Christine felt a rush of joy, and a giddy laugh escaped from her lips.
There was Erik, standing in a ring of lantern light by the entrance to the house on the lake. His heels anxiously dug at the ground and he was staring fixedly into space.
He was waiting for her, as promised.
Christine's relief was so complete, it overcame her lingering apprehension of the man, and she ran to him - at least, as much as one can in a corset and stays.
On her last visit, Erik had presented her with the key to the Rue Scribe entrance. It was to be her own, secret way of reaching Erik whenever she desired. Today was the first time she had used it.
In her head, she knew she would be safe - Erik had surely prepared the way for her perfectly! But then, as the shadows pressed around her and the passage ways spun off of themselves in a horrible, dizzying confusion, she felt equally certain that she would be lost, go mad, and starve to death. One day poor Erik would find naught but her horrible, decaying body...
Then, perhaps, they would be perfectly matched...
But the vision of Erik in the lantern light instantly drove her morbid imaginings away.
"Erik!" she called out.
He spun towards the sound of her voice, and he had to check the impulse to run towards her and sweep her into his arms.
"Christine!"
"I am here, Erik," she said as she trotted towards him. "I made it! All on my own, too!"
She could see his eyes crease in a smile behind his mask.
"Of course," he said. "I had no doubts."
It was a lie - she could hear the relief in his own voice! - but Christine still felt pleased.
Her breath was heaving, but she made the effort to grace him with her prettiest smile. It did not have the intended effect - Erik quickly averted his gaze and became her rigidly formal host once more.
"Enough of that! Come, we have much to do..."
But then he held out the crook of his arm in the gentlemanly but endearinlgy obvious hope that she would take it. Such was her pleasure in having made it by herself - surely that was the reason - she linked arms with him and let him lead her through the door.
...
Rehersal that morning had been an utter disaster. In addition to the usual temper tantrums and threats, the installation for the new chandelier had begun. The managers, not wishing for their staff to run idle, had cleverly tried to fit the two events into the same period of time. Thus, the cast was singing rather more intensely than usual, trying to be heard over the blows of hammers and the shouts of the workmen. The only person who really managed this feat was La Carlotta - much to the workmen's annoyance.
Things were proceeding in this happy way until a loud argument between the overseer and the managers had derailed the entire morning.
The essential problem, said the overseer (during La Carlotta's solo), was that the managers had decided on an entirely too elaborate design for the replacement. With the weight of the additional curlecues and fol-de-rols - these were technical terms you understand - the base needed a complete overhaul to provide the appropriate support. The managers pointed out that this would be expensive. The overseer agreed, but you could not contradict Madame Gravity.
At this point, Carlotta had shrieked that she refused to be in the same building as the workmen, who drowned out the music of heaven with their hammers from hell. The overseer had then mentioned where Carlotta could stick his hammer instead, and complete chaos broke out.
The upshot was that the auditorium was a disaster of wood, iron rods, and plaster dust, would remain so for over a week, and that all rehersals were cancelled.
As soon as they were dismissed, Christine had run to her little dressing room, pleased to escape the noise and to wash away the plaster dust.
But the moment she entered, her heart had leapt into her throat. There was a rose on her vanity.
He had been there.
There was a letter next to the flower, printed all in red ink, suggesting that she spend the unexpected new time with her Maestro. "It would not do, you know, to have your voice suffer from the neglect of an entire week. I would be honored to meet you at the entrace to my home at three this afternoon..."
Christine could barely contain the chills that travelled up and down her spine. Erik was so frightening, it would not do to refuse him...
And, after all, there was her voice to consider...
...
The chills started up again the moment she passed the threshold of his house. She had forgotten just how powerful Erik could be in his own domain...
She slowly removed her little shawl, ashamed to see her hands grow pale and tremble as she folded the material.
She turned to face the room...
...and was disconcerted to find Erik simply staring at her in awe.
Her mouth went rather dry.
"Well," she said weakly, "here we are..."
"Yes," he said, his voice rich and melodious with pleasure.
