legs had gone numb from her uncomfortable repose in the dirt as she tried to prop up and revive the Wind-Rider. Her tormentor.
Emma's skin was riddled with scratches and streaked with dirt. Her dress and cloak were both torn and she shivered from the drafts that continuously crept beneath her skirts, sleeves and collar. Her teeth chattered as she tried to rouse her, but the woman in her lap didn't stir. Emma shook her shoulder, being mindful of her wounds. Logic warred with concern; Emma hadn't forgotten that she ended up here as a result of the Wind-Rider's previous cruelty.
But Emma's finer instincts rooted her to the spot, negating the more sensible option of running for her life. Her head throbbed, something she blamed on the brisk climes and her ordeal, but she didn't realize how much strain she placed on her physical and psychic resources during her transformation. Every cell in her body was spent; exhaustion made her limbs feel heavy, and Emma craved a warm, soft feather bed beside a crackling hearth.
That made it even more crucial that she had to get the two of them safely to shelter. She clung to the Wind-Rider, even though the gesture flew in the face of common sense, and Emma mustered the last of her strength with her psychic call.
SANTO! SANTOOOOO!! I NEED YOU! SHE'S HURT!
Inky clouds blocked out the moon, gradually enveloping them in total darkness.
*
�@
Ororo despised the darkness.
As a small child, she found herself locked in the cellar for an hour as punishment for dumping ink on Anna's dress during a squabble. N'Dare dragged her by the arm from the luncheon in the garden, fuming the entire way. Ororo's slippers scuffed against the marble floors as she tried to pull away from her mother's grasp.
"She started it! I hate her," Ororo cried. Her mother's lips thinned, making her expression mulish and hard.
"We don't hate. It's unkind, and you're the hostess. It's up to you to be gracious, not engage in arguments with your friends."
"It's MY party! She has to do what I say!" Ororo screeched, stomping her little foot and jerking her elbow from N'Dare's grasp. She twisted away, but N'Dare caught her before she could get far. Ororo found herself spun around and slapped sharply for her troubles. Her cheek stung, and tears promptly welled up in her blue eyes.
"If you can't be ladylike and behave properly in front of company, then you leave me no choice. You can spend the rest of the party by yourself. No one will play with you, and you can't show off or make a scene. I won't tolerate that kind of undignified, beastly behavior in my own daughter."
"MAMA! NO!" N'Dare struggled with her as they approached the cellar door. It was like a tug of war for N'Dare as she unlocked the heavy door and pulled her daughter inside; Ororo was tall and limber for her age, and she put up an admirable fight. In the end, her mother's will wouldn't be denied.
SLAP! Ororo screeched, holding her reddened cheek as she sank to the floor, a puddle of ruffles, satin and flowing curls. It was a shame; N'Dare marveled at how such a lovely girl, exquisitely dressed, perfectly formed, could act so ugly.
"This is where you will stay until I let you out. You've disgraced me, and yourself." N'Dare sighed, feeling guilty but resigned. She swept out of the cellar, and Ororo wept at the sound of the key turning in the lock.
She alternated between screaming, sobbing, shouting epithets and promises of future improvement in her behavior until her voice grew hoarse. But no one came running for her, and she began to feel deserted and unloved.
To a six-year-old, five minutes felt like five days, so the hour was torture, being cramped and stifled for so long with nothing but the sound of her own voice. She muttered under her breath, bemoaning her fate.
"Not fair. It's not fair. She doesn't love me, and it's all Anna's fault," she sulked as she tugged at a ruffle on her sleeve cuff, unraveling a long, pink thread with her buffed pink nails. "Mama's mean. Mean, mean, mean." She sniffled miserably, scrubbing stale tears away with the back of her hand. "She hates me."
She grew silent, and Ororo felt her heart begin to pound. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, and it was an odd sensation. It was unnerving to be in such tight, close quarters with almost no light. The slivers of illumination that crept between the cracks around the door were the only things fighting back the shadows that felt like they wanted to devour her.
Ororo's imagination painted ghastly creatures with gaping maws of razor-sharp teeth, children's beasties that lurked most commonly beneath the bed or behind the door of her armoire. Nanny's stories came back to haunt her, of naughty little girls who left the window curtains open at night and stayed up too late, only to be stolen away by goblins who would throw them into the supper pot. She clenched her eyes shut and shielded her face behind her long mass of hair, kicking her feet against the visions. "Let me go," she whimpered.
