Greetings, and welcome to my second short story – well, I guess 11,000 words might be considered a short story! Anyhow, I hope I'm not trying your patience by being overlong.
I should mention that there's a story behind this story. You see, the redoubtable Inkblottales (The Chain Unbroken) and I are writing partners – and we force each other to write whenever we find ourselves blocked or discouraged. To that end, we came up with a simple writing exercise whose rules are: 1) pick the dictionary up, open it to a random page and pick a word at random – without looking, and 2) write a short story which somehow involves that word.
Our latest word was "garlic." We seriously were wondering what to do with that word. Finally, I told Inkblot that I might write a phic, and challenged her to write a dark narrative involving garlic. "Let's see you try that!" I chortled as we assigned ourselves a deadline.
She did it. She bloody did it. In her story, she managed to assign such a sinister purpose to a humble head of garlic that I will never doubt her talent for the macabre again, so long as I live.
Having a writing partner is fun!
This, then, is the garlicky phic that I wrote. Thank you for reading. As always, I am grateful for any feedback you choose to give me.
"Isn´t that your young man down there in the street, Christine?" Mama Valerius called from the parlor.
Christine paused, her knife poised over the clove of garlic which was halfway minced. "Oh, please, no!" she muttered to herself in dismay, and wiping her hands distractedly on her apron, she hurried into the sitting room. Her guardian was at the window, peering through the scrim curtains. As Christine approached to look over her shoulder, her heart jumped in alarm. Raoul de Chagny was indeed walking down the sidewalk opposite their building, and he stopped for a moment to gaze up at it. Was there hope that he might simply continue on his way?
"Please, Mama, I don´t want Raoul to know we´re at home. Could you please not stand so close to the window? He´ll see you, and there will be no way to avoid his visit!" Christine touched the old lady´s elbow imploringly.
Yet Mama ignored her completely, absorbed as she was by the activity in the street below their flat. She even parted the scrim curtain with her hand to get a better view, and Christine sighed. Mama Valerius was an incorrigible gossip and spent the better part of her day at the window, watching the comings and goings of her neighbors.
"He would come to visit right on Adeline´s day off!" muttered Christine. She flew into the kitchen and had barely had time to remove her apron, wiping her hands on it in the process, before the bell rang.
"Oh! Mama, could you answer the door, please? I need to clean my hands!"
No answer came from the parlor. Mama Valerius was being deaf again, as she often was when she preferred not to hear something.
The bell rang again, and Christine hurried to the foyer and opened the door to reveal an anxious Raoul, his sandy brow furrowed with apparent worry. His eyes widened with surprise upon seeing Christine, and he removed his bowler so quickly and gracelessly that he mussed his fair hair.
"Hello, Raoul. Our maid has the day off," she explained, and he bowed slightly and murmured a greeting, moving forward to enter before Christine had actually invited him in. She took his hat with poorly disguised annoyance, keenly aware that her hands were still sticky with garlic.
"Who is that, dear?" Mama Valerius' voice held a sweet tone now, one she never used when alone with Christine.
Christine gritted her teeth. "It´s Raoul, Mama," she said unnecessarily as she showed him into the parlor.
The old lady extended her hand to Raoul and smiled a glorious smile. In spite of the deep mourning she had worn ever since her husband´s death, her unbowed figure, silver hair, and the sweet expression in her dark eyes rendered her attractive. The dour black dress seemed the perfect foil for her wintry beauty.
"Why, Raoul de Chagny! It´s so good to see you! And so kind of you to find the time to visit a silly old lady like me…"
Christine suppressed a giggle and relaxed. She had been avoiding Raoul at the Opera Garnier for weeks, and now that he had finally decided to visit her home unannounced, her guardian was clearly determined to command his entire attention. The tête-à-tête Raoul had been seeking would be impossible.
Yet Raoul smiled as he greeted Mama Valerius and was seated. "I am entirely at your feet, Madame, but much as I would love to chat with you, I have some pressing matters to discuss with your protégée."
Mama´s eyes sparkled with interest. "Oh? Really? And what matters might those be?"
This time Christine´s giggle could not be entirely suppressed.
Raoul bridled slightly and his smile faded. "I…you will understand that I have not been able to speak with Mlle. Daaé in private lately…"
"Oh, I quite understand what you mean, young man! She spends a great deal of time immersed in her art – so many hours, slaving away for her muse over at the Opera Garnier! Why, I hardly ever see her myself! But, don´t be shy – you may speak up now. Here she is, right in front of you. Tell us – what are these pressing matters you speak of?"
Raoul went slightly pink and hesitated, before saying, "I should like to invite Mlle. Daaé to dine on Thursday evening at Maxim´s…"
"At Maxim's? Oh, we would love to go, wouldn´t we, dear?"
Christine could not answer, as it was taking every ounce of her strength not to sputter into a fit of laughter. She pressed her lips together and looked at her hands. The smell of garlic still rose to her nostrils.
Raoul struggled with his speech. "You…? We…I had hoped that your protégée might come unchaperoned…"
"Might come how? I´m sorry, but you know how deaf I´ve become over the years, Vicomte. But don´t worry, I´ll make certain she dresses appropriately. I certainly won´t let her wear brown again – she looks atrocious in that color, as fair as her hair is…"
The strength of her curiosity calmed Christine's mirth, and she watched as Raoul´s usually sunny countenance darkened into a scowl. He glanced angrily at Christine, seeming to sense her amusement, before addressing Mama Valerius again. This time his words were precise.
"Perhaps, Madame, you should be worried about things that are more serious than the color of Christine´s dress. Let me be plain: I have finally convinced my older brother, Philippe Georges Marie, the Comte de Chagny, to consent to dine with Christine and myself. Up until now, he has been filled with disapproval of your protégée and of her inferior status and connections in society. Now, however, he is clearly willing to give her a chance to change his mind. Her future...our future...depend on her making a good impression on my brother on Thursday evening..."
"What was that? What did you say?" inquired Mama, cupping a hand to her ear.
"M. le Vicomte says that I am inferior to him," replied Christine with an ironic smile and arched brow, "and I thank him for the frankness of his opinion, if not for the opinion itself."
"No! Christine! Forgive me!" Raoul vaulted forward, and knelt before Christine´s chair, and he was so alarmingly close to her that she started up in alarm. She fell back into the chair immediately, because he was kneeling on the edge of her skirt. He grasped her hand. "Please Christine, I...what the devil is that smell?"
"Garlic. I have been preparing dinner," she replied. She was fighting laughter again.
"Garlic? Are you some sort of Sicilian fishwife? How could you consider using such an offensive, base ingredient?"
"Because, Raoul, it is a base ingredient in the stew I am preparing. It just happens that I love garlic."
