Chapter 2

Christine was ready five minutes early. She dressed in her best blue gown and favorite midnight-colored cloak. She left the red scarf hanging on its peg on the wall. No thoughts of Raoul and their friendship would infiltrate her mind on this day. No burning questions or reflections on tough future choices would ruin her enjoyment of whatever Erik had planned. She simply wanted to enjoy the rest of the day with him.

She paced in front of the mirror. After Erik had left, she had hurriedly attended to her knee, copying his earlier actions using the little medical kit in the washroom. Satisfied she had done as well as she could, she quickly washed up and donned her garments, discarding the dancer's dress.

When the mirror turned on its pivot, she turned to greet Erik with delight. He held a basket over his arm, but other than that, he appeared as usual in his black evening dress, fedora hat, and cloak.

"What's in there?" asked Christine curiously, tempted to open the lid and peek at the contents of the basket, but Erik shooed her hand away. Instead, he offered his arm after gallantly bowing to her. She took it as he led her through the mirror and into his dark world.

They went through a few passageways until they were near the stage. She could hear the rehearsal through the walls and was glad she wasn't participating in it. The musical director was disciplining the group for their poor performances earlier that day. Feeling only the slightest hint of guilt and more than a little flush of freedom, she giggled as she pranced along after Erik, mindful of her sore knee, glad to have escaped the extra drills the director was now imparting on the company.

"Tsk tsk," said Erik in her ear. He wagged a finger at her, but she could tell he was smirking in the dark.

After they passed the stage area, they climbed upward. Her knee was starting to bother her, but she didn't complain. She didn't want to ruin whatever surprise Erik had in store for her.

They went up, past the dome of the ceiling, past the ballet rehearsal rooms. Erik guided her through a giant empty room with a lone piano of ebony, its ivory keys gleaming from the light coming through the portal windows. She'd never seen this space before. Apart from the piano, the room was dusty, as if it had not been used in a very long time. There were so many rooms in the Opera; it was impossible to see them all.

"Do you ever play here?" she asked. For what other explanation could there be for the spotless shine of the instrument versus the dust and dirt of the rest of the room?

"Sometimes, at night, when the Opera is empty. I grow restless below ground at times," he admitted softly. "And I do not like to see such a fine instrument go untouched."

He glanced back at her, his eyes intense before he led her near a large slanted window and angled what appeared to be a slat in the wall next to it. It was a trap door.

"After you, mademoiselle," he said, holding out a hand to assist her.

She placed her hand in his with no hesitation and slid sideways through the door, coming out on a part of the roof that was hidden between the dome and the left side of the building. The sun was shining low overhead, but this part of the roof was shaded. There was a little alcove before the roof sloped upward. Erik came through the trap door, closing it behind him. He led her over to a set of stairs that climbed steeply and then descended to a small hidden space on the other side, out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

Along the edges of the small rectangular space, set on a ledge underneath the carved stone faces on the façade of the building, were rows and rows of flowers in pots in numerous shapes and sizes. It was a makeshift flower garden, on the roof of the Opera.

"Oh, Erik!" said Christine as her eyes alighted on the bright pink, yellow, and purple petals. They waved gently in the early autumn breeze, an explosion of color against the white stone of the building.

Despite the warmth of the sun, the wind was cool at such a high elevation. Christine understood why Erik had insisted she dress warmly. She shivered slightly as she moved from pot to pot examining the flowers.

"What are they?" she asked, fingering the delicate blossoms from one to another so as not to neglect any. She recognized the roses, but the rest of the blooms were a mystery to her.

"These colorful ones are called cosmos. They are a species of sunflower and not native to France," explained Erik, sounding like a scientist who had memorized a book. He pointed to another one. "These are dahlias, a very dignified and stable plant. And these deep purple beauties are anemones or 'wind flowers' as they are sometimes called."

"It sounds like there is a story there," said Christine, turning on her heel to face him.

"Ah, yes," said Erik. "The name anemone comes from the Greek word meaning 'daughter of the wind.' Ovid's Metamorphoses says the plant was created by Aphrodite, the goddess of love, as she cried over her mortal lover, Adonis, the god of beauty. He died in Aphrodite's arms as she wept, and his blood mingled with her tears, creating the anemone flower."

"That is very beautiful and tragic," said Christine as she touched one of the flowers.

"As many Greek myths are," said Erik, moving on to the pale pink blooms on the end. "These, of course, are the last of the summer roses."

"Isn't Aphrodite also associated with roses?" asked Christine.