She was alone in the darkness. She was deserted...helpless.
She yelped with relief and surprise as the door hinge creaked, and her mother entered the cellar, staring down at her warily. Ororo leapt up from the floor and ran at her, launching herself at her mother's waist, where she clung like a leech. "Oof!" N'Dare exclaimed, and her hand drifted down to her daughter's snowy head, gingerly stroking it.
"Don't leave me alone."
"Tell me you're sorry," her mother murmured.
"M'sorry." More tears rolled down her cheeks, soaking N'Dare's skirt. She heard her mother's sigh and felt her hesitant embrace. "Can we go now, please?"
That was the compliance N'Dare wanted to hear; Ororo had learned her lesson. She eventually pried herself loose from her grip and led her by the hand into the brightly lit kitchen. She called for Noelle, her petite, chestnut-haired lady's maid, and she sent Ororo with her to get cleaned up. Noelle was surprised by Ororo's unusual silence as she helped her out of her soiled gown. Ororo sat wearing her simple shift, hands folded in her lap while Noelle brushed her hair. Her little face was miserable, and Noelle's heart went out to her, even though she knew the child had been naughty. She would never allow her own daughter, Marie-Ange, to get away with such frequent shenanigans and disrespect. But she held her tongue, since it wasn't place to get involved with how another woman chose to raise her child.
Even if that child was a vain, spoiled princess in line to inherit a vast estate and more riches than she could ever spend. Noelle sighed. N'Dare had her work cut out for her. Noelle saw a future of unhappiness for the sulking child pouting at her own reflection in the vanity mirror as she wove neat plaits in her soft hair.
*
�@
Emma's psionic voice carried far and wide, reaching everyone within a radius of roughly ten kilometers. It was a mournful, desperate sound, chilling the hearts of all who heard it. Women in the nearby villages paused in mundane chores of bathing their children or cleaning up the dinner table and clutched their temples, wincing in pain. Men huddled in taverns spat out their half-finished drinks or woke from a sound sleep, wondering why they felt such heavy unease and unexplainable fear.
Christian stirred in his cot, then jerked awake, bolting upright. His skin felt soaked in sweat, despite the meager excuse for a blanket the prison guards had provided him with.
"Santo," he whispered, trying the foreign name on his tongue. He frowned; why had that suddenly come to him? Then Christian doubled over from a sharp, lancing pain in his skull, digging his nails into his scalp to tear it out.
Santo! There it was again, but this time, it was the voice that gripped him, immediately familiar and rife with fear.
"Emma!" he hissed. "God, please help her."
There was something horribly wrong with his sister. Christian leapt from his cot and looked around his tiny cell, and his eyes landed on a small tin cup. He dove for it and hurried to the iron bars penning him in. Christian began to bang and rattle the cup against the bars, and he cried out hoarsely to the guards, heedless of the late hour.
"LET ME OUT! There's an emergency! I need to help my sister! Let me out, NOW!"
*
Jean-Paul clenched his eyes shut and groaned from the onslaught of stabbing pains in his temples. The sound grew into a loud, wrenching growl that woke his sister from a sound sleep.
"What's wrong?" Aurora demanded as she ran to him. Jean-Paul felt the bed sink slightly as she sat beside him and tenderly rubbed his back. "What happened? Why did you cry out like that?"
"Hurts. My head. Like someone hit me with a hammer."
"I can fix you a potion, or some wine?" she suggested helpfully.
"No. That won't work. It's... hard to describe. I feel like... someone just barged into my brain without permission. And I heard someone shouting."
"You don't know who?" Aurora's dark brows drew together over puzzled blue eyes, marring her pretty face.
"A woman. And... she sounded so familiar. And scared, Aurora."
"Now I'm worried," she told him. "It might have just been a bad dream. You're sure you don't want a tonic? Or a cool cloth for your head?"
"I'll be fine, I think." But Jean-Paul was shaken, and an odd chill swept over his skin. There was something unsettling about the voice in his mind, something familiar about it...
"Emma."
"What?"
"Aurora, I think it was Emma!"
"You're certain? We haven't seen her in ages, Jean-Paul."
"It doesn't matter. She's special, remember?"
"Don't be a simpleton. As if I'd forget that," Aurora sniffed.
"Chris told me before that she can communicate with him even when they aren't in the same room."
"You said she was gone, that she was taken away from their home, Jean-Paul."
"But maybe not so far away that we can't reach her, or that Chris can't."