"What is being said? What are you two talking about?" Mama Valerius interrupted, but Raoul ignored her and concentrated on Christine.
"You love garlic, you say...do you love it in the same way you love Erik?"
The name came as a blow. "Where did you hear that name? You mustn´t repeat it!"
Raoul stood and looked down at her. "I heard it outside your dressing-room door, because I was listening there one night. I don´t mind admitting it. I don´t mind admitting that I love you, and that I became desperate when you disappeared during that fortnight...and now you have been avoiding me these many weeks. I know you are under the thrall of this Erik – no, I am not afraid to repeat his name! – but I am determined you shall be saved. I don´t care what he might have done to you..." His voice was low. Christine shuddered.
Mama Valerius had approached them. "My goodness, you smell of garlic, dear!" she said, oblivious to the gravity now surrounding the couple.
"I trust that you will see to it that she does not smell of that vile stuff on Thursday night." Raoul turned to her and forced a smile.
Christine rose to the occasion and parried Raoul´s thrust. "Come, Raoul, it´s not such a bad little herb. Didn´t Odysseus eat it to protect himself from the sorceress Circe? She might have turned him into a pig, otherwise."
Raoul looked at her blankly. "Circe?"
Christine paused. "Homer? The Odyssey?" she prompted, and sighed. Raoul had never paid the proper attention to his tutor as a boy.
"Oh...yes. That. Well, perhaps," he said distractedly, and crossed the room to retrieve his hat from the stand. He turned to the women, bowing slightly. "I shall come by for Mlle. Daaé at eight on the dot Thursday evening. Please understand how important it is that we make a proper impression on my brother."
"Of course we´ll try to entertain him, young man! Do you think us so dreadful at making conversation as to bore him?" retorted Mama Valerius sharply.
"Oh, please believe me...his being bored would be far better than the situation I fear," murmured Raoul as Christine showed him to the door.
"Such a nice young man," murmured Mama, as she returned to the window to watch the activity in the street below.
"Hmmm." Christine hurried into the kitchen, swiftly tying her apron back on to continue preparing their supper. She picked up a fang-like clove of garlic and contemplated it sadly. "A Sicilian fishwife?" she murmured to herself.
The Rivalry between La Carlotta and La Daaé Continues Unabated
What would our beloved Ópera be without its dramas and daggers? Art merely imitates life, as demonstrated by the continuing catfight between the Opera Garnier´s two grand divas. A case in point: the great Carlotta Guidacelli´s latest comment on Mlle. Christine Daaé's famously crystalline soprano.
"My dear Mlle. Carlotta," I asked, "but have you ever heard a voice better than La Daaé's?"
"Every morning, when the fishmongers come out into the street to sell their latest catch," the great mezzo answered me.
Meow!
"That comment is what started the entire thing," explained María Sorelli, snatching the newspaper away from Christine before she had had a chance to read more than two lines.
Christine shook her head, glanced at the clock on her dresser and turned towards her mirror again. She began to line her eyes carefully, trying not to let her hand shake. In one hour, she would be taking over the role of Marguerite once more, since La Carlotta had decamped early that afternoon and sworn by all the saints that she would never return. Christine wrinkled her nose involuntarily; the stink of fish still could be discerned coming from the hallway.
"All those fish heads!" Sorelli moaned, brushing at her peasant blouse as if afraid the odor would stick to it. She stood behind Christine as she watched her apply her makeup, keeping up a constant chatter. "I don´t know how the Opera Ghost managed to fill her dresser drawer with so many fish heads. And do you know what Cecille told me?"
Christine shook her head. Cecille was Carlotta´s long-suffering maid. In spite of all the abuse she received from her mistress, Cecille´s loyalty to the great diva was as firm as Gibraltar, and, rock-like, she refused even to give way to Christine when they passed in the hallways.
"Well," continued Sorelli, "Cecille says that La Carlotta pulled out the drawer to find it filled with all those fish heads, and she screamed. There they were, just staring up at her, and then one of them talked."
Christine´s hand paused mid-line. "It talked?"
"Its mouth moved and everything, according to Cecille. It was the head of a sea bass, she thinks, and it fixed its cold eye on Carlotta and said, 'So, Mlle. Daaé is a fishmonger, is she? You will become a very close to us indeed if you continue to insult her thus. Of all the cold fish in the sea, you will be the coldest of all!' And then it jumped to the floor and moved around a bit, and Carlotta couldn´t stop screaming."
"Oh…" said Christine, and her blue eyes stared into themselves in her mirror. She could imagine Erik´s laughter at the trick he had played.
"You´ll need some rouge tonight. You´re awfully pale these days, Christine. Say, do you want to see my latest toy? This should bring some color to those cheeks!"
Sorelli extended her wrist, and Christine´s eyes widened as she looked at its reflection in the mirror: a sapphire bracelet sparkled like a blue flame licking round her white flesh. She looked over the shoulder to stare at the bracelet, wondering whether the mirror had somehow magnified its reflected beauty.
"Pretty trinket, isn´t it?" Sorelli purred, satisfied by Christine´s reaction. "I didn´t even have to ask for it. Philippe just surprised me with it, and it wasn´t my birthday or anything. You see what advantages there are to not marrying a man?"
Christine did not answer. Sorelli spent a great deal of time idealizing her affair with the Comte de Chagny, and she spent even more time pouring contempt on the idea of marriage.
"Do you see that couple over there?" she would say, pointing to a fashionably dressed man and his elegant wife. "They´ve been married ten years, and she has had five children. And do you know what he does? He keeps two mistresses and ignores his wife completely! He´s had his use of her."
Or Sorelli would catalogue the various gifts she had received from her Philippe. "Mark my words, I shall retire early and comfortably. What woman in her right mind needs more?"
Flattered by the friendship the usually snobbish prima ballerina offered her, Christine had listened to her words, and she realized that she had permitted Sorelli to influence her. Erik had never approved of La Sorelli or of Christine´s friendship with her, but Erik wished for marriage, and Sorelli´s advice had worked against him.
When she had finished with her makeup, Christine rose and crossed the room to examine her reflection in the full-length mirror covering the wall. She examined herself with a critical eye and finally nodded with satisfaction. She fit the part of Marguerite perfectly. Sorelli joined her and put an arm round her shoulder, and the two of them contemplated their reflection in the mirror. Sorelli´s new bracelet glinted against Christine´s shoulder.
Raoul was in the audience that evening, and as Christine sang, she tried to avoid looking at him. It was difficult, because he stood up and refused to sit down throughout Faust´s final trio. He was riveted, in spite of his brother´s efforts to pull him down and impatient gestures from the surrounding audience. Did Raoul understand that Marguerite was imploring forgiveness of the heavens, or did he actually think Christine was imploring forgiveness? It was annoying, unsettling, and would only excite speculation about her morals and her possible relationship with Raoul de Chagny.