"Yes," replied Erik. "Another version of the story says that Aphrodite injured herself on a thorn from a rose bush, turning the white rose red with her blood."

Erik's eyes were bright. The tale reminded Christine of another story he'd told her about red and white roses, and a nightingale who defied the will of Allah.

"So much beauty from so much tragedy," she murmured.

"Mm," was all Erik mumbled in return.

"Such sad stories," said Christine with melancholy, leaning against the ledge. "I used to enjoy my father's tales as well. I think there were more unhappy ones than glad ones, but that's what made them memorable."

Erik frowned when she turned to him suddenly, curious.

"Do you believe we create our own happiness? Or do you think some divine destiny is involved?" she asked him. "Do you think we are fated for certain things to happen?"

"I wouldn't know, never having been happy myself," said Erik dryly.

Such honesty in his tone and yet, Christine sensed behind his mocking humor there was something he was not saying.

"There has never, ever, been a happy time in your life?" she questioned, disbelieving this could be the truth. She knew something of his background, those few memories he had shared, but not all the details. Despite his disfigurement, surely his entire life had not been completely miserable? Maybe she was too innocent and optimistic, but she just couldn't imagine a life that held no joy in it. In his music surely, he had to be content?

"Does right now count?" he joked, his hand flipping outward, palm up.

"Erik, I'm being perfectly serious," said Christine.

"So am I," he said, and this time he looked serious.

She put her hands on her hips. He was dodging her question.

"Come, I didn't bring you here so you could wax poetic," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm supposed to be cheering you up, remember?"

He was obviously uncomfortable with her topic of choice. Remembering the basket on his arm, Christine pulled at it playfully.

"All right then. What do you have here?" She gave a little tug, but he held firm to it.

"Ah, patience. It's still a virtue, Christine Daaé," he teased. Tugging off his cloak, he swept it around gracefully and spread it out in a corner of the little alcove. He gestured for her to sit. She obeyed, and he joined her a moment later, opening the basket so she could see the contents. Bread, cheese, fruit, and a bottle of red wine greeted her as he pulled them out one by one along with small china plates and two glasses.

"I thought you avoided spirits. You said they're not good for the throat," she admonished.

"You are quite right," he agreed. "I rarely indulge. But this day has called for a little indulgence, don't you think? Or should I studiously send you back to rehearsal?"

"Don't even joke about that!" she rebuked him with a laugh, holding out her glass so he could pour her some wine. He filled the glass about a third of the way full.

"Any more and it will go to your head," he warned.

She took a sip. She wasn't much of a wine drinker herself, but this was very good. She told him so.

"It's even better with the bread and cheese," he said as he offered her a slice of each. He brought forth the grapes next and Christine had a little feast, sitting on his beautiful cloak. She tried her very best not to spill any crumbs on it.

"Aren't you going to eat?" she asked him. He had sipped his wine when she wasn't looking directly at him, but she hadn't seen him take even the smallest bite of any of the delicious food.

"No, my dear," he said quietly.

Now that she thought of it, she had never seen him eat at all. They occasionally shared a cup of tea in his lair, but they'd never shared a meal. She wondered if it was because of the mask or his general disinterest in food. Perhaps it was both, but it was a shame he felt so uncomfortable as to not partake in this picnic that he had arranged. She wanted to say something to him, to coax him into relaxing. She noticed his stiff shoulders and tense muscles. He seemed ready to spring to his feet and bolt at any moment.

"I asked you a question earlier," she said shyly.

"And what was that?" he asked, fidgeting with his wine glass. Even when he was nervous, his movements were graceful. She didn't know how he managed that.

"Have you never truly been happy in your life?" She sincerely wanted to know.

He sighed and set his wine glass down. He was pondering what to tell her. There was a long silence before he spoke again. Christine set her plate aside, prepared to listen to whatever he had to say.

"There was once a time, I suppose, I was at peace, if not happy," he said, his angel's voice holding such depth of feeling. "When I stayed with Giovanni for that brief time, when it felt like my life had meaning and purpose, I was content enough."

He had told her of the master mason in Italy whom he had apprenticed under as a young man. Giovanni had been something of a father to him when he had never known his own father.

"I built a home in his little cellar, played music, invented things, as I learned the trade. I imagine it's because of him I was able to put my hands to this building, to find a place to live in some sort of harmony with this wretched world," he said slowly, his words thoughtful. "It didn't last, of course. These things never do."