"He can't." Aurora's voice was bitter, and she hugged herself and avoided his eyes. Jean-Paul growled under his breath.
"Don't make it sound so bleak. He'll be all right. We'll get him out. If you love him, and I know you love him, sister, then have hope for him."
"I pray for him," she snapped. "I've prayed every waking minute. Everything feels wrong without him here, Jean-Paul. He should be over in that chair, warming up by the fire, or in the kitchen, singing one of those awful songs of his while I'm making tea, or right here, in this bed-" Her voice cut off abruptly with a choke, and Jean-Paul put his plan to lecture her aside. He tugged her into his strong embrace and let her break down, stroking her long black hair. It was hard not to give in to her grief, something he shared so keenly already, but Jean-Paul had to remain strong for her, strong for them both.
The man they loved was in prison, and his sister was likely now in danger.
*
�@
"They came this way," Santo growled.
"I know that, you big lummox," Rahne snarled back as she tracked Emma's scent. Her lips peeled back from her teeth as she found the faint trail and followed it. Dani kept pace with her mate as they hurried through the brush. It was difficult to get a clear picture of where Emma was, since none of them were capable of holding one of the castle's enchanted mirrors.
Santo's blood ran cold the moment he heard Emma's psychic call, crying out his name so desperately, and he automatically feared the worst. Moreover, if his mistress hadn't come back yet, there had to be something wrong. Several hours had gone by since she launched herself from her suite's window. This didn't look good. The Wind-Rider's servants knew her comings and goings like clockwork, with rare exceptions, such as when she had depressive episodes that would drive her out of the house, often for hours, to immerse herself in the elements.
Her return home with Jean-Paul was unexpected, and Santo hoped for a moment that he might prove to be an end to the curse that bound them all, if it turned out that Emma Frost wasn't their salvation. But nothing came of his sojourn with them except an equally abrupt departure on black-tipped wings.
He feared them would never find them, until Rahne and Dani barked in alarm. Up ahead, Santo saw the bulky forms of three dead wolves, their bodies bloody and mangled. Santo recognized his mistress' handiwork easily enough, but his blood ran cold as he smelled blood that didn't belong to the wolves. Emma and Ororo's scents were all over the clearing.
"There," Dani growled, bristling when she peered through the copse of trees nearby and spotted the silhouette of a woman crouching down and cradling something in her lap. The wolves bolted for the tall pines, and the scent of blood almost gagged them, overwhelming their sharp senses. Her own blood ran cold as the wind shifted, blowing the clouds back where they obscured the moonlight.
Emma's blonde hair was in disarray, her long braid hopelessly unraveled and tangled, and her face and hands were covered in scratches. Blood drenched her cloak and skirts, but more horrifying was the way that the Wind-Rider laid across her lap, completely still, her gown bloody and riddled with tears. Blood flowed freely from a wound in her neck.
"MISTRESS!" Santo roared.
"No," Rahne huffed. "Emma, darling, what happened?"
"The wolves. They attacked us. I killed the last one," she said, and she felt Rahne and Dani bristle, but they didn't chide her for it, knowing the young woman had no choice.
"It's cold out. The beasties get more desperate when they have to go out and forage for food," Dani agreed. "We're very lucky to have Mistress to look out for us."
"She's so badly hurt," Emma sobbed miserably. "Help me!"
"Take off your underskirt," Santo ordered bluntly. "Tear it up. Make long strips."
"Why?"
"Just do it." Emma nodded numbly and did as he bade her once she laid Ororo back down on the ground. She shimmied out of the slip, not caring about decency, and she promptly tore it in half, then into long strips as he described. Santo was satisfied.
"Drape her across my back. Tie her wrists together around my neck."
"Won't that choke you?"
"No. I'll manage. I can't walk upright and carry her the entire way home, she will need to ride across my back. I'll need your hands to manage this, milady."
"All right." Emma had no idea what she was doing, but she improvised, letting Rahne and Dani help her drag the Wind-Rider atop his broad back. Her wings sprawled open in an ungainly manner, and Emma feared that they would drag along the ground. "Her wings will need to be bound."
"Mercy, no," Rahne exclaimed. "Mistress would hate that!"
"There's no choice," Santo reminded them. "Do it. Anchor her tightly against me. If I drop her, we could end up opening up her wounds and making things worse." Emma struggled with the strips of fabric, hands shaking and numb from the cold, but she tied off several more neat, snug knots, binding Ororo's pinions together at her shoulder blades. She marveled at the wiry strength of those wings and their hollow, spiny bones. Her silky feathers molted in places where she had been clawed and bitten, and Emma shuddered to see the creature so grievously injured.