In spite of her irritation, she delivered a brilliant performance. Erik had worked with her every day to achieve such sublime perfection, and she felt his pleasure in her every breath. Shouting, bustling, adulation and questions accompanied her as she moved, exhausted, towards her dressing room after the show. She heard Raoul´s voice towards the back of the crowd and realized he was moving towards her. She excused herself as graciously as she could and nearly bolted ahead, slipping quickly into her sanctuary and locking the door behind her quickly. Above the muffled roar of the voices in the hallway, she could hear Raoul shouting her name, and she jumped as he began pounding on her door. She retreated as far away from it as she could and began to change out of her costume. Erik would soon come to collect her.
The tiny lights flickered, hovered, and flew through the blackness, and their reflections on the black waters of the lake left Christine disoriented, as though she were suspended in a bottomless universe.
"Do you like them?" Erik´s whisper seemed to surround her, but his eyes glowed down at her from above. He had extinguished his lantern so that Christine could see the fireflies better, and she could barely hear the slight shushing noise the water made as Erik punted their boat across the lake.
"Yes, Erik…but how on earth did you manage to find fireflies?" she wondered, smiling in the general direction of his eyes.
He blinked, and she knew that he, too, was smiling. "I bought them - from a boy who had just returned from a weekend in the country. He had brought back a jarful of them, and I admit that he drove a hard bargain, but we are now both the richer."
"So when you are not buying fish heads, you are negotiating the price of fireflies?" Erik´s good humor had relaxed the something within Christine which always feared her tutor.
He laughed lightly. "You would not imagine how useful it is to have one´s mornings free."
The boat bumped to shore, and Erik lit the lantern. It cast the familiar long shadows as it flickered into brightness, and its light revealed Erik´s white half-mask. His eyes were hidden from view as he concentrated on adjusting the flame, but they flicked up to regard Christine with a suddenness that startled her.
"My mornings will soon be occupied, though. I´ve found work, Christine. Not that we will need my wages, but you want a husband who is respectable, isn´t it so?"
The old anger flashed in his eyes, and Christine resisted the impulse to shrink from him.
"You´ve found…work? But you work all the time…"
"I will be working as an architect, Christine – yet I will be a free agent. My professional reputation still lingers, and those of the guild who remember my work are eager to contract my services, it seems. Today I spoke with an old comrade, and he and I quickly came to an agreement. It was his grandson who sold me those fireflies, in fact."
"You will be designing buildings?"
"No; I will be evaluating other architects' designs and suggesting improvements. My talents should be very useful in Laurent´s firm – he cannot seem to avoid hiring friends and relatives who say they are architects or engineers. Someone must save him from catastrophe."
Erik tied the boat to its mooring, and Christine stood, ready to disembark, but too deep in thought to move. She had known that Erik was an architect, and curiosity had always flamed within her. She wanted to see his drawings, wished to ask him a thousand questions, but a certain timidity always stopped her.
Her musings were interrupted when Erik gracefully but unceremoniously lifted her from the boat. His hands lingered about her waist as he pressed her to himself. Christine did not look up at him, but she felt the muscular length of him with a frisson of excitement. As always, her fear of him went hand in hand with the excitement. His hand, now naked of its glove, moved downward in gentle exploration.
"I told you to wear nothing beneath," he said, his voice strained with need.
"It´s nothing more than a petticoat, Erik."
The fingers continued to probe.
She inhaled, and she felt something within herself opening as she took in his fragrance, slightly smoky and musky. Her cheek was pressed to his tuxedo front, and she could just feel the ridge of his collarbone beneath. He moved suddenly, and she gasped as his teeth grazed her neck – and then she was in his arms, and he was crossing the threshold into his house with her.
"Erik…" She tried to move, tried to speak, but his arms tightened over her.
"Hush. Only silence will do now."
Afterwards, he played his violin for her – a love song that she knew well from her childhood, a sonioù from Brittany. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched him from the bed, smiling.
"Eman ma douz, ma c'harantez…" Christine found herself singing along dreamily in the language of Brittany, and Erik switched to playing a soft counterpart. She could feel him listening to her carefully, as he always did.
Sometimes they merely slept after their lovemaking, and sometimes they talked for hours. And then there were the evenings, such as this one, when Erik would delve so deeply into her psyche that there was both pain and ecstasy.
They had been lovers for four months now. As she watched him place the violin back in its case, she contemplated the reasons why they had become lovers, and she wondered how much he was able to guess about her reasons. Did he know how much he terrified her, much as she tried to hide it? She remembered well the evening of the Bal Masqué, and of how Erik had broken the bones of a man´s wrist for daring to touch him. He had done it effortlessly; it had been the work of one second, the twist of a single hand. Did he know how very much she cared for Raoul? She shuddered. She had been terrified that Erik´s jealousy would put an end to her childhood friend. Then there had been the rumors of murders.
So, she had consented to go to Erik´s bed one evening. She reasoned that it was something which would perhaps appease him – especially his jealousy – and which might bring peace to the Ópera Garnier.
There was something more, though, and it was the influence Sorelli had begun to exercise over her. Before she had talked with Sorelli, Christine had thought of marriage as something inevitable for a respectable woman, unless she chose celibacy. Sorelli had opened her eyes. Love, Sorelli contended, was a temporary emotion, and its death-throes were ugly and to be avoided at all costs. Who wanted marriage, then, when a man´s affection was destined to end? What woman wished to be trapped with a man who regarded her as an embarrassing relic of his younger days? She held herself up as an example to be followed. Her relationship with Philippe was ideal, she said. She would be loath to spoil things by marrying him.
"Marriage is beneath any great artist," she had told Christine. "Look at Carlotta and Piangi! She wouldn´t dream of marrying him, but they've been an item for years. And there's someone else, too, quite illustrious…" - her voice had dropped to a near-whisper here – "in fact, an aunt of Philippe's, who was officially a maiden aunt when she died last year. She had more lovers than Catherine the Great!"
Secretly, Christine had been shocked. Raoul´s Aunt Claudia had always been spoken of with the greatest respect – she was a pious woman of many virtues who had dedicated herself to charitable work.
Erik had been surprised and delighted to find Christine so receptive, and she had been satisfied that his passion for her would turn to boredom once his curiosity was sufficiently satisfied. Her naiveté and innocence, his pain at her knowledge of his unmasked face…all of these things were behind them forever.
Things had not worked as Christine had wanted, however. Far from dropping his desire for matrimony, Erik had become more insistent upon it every day. Now he had found respectable employment outside the opera house; he had moved another piece across the board, and soon he meant to capture his queen.