Christine was ashamed to hear herself begin to babble.
"I couldn't believe the mess they created in the auditorium, you know...such a lot of dust everywhere! I'm afraid I don't know whether all of this chaos is worth it, that new chandelier is so very, well, I don't know, there's just so much of it, all over the place, at once!"
She became aware of Erik's eyes narrowing. Was he displeased? She swallowed, hard, but still the nonsense came pouring from her lips.
"Of course, Carlotta is very pleased with the design, she thinks that it is very grand and that it reminds her of a certain palace in Spain, she said which, but I don't remember now what it was, it is sometimes so very difficult to follow everything she says-"
"Christine..." said Erik warningly.
She swallowed roughly again and suddenly coughed.
"Christine!"
His voice was like a whip through the air.
She froze, though her heart beat violently inside her rib cage. She was to be punished again...
As she often found herself doing with Erik, she hung her head and gazed at him with wide, penitent eyes.
"Yes, Erik?" she said meekly. "What is it that-hmmph!"
He had launched across the room and pressed his hands over her mouth.
"DO NOT TALK."
For a moment, Christine was simply paralyzed from shock. Her back was pressed against the stone wall, and Erik towered before her...She suddenly realized it was the first time he had touched her bare skin since the mask...she kept forgetting how cruelly cold his fingers were...
"Mmmph!"
"DO NOT TALK!"
Anger was quickly replacing shock. Christine could feel her defenses mounting, and her brain cast around for the most scathing thing she could say to him, until she felt...could it be...
His hands were shaking!
She looked questioningly into his eyes, and was surprised to see an expression of complete and utter horror.
For some unnacountable reason, poor Erik was in mortal fear of her voice.
Christine slowly raised her hands and placed them gently over Erik's. His fingers were cold and trembling, and she felt her heart leap in sudden pity.
She then tried, as sweetly and demurely as possible, to pry his hands from her face.
Succeeding after a moment or two, she simply held his hands in hers, rubbing little circles into his palms with her thumbs.
"Erik," she whispered, "what is-"
"Christine!" He said brokenly. "Oh, Christine...your voice..."
Her eyes grew wide with confusion.
"Oh, Christine, can't you hear it?"
She shook her head.
His hands tightened around hers painfully.
"Christine," he whispered desperately, "I have been neglegent! I should have practiced greater caution...the plaster dust...and now, the way you're jabbering on, after that devastating rehersal...and coughing?"
She waited.
"Your voice is suffering!"
Christine didn't quite know what to say.
It was true that singers must stop any vocal exercise after a time, for fear of damaging the worn muscles of their vocal cords. Those that did not exercise proper caution could grow the dreaded nodules that robbed them, temporarily, of their voice. It was even whispered that some unfortunates had, by neglecting their care, simply ripped through their cords, becoming permanant vocal cripples.
The very thought used to make Christine cringe in fear, yet recently she had felt more confident on this score.
One of Erik's greatest gifts as an instructor was the way he seemed to make her voice tireless. Christine found that, through some combination of genius and magic, Erik simply bathed her throat in a constant state of perfect health, even after hours of singing.
Even now, she felt no pain or roughness.
She tried to say as much.
"Erik, I really think-"
"Enough! Christine, this has gone on far enough. I cannot allow you to abuse yourself in this manner! You are not to talk until..." he paused to think, "at least twenty four hours have passed!"
"Erik! I-"
"STOP TALKING!"
She stared for a moment, then tried another tack. She mouthed her protest soundlessly, trusting on Erik's ability to read her lips, but then Erik swiftly brought his hands up to her throat and gently, but firmly, pressed his fingers onto the hinge of her jaw.
"You are not to use your mouth to even signal words. Your entire larynx needs rest, Christine, there must be no additional movement to stress it! If you wish to communicate..."
He spun away, disappearing from the room before Christine had even registered the movement, and in another second returned with a stack of thick white parchment and a pencil.
"You may write. You may say anything - take your time, I will be patient - only please don't use your voice!"
So began the longest twenty four hours of Christine's entire life.