She put aside her resentment of her and the day's previous events and walked along side her companions, back toward the hills.
*
�@
She was exhausted by the time they reached the great hall. Santo growled and roared, scratching at the door, and Emma heard chittering behind it, sensing Marie-Ange's thoughts. The bolt was slid back, and Emma worked the door open, nearly falling through it. Manuel hurried into the foyer as fast as his paws would carry him, followed by Jenny, who hissed in alarm at the sight of them.
"Good heavens! What happened?"
"Help me," Emma rasped. "Take her... take her upstairs to her rooms. I need supplies. Water. Cloths. Needles."
"But you're dead on your feet, senorita!" Manuel was dumbfounded. Emma was shivering and blood, a complete mess, but she directed Santo upstairs. Manuel squeaked in alarm as he watched blood splash the floor boards as Santo lumbered away. One of Ororo's feathers broke loose and drifted back to him, and the hare clutched it, running his digits over its silky texture. "Mistress," he whispered, "what happened to you?"
"She was protecting me," Emma explained. "Now help me. I need herbs and the other things I asked for."
"In the kitchen." Emma followed him, but her feet throbbed. She kicked off her ruined boots and removed her cloak, dropping it over a nearby chair.
"Pick up that basket and go into the pantry," Manuel ordered tersely. "You will find all you need in there. Just ask for it aloud, and it will appear inside."
"You're joking."
"Do it. Quickly." Emma reached for the large picnic basket, woven from dark, thick reeds.
"Mortar. Pestle," she snapped. Sure enough, both items jumped from the shelves into the basket with a small thump. She jumped back in surprise. "Clover." A small brown packet of it appeared inside, as well. "Whiskey." From the top shelf, she heard a sliding noise, and a tall, slender flask became visible, waiting for her to reach for it. "Needles. Catgut." Emma ticked off a list of herbs that she needed, and one by one they appeared in her basket.
She gathered up clothes, candles, and a small copper kettle and dragged all of it upstairs, not caring how fatigued she was. Santo had already managed to release his mistress from his back, and she laid crumpled across the bed on her side; he'd been mindful of her injured wings, not wanting her weight to crush them.
"She looks awful," Emma muttered. She rushed down again and brought back two pails of water, and they sloshed slightly as she filled the great kettle and set it over the flames.
She assembled her herbs and began adding them to the mortar, grinding them down into a coarse powder. She added boiling water to these and tasted it, grimacing at its bitterness. She mixed it with a finger of whisky in a small tin cup, then sweetened it with honey. It wasn't much of an improvement when she tasted it again, but it would have to do. Emma crouched beside the bed and reached for the Wind-Rider's head, turning her face upward by her furry jaw. She frowned at the blood crusting her fur, coagulating and turning sticky beneath her fingers.
"Don't think I forgot about how you locked me up," Emma muttered, but her heart softened at the vulnerability in the beastly face when she was unconscious. She lightly slapped her cheek, trying to rouse her. "Stay with me. Wake up, now. Listen to me! You have to wake up!" Emma tugged on a lock of her hair, shaking her.
She took a different tack, opening a channel between them and calling out to her. Wind-Rider. I need you to wake up. Open your eyes. Tell me you hear me. The creature stirred slightly, and Emma was rewarded with a small, hoarse groan. "That's it. Up and at 'em. Auntie Emma cooked up something for you, even if you don't deserve it."
"Nnnngh..." The creature's eyes opened into drowsy slits. "Wha...?"
"Drink." Emma struggled with her, trying to roll her over enough to tip the cup against her lips. The Wind-Rider wrinkled her nose at the putrid scent of the concoction, but Emma had her way, managing to splash some into her mouth. The creature grimaced, but the drug was potent, having an immediate narcotic effect, and an analgesic one as well. She struggled less when Emma gave her a second generous dose.
She drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware that she was lying on a bed, or that a young woman was hovering over her, working feverishly on her.