The flame of the candle nearest the bed jumped and flickered as Erik glided, wraithlike and silent, towards the bed. As he slipped out of his robe to join her, Christine emerged from her reverie and smiled up at him. He stood watching her for a long moment before snuffing the candle out and slipping, unseeable, into bed with her. She drifted off in his arms.
The smell of coffee and breadstuffs lured Christine to the kitchen the next morning. Erik had been to the baker's, and she admired his figure as he bent to retrieve a jar of milk from the glacière. He turned to regard her and waved a casual hand towards the table set for two, its plate of croissants and coffeepot.
He pulled out a chair for her, and his morning manners were as gallant and elegant as ever, but Christine was tense. They had discussed nearly nothing the evening before, and she noticed his furrowed brow and a slight tension to his slender figure that was always prelude to a parley. He started politely.
"Your Mama Valerius is well, I take it?"
"Yes, thank you, Erik. I should be returning to her soon, though Adeline is with her."
"I´m sure she can care for herself very well; in fact, I expect she should make a decent enough chaperone for you when you meet that fool and his brother at Maxim´s next Thursday."
Christine sighed and said nothing. She did not bother to wonder how he had gotten wind of her appointment. She was surprised and relieved that he did not forbid her from going.
Erik continued. "It will be the perfect time for you to announce our engagement. There is far too much speculation regarding you and that boy, and his foolish behaviour last night did nothing to stem the rumors. Standing up during an entire scene! If he´s not more stupid, then it´s because he doesn´t practice!"
Erik was wearing the flesh-colored half-mask he used to run errands, but the exposed half of his face was reddening. The effect was strange and frightening, and Christine tried not to cringe.
"I have no idea why he behaved that way, Erik…"
"Then permit me to explain. It´s because he knows you´ve taken a lover, considers you a fallen woman, and is sent into transports of rapture by your penance, even if that penance is theatrical. He longs for you to beg his forgiveness, and he still wishes to marry you. Such a saintly fellow!" Erik sneered. "Imagine the hell he would put you through were you to accede to his wishes!"
"I´ve no intention of doing so, Erik. You know that."
"And I also know that you take the ring I gave you off your finger when you are not with me," he countered. "Why would that be? Do you think I´m ever truly far from you?"
"No, Erik, but the questions people ask me when I wear it…"
"There would be no questions if we were married. You should have married me months ago, Christine, for your own good…for the good of everyone!" He had been standing before her with his fists balled into his pockets, but now he approached her chair, and, his hands on its back, he lowered his lips to her ear. "You thought you might put me off by satiating me physically. It won´t work, Christine."
She shot up out of her chair, hiding her fear under a veneer of indignation, but he was quicker than she, and he blocked the doorway, towering over her.
"I…cannot marry you until there´s something more than your employment. Right now you´re blackmailing the managers of the opera just to get by, which I think is a dreadful situation. Maybe when there´s enough saved up…"
"Enough saved up," repeated Erik, with a dark chuckle. "Perhaps I should sell a trifle or two. Do you think that the gold bookends in my library would bring in a bit of cash?"
Christine paused. It was true that Erik´s home and furnishings were opulent, but she had never dreamed those dragon bookends could be of gold.
As if reading her mind, Erik continued, "I believe I told you that my service to the shah left me a rich man. Until now, I have refrained from discussing vulgar matters like money with you, but I see that I have no choice. If I charge the managers of this opera house a fee for my services, it is because I have done more to make this theater a success than they realize or are grateful for. The money I receive from them is token. I have enough wealth accumulated, aside from that, to easily buy the Comte de Chagny out and evict him from his home."
The enormity of the statement caused Christine to gasp, and she stared at Erik in frank disbelief.
"And there is yet more." Erik´s gaze, which had been fully upon her, now drifted behind her to the kitchen counter. His arms, which had been propped against the doorway, now dropped to his sides. His lips turned up slightly in an ironic smile. "Do you like garlic, Christine?"
She turned slightly to follow his gaze. There, on the counter, was the soapstone garlic keeper she had often admired. Though shaped like a head of garlic, it was as large as a grapefruit, and its top lifted to reveal a small carved-out compartment where cloves of garlic could be kept. The rest seemed to be solid soapstone.
"That sculpture was a gift from the shah. Note how the soapstone, when scored, produces chalky lines perfectly resembling the texture of a garlic head. When I was gifted with this exquisite thing, I was told it was merely a token of the shah´s esteem. They did not know I understood the derision behind the gift."
Erik walked over to the counter and picked the sculpture up, contemplating it. "You see, it is a common belief in the realm of Islam that the garlic plant sprang up from the devil´s left footprint. That was the meaning of the gift – everyone in the shah´s court regarded me as the devil incarnate. Do you share their opinion of me, Christine?"
This time, Christine´s reaction was as pure and spontaneous as her shock. "Never, Erik!"
"Good! Now, I´ll tell you something. I decided to take the object of their offense and make something useful out of it. I carved out the top so that it would keep garlic well, it´s true, but I didn´t stop there…" and Erik startled Christine by suddenly flinging the garlic keeper to the floor.
Several cloves of garlic scattered all over the floor, but there was something else. Christine bit her lip to stifle a cry of disbelief. Gems sparkled beneath the soapstone wreckage like broken bits of stained glass.
Erik stooped down and carefully picked several gems at random off the marble floor. He seized Christine´s hand and dropped them into her palm. There were two rubies as large as peas, and several smaller stones which looked like diamonds.
"You stole these from the shah?" she whispered, looking at them closely.
Erik chuckled. "They were not stolen, though they were smuggled out, as you can see. This is only one part of a very large cache."
"Very…large? But if these weren´t stolen, how did you acquire them?"
"They were a gift from the palace wall, Christine. I´ll tell you something, my love, because someday it may be of use to you: always examine walls carefully. They often keep secrets. The wall surrounding the shah´s palace and gardens is no exception. There are several small gates in the wall, designed to be used for escape in times of siege. I carefully noted them for future reference on the very first day of my arrival at court. Later, I was able to stroll along the wall, marking defects and suggesting repairs, but I was watching for surprises, too. One day, I noted a difference in the material in one section of the wall. It was newer, softer material, and it covered a very specific area. I bided my time after that discovery, until one night I went out with a chisel and other tools and tapped at that thin patch of mortar until it revealed a box. I uncovered another box, and then another, Christine."
"They were all filled with gems? What were they doing in the wall?"
"Some ancestor of the shah´s had hidden them centuries ago, clearly because he was under siege and anticipated having to escape. He would be able to leave and come back for his gems whenever his luck changed. Or, failing that, he could get some trusted accomplice to break them out of the wall and bring them to him, wherever he happened to be."
"So…something must have happened to him?" remarked Christine.
"Exactly. He must have trusted very few people with information on where he had hidden his stash, and the knowledge must have died with him."