He had also briefly spoken to her of Luciana, Giovanni's beautiful daughter, who had met a tragic end, falling from the rooftop garden of her home. Christine was suddenly remorseful she'd brought up this topic. She could see him remembering the past as the reality of his current surroundings blended with that place of long ago.

"It was not your fault," said Christine gently. She reached out a hand and could barely reach his knee. Her fingertips grazed him lightly. He looked at her steadily.

"What do you know of it?" His voice was slightly harsh.

"I only know what you have told me," she replied, swallowing nervously. Her intent had not been to make him angry. But she wanted him to speak freely to her of his past.

"And I told you the truth," he said, his eyes hard.

"It was a tragic accident, Erik," she said, trying to convince him. He clearly still blamed himself for what had happened all those years ago.

When he didn't respond, she dared to ask him something else. "Did you love her?"

His golden gaze turned bright as he looked at her.

"I was fifteen years old. I was infatuated with her." His voice was severe as he stood. "She was a spoiled child, as cruel as she was beautiful, as reckless as she was fascinating. A part of me hated her."

"But another part of you did not," said Christine, quietly understanding. She knew what it was like to be thinking of the wrong person for the wrong reasons at fifteen. It was part of growing up.

She stood and moved next to him, grasping at his arm.

"Erik, you mustn't blame yourself any longer," she said. "It was so long ago."

He looked around at the flowers. "And yet it feels like yesterday."

She wanted to embrace him but held back as his memories flooded him.

He gazed at her thoughtfully. "I suppose I became interested in plants then, scientifically speaking. She neglected that garden as much as I nurtured it. I longed for life instead of death. And yet, it wasn't meant to be."

He was full of such sorrow then that she wanted to weep. This was not how she had intended this day to go. She had to pull him out of his despair.

"But look," she gestured around her. "Look at what you've created now. This place of beauty. A place that is as full of life and warmth and love as I am."

She pointed to the building, to the little garden, and then to herself. His eyes focused on her again. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh, Christine."

She fell into his arms and he held her gently, her head pressed lightly against his chest as he stroked her hair.

As they stood there, something behind Erik's shoulder caught her attention. A little dove perched on the edge of the roof twittered at her, then flew off in the direction of the sun which was sinking in the sky. The blue sky was starting to turn a golden hue, the color of Erik's eyes, Christine thought fancifully, as she took in the beauty of it.

"Oh!" she said, pulling from his embrace and scampering up the stairs to get a better view. "It's stunning!"

Impulsively, she headed toward the Pegasus above her head.

"You can't go that way," warned Erik, following behind her after setting the basket on the ledge and dusting off his cloak. He threw it back over his shoulders. "Come!"

He led her through another trap door off the roof where they weaved in and out of corridors before climbing more steps. She'd forgotten about her knee as they had rested, but felt it ache again as they climbed higher. As they emerged outside on the highest pinnacle of the roof, there was a narrow walkway that led to Apollo's Lyre, and below it to stairs that descended along the edge of the roof. Feeling encumbered by her cloak, she tore it off, despite the chill of the wind, and handed it to Erik, hurrying down the stairs ahead of him.

"Be careful!" he cautioned her, but she felt heedless, hurrying on until she was along the narrow edge near the winged horse.

The sky was a brilliant gold color now and she reached out her hand as if she could touch it. She sat down at the giant horse's feet, all breath gone from her. She was perched on top of a building that he had created, where all of Paris stretched out below her. The beauty of it was overwhelming.

Erik kept his distance, though not out of arm's reach, allowing her to breathe in the air and feel the autumn breeze blowing through her hair. It was cold in the wind without her cloak, but at that moment, she didn't care. The cool wind caressed her curls, blew the folds of her dress back, and caught her around the waist like a gentle lover until she realized it was Erik holding her and not the wind. Erik's masked face was pressed against her hair, his hands were moving on her waist and over her dress. Despite the chill of the wind, she felt like she was on fire, the sky in front of her flames come to consume her.

She heard him singing quietly, a song she didn't recognize, but its beauty caught her. The lyrics were so light she could barely hear him, something about birds and flying and the moon on fire. She turned her head and met his eyes. The music drifted away on the wind. She thought he was going to kiss her. She realized she wanted him to kiss her. He was so close, his lips a mere breath away.

Instead, he said calmly in her ear, "We should go. Once the sun sets, the darkness will come swiftly, and the temperature will drop. It will not be safe here."

Her mind was hazy as she tried to register his words. Hadn't he wanted to kiss her? She didn't understand why he was pulling away.

His hands were still on her waist, but his manner was distant as he guided her away from the edge of the building and back to the safety of solid ground.