Emma stoked up the fire and lit candles throughout the chamber to allow herself adequate light. Emma stripped off her gown and belt with some difficulty, and she gasped at the sight of her body. The Wind-Rider truly was female, owning elegant, generous curves, a narrow waist, and long tapered legs. Her shoulders were broad and her arms slender, more than Emma would have expected for someone so strong. Her breasts were large and full, and Emma noticed dark, fleshy buds crowning each that hardened once they were bathed with Emma's damp wash rag. Emma flushed when she gently moved the Wind-Rider's thigh, parting her legs slightly to examine the flesh there. Two perfectly formed labia, shielded by lush, thick fur, met her curious gaze. Her hand wavered over it for a moment, but Emma snatched it away, annoyed at herself for even considering taking such a liberty.
Emma commenced to bathe her, taking special care with her injuries. Her fur was coarse yet soft, not unlike Rahne or Dani's. Her body was pliant beneath Emma's hands as she worked, debriding and cleaning out wounds with sharp antiseptic. She probed and cleaned out the wound in her throat, trimming away the fur surrounding it to keep away infection. Emma held up a candle more closely to allow herself to see more properly, and she wasn't expecting the skin beneath the fur to be a deep, almost cinnamon brown.
The wound was thankfully shallow, and Emma managed to cauterize it with a hot knife, suturing it with needles she sterilized in boiling water and lengths of catgut. The Wind-Rider barely stirred, and Emma feared that she might have given her too strong a dose of the herbs, but she was relieved that she was still breathing evenly. Emma bathed her throat again, washing away the clotted blood. Her rows of stitches were neat, but her skin still appeared hideously puckered in the meantime. Emma doubted her patient would be too self-conscious about it if having a scar meant she'd survived.
Emma sat back on the floor, kneading her neck muscles, which screamed at her. Every nerve and tendon in her body was knotted and uncomfortable and Emma felt filthy. But exhaustion claimed her, and if she didn't get up now, she would spend the night sprawled on the floor.
Emma pulled a nearby chaise closer to the bed and laid herself down, not wanting to go too far away. She was awakened by the sensation of tiny paws kneading her belly, followed shortly by the tickle of whiskers over her lips. Emma's blue eyes cracked open to find Jenny's staring into them.
"How is she?" she mewed in concern.
"Resting. Alive."
"Thank heaven." Jenny settled against her, continuing to knead her, something Emma tolerated more out of exhaustion than patience. She absorbed the cat's warmth and drifted back to sleep.
She awoke to guttural screams and thrashing sounds that made her flesh crawl. The Wind-Rider was awake, and she was in pain. Emma felt her emotions and suffering completely unfiltered, and her thoughts were a mad, excruciating jumble that made her head throb.
PainhurtsPAINheavenhelpmePAINpleasemakeitstoptearingBURNINGpain...
"Shhhh! Shhhhh! You're all right! You're in your room! Do you hear me?"
"MAKE IT STOP!" She thrashed and glared up at Emma with accusing, cloudy slate eyes. Her fanged teeth chattered and when Emma touched her face, she felt clammy.
"Fever," she whispered. Her worst fear was realized, and Emma hurried to make more of her potion. She fought with her, literally having to take the beast by the horns. Ororo fought against her, slapping her with a taloned hand. Emma forced her hand away and managed to shoulder her back down to the pillows. Christian and Adrienne had been similiarly delirious once when she nursed them through fevers, but neither of them were quite this strong...!
She worked the tonic down the Wind-Rider's throat again, almost ending up dashed to death by a stray stroke of her injured wing, but Emma prevailed, and the creature collapsed. Emma panted and huffed, scraping her hair back from her sweaty face. "Damn it. Damn, damn, damn. This wasn't supposed to happen." She bathed the Wind-Rider in cool cloths, examining her. She'd dressed all of her shallower wounds, all except for her wings...
She rolled her onto her belly, something she wasn't initially pleased about, but it gave her a better view of her wings. She gently combed through her feathers, probing her pinions, looking for exposed muscle and cartilage, and Emma hissed in pain as she was poked by something sharp. A long sliver of bone protruded hideously through her flesh. "Good heavens," Emma whispered. She needed to reset that bone, and be careful about it, because birds' wings were delicate, with hollow bones that could snap too easily if she mishandled her.
Emma worked painstakingly over the next few hours, probing and debriding the wound, opening up her flesh with a small, heated knife. It was gruesome work; Emma's fingers grew bloody and sticky, scratched by the roots of stray feathers. She gradually maneuvered the bone back into place, anchoring it in place with a loop of catgut. Slowly, carefully, she sutured her flesh, taking care to make sure the bone and muscle wasn't left exposed. She flushed the wound as she worked with warm water, ensuring that feather fragments and hair weren't remaining inside it. Emma packed a clean dressing around it and tied it securely with more strips of her slip to hold it in place.