"And nobody had any idea?"
"Not at all, it seems. I´ve examined the gems, of course, and they were cut in a very primitive way – at least three centuries ago. And I now have the makings of a fortune in gems, but I´d rather set them into necklaces to grace my wife's pretty neck."
There was a pause, and Erik stepped closer to Christine. He tipped her chin up with a gentle hand, and she was forced to look into the bottomless depths of his eyes. "Please, Christine…"
Those eyes pleaded with her, and Christine crumbled. She could tilt against the usual trinity - his anger, his arrogance, and his cynicism, but she was unequal to his abject vulnerability. She felt she would rather die than hurt him, and that he probably knew it. It was simply not fair.
"You are a genius, Erik. Sooner or later you will tire of me, and when that happens, I will be miserable." Christine´s voice was just above a whisper, and her eyes were closed. She was afraid to look at him. Facing herself, admitting these feelings, had been frightening enough.
She felt herself enfolded in his arms, his cool lips pressed to her forehead.
"So, that is what you have been fearing all this time?"
Christine kept her eyes closed and did not answer. Any answer would have been in tears, not words.
"You, Christine, are everything I have ever wanted or needed – and can you truly think I could ever tire of all we share? Do you dare to think that what I feel is simple passion? Now I long for the peace of permanence, and if you think peace to be the same as boredom, you´re much mistaken. All I want is to live as an ordinary man with you, to enjoy a home and family. Yet I will live our life and our love deeply, as no one else could, I promise you, Christine."
He held her for a long time, and she breathed in his fragrance, not daring to destroy the moment.
Finally, Christine shifted backwards, accidentally crushing a clove of garlic under her heel.
"Oh…"
Erik laughed. "No harm done. We shall have a house with an herb garden, with thyme and rosemary and even some lavender for your sachets. And we shall have garlic as well! Qui a de l'ail dans son jardin n'a pas besoin de médecin – you know that that humble bulb has medicinal qualities as well, my dear."
"Really?"
"Indeed. But come to the parlor with me, where I have a gift for you. Something that should please your friend, Sorelli, greatly when she sees it."
Christine pinned the brooch Erik had given her right at the middle of the oversized white bow at her throat. It was the crowning touch to a slate-grey and white watered silk confection which set off her pale beauty to perfection. Her narrow waist had been rendered yet narrower by the most exigent of corsets, and her hat was a masterpiece of grey and white plumes set rakishly at an angle.
But that brooch! Christine touched it nervously. Erik had asked her to wear it this evening, and she felt it her duty – after all, he had not objected to her dining with the de Chagnys. He had been kind to have gifted her with such a luxury, and he no doubt took pride in the fact that she would wear it in front of such distinguished people – but she found it gaudy, very gaudy.
She had been surprised by the gem at the center of the brooch – it was the rarest of things, a black diamond the size of an almond. It flashed its brilliant flames from the blackest of depths, and Christine had been reminded of St. Elmo´s fire. White diamonds surrounded this blackest of centers, and the gold of the setting was so discreet as to be nearly invisible.
Yet the diamond was so large – and it seemed foreign to Erik´s subtle sense of the aesthetic. She understood that he had had it set especially for her, and she found that fact all the more surprising.
Christine´s nervous hands unpinned the brooch and transferred it to a location which would attract less attention – to the left side of her bodice, just below her collarbone.
"That de Chagny fellow's just alighted – his isn´t a bad-looking carriage…" Mama Valerius' voice dropped to an indistinct mutter, and Christine hurried to join her in the parlor.
"It can´t be Raoul…he´s fifteen minutes early! But, what´s that?" Christine stopped short. Mama was now peering down into the street with the help of a large brass telescope mounted on a wooden stand.
"Where did you get that…thing?" gasped Christine. She was horrified – Mama Valerius had elevated the art of spying on the neighbors to a science, and she was completely unabashed. The old lady turned to her, grinning blissfully, just as the doorbell rang.
"Oh!" Christine swept across the room, gathering an afghan from the sofa as she did so, and quickly covered the telescope with it. She could hear the sounds of Adeline opening the door, and the murmuring of Raoul´s voice.
"Darn the man! Whatever possessed him to turn up early?" Christine fretted.
"Perhaps he was afraid you´d escape?" Mama suggested.
Christine had just enough time to throw a black velvet cape over her shoulders before Raoul entered, and she smiled in spite of herself. Her childhood friend held a top hat in his hand, and he was attired in a dinner jacket with wing collar and black tie. He did not return Christine´s smile, but he stared at her appraisingly as he bowed to the ladies.
"You are early, Raoul," Christine commented and turned to her guardian. "Are you ready, Mama? Is that your cloak draped over the armchair?" And she walked over, picked the cloak up, and made a show of brushing it off.
"You should not be surprised, Christine. Where did you go after the opera the other night? Where do you disappear to? No – don´t answer me, because I know, but all of that is going to end, one way or another. If you do well tonight, Christine, if you make a good impression on my brother, I'll be able to save you from the monster who holds you captive."
"Monster? Did you say monster?" queried Mama sharply, and Christine sighed and set about helping her into her cloak.
"Raoul doesn´t understand what´s going on, Mama, and tonight I have to explain it to him," said Christine.
"Oh, I understand what´s going on well enough," said Raoul grimly. "You ladies are ready, I presume? Excellent. Philippe admires punctuality. And you look acceptable...but I hope, Christine, that you have managed to stay away from garlic this week. You're really much too good to touch such foul stuff."
Philippe de Chagny was a maestro of boredom. Politics bored him, but he spent a great deal of time in his favorite café puffing on good Havana cigars while political quarrels raged all around him. He delighted in breaking up the occasional fistfight, but offered few opinions of his own and offended no one. Fashion bored him, and it was rumoured that he left all decisions regarding his seasonal wardrobe to his tailor. As a result, he was always impeccably turned out. The beautiful women at the front of Maxim's never failed to bore him, and he always requested a table near the back, where he would pore over the wine list with heavy-lidded ennui. This delighted Sorelli, who felt secure in his affection. Christine decided that Philippe´s boredom had served him well, and as she, Mama Valerius and Raoul approached his table, she noticed that Sorelli, too, had adopted an expression of boredom that matched her beloved's perfectly.
Philippe roused himself from his slouch to rise politely and greet the newcomers, and he even managed a slight smile as he bowed.
"Mesdames…and Raoul, of course. Hello, Christine! It has been many years, has it not? You look just like a kitten, petite!"
"Ehm…thank you, Monsieur le comte," Christine replied demurely, fluffing out the huge white bow beneath her chin. She would not permit Philippe to ruffle her. Besides, she had gained strength from the looks of admiration and exclamations that had greeted her as she had entered Maxim´s. La Daaé, the great soprano…look how beautiful she is! Do you think it´s true that she and Raoul de Chagny…?