She felt the Wind-Rider's distress and panicked, afraid that she would wake and disturb her wounds or undo her work. Emma turned her gently to her side again, letting her wings dangle slightly off the edge of the bed, and she gave her another dose of the potion preemptively, hoping she would rest for a few more hours. She pulled up the covers around her and retreated to the chaise. But Emma no sooner sat down than she heard a low, muted psychic plea.
Stay. Don't leave me.
Emma frowned. That was the Wind-Rider's voice in her mind, as plainly as if she had whispered it aloud. But the Wind-Rider was perfectly still. Emma changed her mind about where to sleep. She crawled onto the bed and laid on her side, facing her patient. The creature's expression was deceptively peaceful, lacking cunning. Emma sighed, wondering how on earth she ended up here, how things between them had changed to dramatically within a day. Her eyes, aching from exhaustion, finally drifted shut.
Emma didn't notice a long, soft taloned hand reaching for hers while she slept, gently squeezing her fingers.
*
�@
Emma heard fine strains of music again, the kind you listened to during a ladies' luncheon in a closed parlor. She followed it, but this time it wasn't coming from the ballroom. The house around her was relatively devoid of household noise; she didn't hear servants chatter or the banging of pots being washed.
She peered around the edge of a door frame, impressed by the large parlor. The furnishings were elaborate and elegant, upholstered in soft blues with covered buttons and silk tassels. At the room's center was a large, gleaming white pianoforte.
The woman playing had her back to Emma, but she had lush white hair cascading down her back, and her hands, when they rose from the keys, were slender and brown. She wore a day gown of soft lilac with short sleeves and a modest neckline. Her playing was skilled and confident, and Emma listened in awe, completely rapt.
The woman paused; Emma didn't know how long she'd stood there. The vision before her turned herself around on the bench and met her gaze.
"Are you going to just stand there?" Her voice was deep and melodious, and the corner of her fully, rosy lips curled in a smirk.
"Pardon?"
"I said, are you going to just stand there? Or will you dance?" It was a ludicrous question. Emma didn't know this woman, even though she intrigued her.
She was so lovely that she took Emma's breath away. The woman chuckled and turned her back on her, resuming her song. "Do you know how to waltz?"
"Er... no."
"Shame," she tsked. "You look graceful enough. I'll bet you could if you tried."
"I never have time to dance," Emma shrugged.
"Do you write? Paint?"
"No."
"Sketch? Ride? Shoot?" The lovely creature played, occasionally peering up at Emma as she shyly entered the parlor. Sapphire blue eyes laughed at her expense.
"I think I covered that when I mentioned I didn't have time?"
"No time. Hmm. How do you spend your time, dear?"
"I live at my sisters' disposal. I have a home and farm to maintain, and my father relies on me to hold things together."
"You're a daddy's girl, then."
"If you like."
"Yet he expects a mere slip of a girl like you to 'hold everything together.'"
"If not me, then who?" Emma ventured closer and watched, rapt, as her hostess' fingers flew over the keys. She breathed in her light, sweet perfume, mentally identifying gardenias and jasmine.
"You've a brother, don't you?"
"How do you know?"
"I hear things, here and there." Emma was puzzled. The woman's speech was enigmatic, her manner sly, and she seemed to enjoy baiting her. A dim memory came to Emma, a name materialized on her tongue.
"Ororo... isn't it?"
"Oui, oui, mademoiselle," she chuckled, winking up at her. "At your service." She beckoned to her, motioning for her hand. Emma extended it and let Ororo gently turn it, palm facing up. Her touch was light as a kiss as she probed the calluses she found. She tutted and caressed Emma's palm with her thumb, a provocative gesture that made Emma's belly jump. "How hard you must toil, darling." She ran her fingertips over Emma's rough, broken nails with sympathy. Emma noticed that the stranger's were perfectly buffed, long and even, and it made her feel self-conscious about her hands. But Ororo gave her a smile that was almost reassuring.
"You're a woman of strong character, Emma Frost. And I find it... refreshing." She released Emma's hand and rose from the bench, only to stop Emma before she could move away. She caught her by the hand again and closed the gap between them.
"What on earth...?" Ororo looped her arm around Emma's waist, shocking her with her disregard for personal space. All she could see were eyes of blue and rosy, soft lips. The scent of jasmine filled her head and Emma heard her own heart pound.
"It's time to teach you that waltz I promised."
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