"Please, Christine…you are a grown-up girl now, aren´t you? I beg you to call me by my Christian name. We are like family, in a way."
Before Christine had time to respond, Mama gripped her arm. "Isn´t that La Sorelli, the dancer from the Opera?" she asked in a rough whisper.
Christine nodded slightly, still facing Philippe. "Thank you," she murmured.
"Don´t thank him for anything! He has his nerve, bringing that baggage here to meet us!"
Philippe handed Raoul a wine list, but an amused lift of his brow made it clear he had heard Mama. Sorelli´s face was scarlet.
"Mama, please hush. Sorelli is a friend of mine," whispered Christine discreetly, but Mama failed to hear her.
"Hmmph! Le singe est toujours un singe, fût-il vêtu de soie, Christine. She may dress up as well as she wants and parade herself about the finest restaurant in Paris, but everyone knows what she is!"
Christine realized with a sinking heart that, deaf as she was, Mama thought she was speaking softly. Sorelli´s face had gone from scarlet to puce, and she was scowling at her menu.
Raoul cleared his throat. "I believe they recommend the veal here, don´t they, Philippe?"
The thing to do, Christine decided, was to announce her engagement to Erik over dessert. In the meantime, she would do her best to please her childhood friend, and she contrived to do it through her excellent manners. She remained demurely silent when her salad arrived and handled her cutlery with such surgical perfection that she separated the flesh of each olive from its pit in one piece. Once the main course had arrived, she spoke only to compliment the wine the men had selected and picked delicately at her veal and left half of it uneaten. Raoul gazed at her approvingly from his seat at her left, Mama ignored her in favour of the veal, Philippe glanced at her curiously from time to time, and Sorelli glowered at her as she drained her third glass of Bordeaux.
"I must applaud my brother´s taste in ladies," Philippe finally said. "I confess that I remembered you as a rather wild little bumpkin, Christine. You seem to have taken on some refinement since your days on the Brittany coast."
"Isn´t she lovely, brother?" volunteered Raoul eagerly.
"I appreciate the compliment, though I lament your opinion of my former self," said Christine. She felt a vague sense of resentment.
"Now, Christine," continued Philippe, "you must admit that you were always scampering over rocks and climbing trees, and I believe you even learned to speak that barbaric language…"
"What´s wrong with Breton?" asked Christine, dropping all diplomacy.
Raoul laughed. "You have to admit it´s hardly worth learning, Christine. French – the language which unites us all - is more than sufficient. I certainly never bothered with an ugly language like Breton."
"Yes, you did! I helped you to learn it, remember? You used to love those Celtic stories, and the music. How could you forget the music?" Christine cried, turning her attention completely on Raoul.
"Christine, I think your memory betrays you, dear. Much as I enjoyed our time together as children, I never was attracted to anything having to do with those Bretons and their paganism," replied Raoul in a tone whose patience provoked Christine.
"They were kind to you, Raoul. You don´t remember, but they were kind to you." Christine´s voice was soft, but there was spiky reproach in its tones. "And you did speak Breton."
"Wasn´t Christine helping you with your Latin and mathematics, too?" Mama Valerius asked, her voice still alarmingly loud.
Raoul blushed to the roots of his fair hair, and Christine realized that he did remember that much. She had often sneaked into Raoul´s lessons with his tutor, and what the boy had failed to learn, she had absorbed quickly and with the liveliest curiosity. She had done her best to help Raoul remember things, but he had always been unable to concentrate for very long. Yet she had tried.
"No, Christine was certainly not helping me with my studies!" snapped Raoul, and the scales fell from Christine´s eyes. He did not suffer from a faulty memory. He was simply lying.
For the first time ever, Christine truly said goodbye to Raoul within her heart. She had loved her childhood friend, but the boy he had been had become a man with more than his fair share of vanity. She stared at her plate, fighting tears of disappointment.
"I did save her scarf from the sea," Raoul offered, and Christine heard a drunken titter from Sorelli´s direction.
"And that´s why she's having an affair with you? She´s easily bought," said Sorelli, and Christine looked at her in shock. The dancer was staring maliciously at Mama Valerius. "And you think I´m cheap…"
Philippe made a noise to silence Sorelli, and Raoul quickly rushed to Christine´s defense. "We are not having an affair; but I do mean to marry Christine."
"What? What did he say?" asked Mama helplessly, and Christine hid her face in her hands.
"You will do no such thing!" Philippe´s voice boomed, and Sorelli rose, moved round the table, and grasped Christine´s arm, nearly pulling her to her feet.
"You´re coming to the powder room with me," she said roughly, and pulled Christine across the room until they reached the hallway leading to the powder room. She turned to face Christine, her dark eyes flashing. "Why does Raoul want to marry you? Are you or are you not his mistress?"
"What´s come over you?" asked Christine, astounded. "Of course I´m not his mistress!"
Sorelli snorted. "No wonder Raoul´s decided to marry you. Why haven´t you bedded him by now and put him out of his misery? I´ve told you it´s the thing to do…he´s fond of you, and he would treat you well!"
"So, that´s what you´ve been on about all this time? You´ve been wanting me to become Raoul´s mistress! All so that he won´t want marriage! Sorelli, Philippe put you up to this, didn´t he?" Tears of anger choked Christine´s voice.
"You´re a fool, Christine…" started Sorelli, but Christine broke away from her and, turning on her heel, nearly flew back to the table.
"What on earth is going on, Christine?" Mama pleaded as Christine gathered her self-control and seated herself. Sorelli had followed her closely, but a warning look from Philippe sent her, too, to her own seat, and she once again glowered at Christine from across the table. Christine noticed that both Raoul and Philippe were red in the face, and she knew that they had been quarrelling in her absence.
"What is going on?" repeated Mama Valerius.
"I shall tell you what is going on, Mama," said Christine. "I was invited to this dinner so that Philippe de Chagny could convince me to calm his brother down without benefit of matrimony."
Philippe shot a reproachful look at Sorelli. It was clear to Christine that he thought his mistress had bungled her mission.
"I have told my brother, Christine, that I insist upon marriage," said Raoul, and Christine turned towards him in exasperation.
"Raoul…"
"Then it´s Raoul who gave you that gem you´re wearing tonight, Christine?" interrupted Mama.
All eyes turned towards Christine, scrutinizing her, and she reflexively moved her bow so that the others could better survey the black diamond brooch she wore. She looked down at it for a second, then noticed the hissing sound of breath being taken in.
Philippe no longer looked bored. In fact, he had gone completely white, and his eyes seemed to have started from their sockets. "Where…where did you get that?"
Raoul, too, was looking at her with an expression of horror.
Christine swallowed, confused. "My fiancé gave this to me," she offered.
There was an awful second during which Philippe shook with white wrath, and the anger was focused on Raoul. "You…jackal!" he hissed.
Raoul shook his head rapidly. "It wasn´t I…I don´t know how she could have it. I didn´t give it to her!"
"I told you. My fiancé gave it to me…and Raoul is not my fiancé," said Christine.
"Well, I like it. You´ve never given me anything that nice, Philippe. What´s the trouble with it?"
"The trouble? The trouble?" sputtered Philippe, and suddenly the sound of soft male laughter filled the table. It seemed to move from one side to the other in sort of an echo. The candles at the center of the table attracted Christine´s attention. Their flames guttered as if in a strong breeze, turned blood red, and then leapt up and grew until they were a full foot tall and nearly as wide. Everyone at the table stared and gasped until the flames retreated and were simple candle-flames once more.
A hand caressed Christine´s back reassuringly, and she turned to find Erik sitting beside her. His slender figure was clothed in immaculate evening wear, and he wore his wig, but he was not wearing the flesh-colored half-mask he usually wore when going out in public these days. He meant to be intimidating, for he was wearing the bone-white half-mask which was molded into a scowl. It flashed in the candlelight, and his eyes glowed like embers. His jaw was set, and everything in his lineaments suggested disapproval. His gaze was fixed on Philippe.
There was a shocked silence at the table for a few seconds, followed by pandemonium. Philippe, Raoul, and Sorelli were all shouting at once.
Erik´s hiss cut through the noise like a knife. "You´ll wish to be quieter, I´m sure, when you realize that you´re attracting attention."
A waiter came at that instant to collect their plates, while a shocked silence reigned over the table. Another came to clean the crumbs from the tablecloth, and he lingered near Erik as he took dessert orders. Christine noted with surprise that Erik had ordered dessert along with everyone else at the table.
With the waiter gone, Raoul found his voice. "How dare you come here? I´d sworn to deal with you if I found you, and now you may join me in the street!" He started from his seat.
Before Christine realized it, Erik was on his feet, too, and had gripped Raoul by a shoulder with one hand, while the other clasped his right hand in a mockery of a handshake. Raoul´s face contorted slightly with pain.
"Come, now, you don´t want me to put an end to you before you can even grow a proper beard, do you? Sit down, you fool!" His voice was cool and soft.
"Please…" said Christine, sitting in the shadow cast by the men on either side of her.
Raoul held Erik´s gaze, but sat down slowly.
Philippe took a silver cigarette case out of his dinner jacket and extracted a cigarette. He moved it towards the candle with the obvious intention of lighting it, but hesitated, his hand shaking. Erik grinned at him maliciously, and the cigarette moved decisively towards the flame.
"Do you really think I would set fire to your hand?" Erik said as Philippe settled back into his chair and inhaled on the cigarette deeply.
"I don´t know who you are or what you might do, though I have my suspicions. I take it that you are Miss Daaé's fiancé, and that you have something to do with that brooch she´s wearing?" Philippe pressed his thin lips together tightly and expelled a cloud of cigarette smoke through his nostrils. Sorelli, who had been watching the scene tensely, relaxed and helped herself to a cigarette from Philippe´s case.
"I am indeed affianced to Miss Daaé, and as for the brooch…"
"It belonged to our aunt, Claudia de Chagny, and it was buried with her!" interjected Raoul, and Christine gasped. She unpinned the brooch quickly and handed it instinctively to Erik, who chuckled as he accepted it. He surprised her by placing it on the table and pushing it in Philippe´s direction.
"Look at it and tell me if I´m a grave robber."
Philippe picked it up gingerly and inspected it as cigarette smoke engulfed him. Sorelli leaned in eagerly to look at it.
"No…you may be a ghost, but you´ve robbed no graves. I´ve never seen a gem like the one in the center of this brooch…but its design is a near exact copy of our aunt´s brooch…." He looked across at Erik, his eyes questioning.
"A black diamond. I understand that your aunt was something of a dark gem herself. Or a black sheep, perhaps?" suggested Erik.
"Oh, she was a passionate lady!" offered Mama Valerius, who up till now had been watching everything in fascinated silence.
Philippe flushed. "I don´t care for what you´re implying…"
"I´m not implying anything, young man. Your Aunt Claudia was the only interesting de Chagny on the face of the earth! And merely because she had a free spirit and a warm heart and refused to marry as she was told, she was treated like an outcast," said Mama. "Of course she took lovers! And your entire family turned its back on her and tried to present her to the public as a chaste, charitable spinster. But you, Philippe de Chagny, are free to take as many lovers as you like and look your priest in the eye, aren´t you?"
"Madame," said Philippe, "that is different. I am not a woman."
"Very well," answered Erik smoothly, "so we´ve established that what´s sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander, if the gander happens to be Philippe de Chagny. But I object to your suggestion that your younger brother become a gander, too, if the goose you have in mind for him is Miss Daaé."
"I´m a goose, Erik?" cried Christine.
"My apologies," Erik said, smiling at her briefly. His smile disappeared as he turned to Philippe once more. "The insult you offer my fiancée is unforgivable. Through your treatment of your aunt, you have proved that you censure the very behaviour you encourage in Miss Daaé. You clearly do not mind injuring her reputation, and you do not mind putting pressure on her morals. Need I mention Sorelli´s double game – her feigned friendship with my protégée?"
Raoul could restrain himself no more. "What Philippe wanted or did is immaterial. My intentions were always honourable!"
"Yes…we´ll get to that," said Erik dryly. "What I wish your brother to do is to apologize to my fiancée. No more nasty notes to the press regarding what you think of her, no more pressure on her or contact with her, though you will do what you can to advance her career at the Opera. I won´t have you encouraging Carlotta´s partisans, as you´ve done in the past…"
"Done!" exclaimed Philippe. "You will be marrying her? Then I will help in any way I can. I am sorry, Christine…indeed, I meant no harm…"
"Oh, but you did!" said Erik. "But you´ll have the opportunity to make amends. You could start by packing your brother off to the navy."
"No!" exclaimed Raoul. "Christine, please! Have these past months meant nothing to you?"
"They´ve been wonderful, Raoul. I´ve so enjoyed our walks and chats, but because we´ve always been friends…at least I thought we were friends," Christine said.
"Did your friend ever bother to write to you or maintain contact with you, Christine, until he discovered you singing at the Opera? Of course not! He´s in love with the vision of you as Figaro´s Susana, and like Figaro I refuse to let the nobleman take what´s mine." Erik's voice continued deceptively soft.
"Christine and I were sweethearts as children…" began Raoul.
"Where were you when she was mourning her father? You´re a fair-weather friend," continued Erik. "And you think you have the right to marry her?"
"I could give her…I can give her what you cannot. Respectability, privilege, an old name…"
"Raoul!" groaned Philippe.
"Please…" said Christine, touching Erik on the arm briefly before turning to Raoul. "Raoul, I´ll always remember you fondly, because we were such good friends once. There was a time when you did speak Breton, and you didn´t mind whether I liked garlic or not, or such things. Now you want to make me into someone I´m not. Do you…do you remember that bird´s nest you raided once when you were a boy?"
Raoul folded his arms sullenly. "What on earth does that have to do with anything?"
"You took the two fledglings out of the nest, do you remember? You wanted so very badly to make pets of them. You left bread in the nest thinking it was a fair exchange for the parents – their babies for your bread." Christine paused; she would not mention how upset she had been with Raoul at the time. "But the fledglings died without their parents. It didn´t matter how well you tried to care for them."
"What´s the point of this, Christine?" interrupted Raoul, but Erik, who had been absorbed by what Christine was saying, held up a hand to silence him and with a nod encouraged her to continue.
"The point of this, Raoul, is that I think I´d end up like those poor little birds if I were to marry you. Oh, I would be very well on the surface, but the life within me would die. Nothing you could give me in exchange would make up for that…and now you realize there is truly someone else."
"But he´s the Opera Ghost!" objected Raoul, "He´s a criminal."
"Is that so?" inquired Erik, his eyes glittering.
"He´s not a criminal, Raoul," said Christine, and she sincerely hoped it was so. She went on. "Something within me was dying of hunger when I met Erik. He nourished my spirit, made me an artist, spent hours and hours talking with me, tutoring me. The person you saw on stage that night you finally noticed me was…" The person Erik made of me? Christine struggled for words.
"That person was, and is, Christine when her spirit takes wing," said Erik. "And you would force her off the stage and into a corseted, cosseted life that would both starve and smother her!"
Raoul remained silent, pensive, and resentful. The waiter came to serve their desserts.
Philippe finally appeared relaxed, and he stubbed out his cigarette, leaned forward on both elbows, and regarded Erik speculatively.
"You´ve got ideas that are just as odd as your looks. I suppose you want women to have the vote, too?"
"And worse," said Erik, focusing on his dessert. Both Erik and Christine had asked for the crème brûlée, and while she watched the blue flame on hers sputter out, he seemed to be keeping his alive. He beckoned to it, and the fire seemed to dance onto his fingertips briefly, until he transferred it to Christine´s dish. There the flame leapt up for a second before flattening out and dying.
"Oh, that was brilliant!" said Mama Valerius, and Philippe grunted in agreement, and even Sorelli smiled.
"Prometheus!" exclaimed Christine, and turned an ecstatic smile on Erik.
"Will you come up and have some coffee?" asked Mama Valerius eagerly as Erik helped her down from the carriage.
"No; Christine and I have work to do at the Opera now," responded Erik, and Mama smiled at him slyly.
"Of course you do!" she said.
"How is your telescope working?" inquired Erik, perhaps eager for a change of subject.
"Oh, so you´re the 'E.' who sent me that marvellous gift. It´s wonderful, Erik! I´ve followed the instructions you gave me carefully, and I can even see what the people in the building across the street are doing."
"You´re terrible, Erik – you're really encouraging Mama to spy on the neighbors?" Christine was aghast.
"Of course. Spying is both an art and a science, and can be rewarding in the most unexpected ways," he replied.
"Finally! Someone who understands me!" Mama Valerius was in raptures. She turned to Christine. "I heartily approve of him, Christine!"
Erik turned his head slightly, but too late – Christine had seen his triumphant smile.
"If you don´t mind, I´ll have this broken up and set into something different for you," said Erik, studying the brooch in his hand. The black diamond flashed its muted fire in his palm.
"That would be nice, Erik. I think you´ve made your point, and you managed to shock everyone," said Christine as she sifted through the notes on her dresser. She had insisted on stopping by her dressing room so she could check on her mail, but she had really only done it to annoy Erik. They would not go down to his home immediately, as he had wished.
"I´m sorry I didn´t tell you the reason I had you wear such a brooch, but would you have agreed to wear it if you had known? You never wish to offend people, even when they´re busy offending you. It´s about time you learned to be offensive, Christine."
He grinned, and she laughed in spite of herself. "Thank you for not mentioning that I happen to be your lover, Erik."
"They would have thought the less of you for it, Christine. They´re prize hypocrites, but you need to be protected against judgmental people. I would never mention such a thing, not to anyone."
"It was Sorelli who made the idea seem so attractive, so very romantic. I should have known she was trying to direct me to Raoul´s bed. Well, she can be happy – she sent me straight to your bed, instead. Did you know that she even gave me a brew to drink every morning so I wouldn't become pregnant?"
Christine was laughing now, and she turned and found herself forced against the wall of Erik´s chest. His face was white and twisted with sudden rage, and he clasped her arms tightly. "What the hell did she give you? Where is it? Show it to me!"
"Erik, let go! What´s wrong with you? There´s nothing amiss…it´s in a packet in my dresser drawer."
He released her and strode off to her dresser so quickly she felt a breeze. Within seconds, he held the envelope with the herbs that Sorelli had given her in his hand. He emptied some of the leaves into his left palm, sniffing them and examining them. Finally, his shoulders slumped with relief, and he sighed. "Thyme mixed with a trace of asafoetida," he concluded. "A strange mixture, but harmless, even beneficial…." He turned to Christine. "…but completely useless as a contraceptive. There´s not enough asafoetida."
Christine reddened. "It works for Sorelli! She drinks an infusion every day, and she´s been Philippe´s lover for years – and she´s never become pregnant."
Erik threw his head back and laughed heartily, and Christine flushed even more.
"Why didn´t you come to me about this, Christine? I could have told you the truth. Sorelli is not Philippe´s first lover, you know. He´s had several mistresses over the years, and one thing has become gradually clear – the man couldn´t sire a child to save his life. He knows it. Why do you think he´s so very concerned about whom his brother might marry?"
Christine covered her mouth with her hand as realization drained the blood from her face. "Oh, my goodness…"
"I´ve warned you never to accept anything anyone in the Garnier gives you to eat or drink, Christine," said Erik, and he pulled her down onto his lap as he seated himself in an armchair.
Christine was glad to be in Erik´s arms, because she was feeling faint now. "I haven´t had my monthly for two months now," she whispered.
"Yes. You´ve been looking pale lately, too," Erik's voice was soft, and he stroked her hair with the lightest of touches.
"This is what I get for listening to Sorelli," moaned Christine.
"Oh, but I´m grateful to her," chuckled Erik. "I believe she´s secured me an early wedding date. I had been wondering how to approach you about that."