Chapter #4
Another Lesson

For three days, Christine saw no trace of Erik. It might have been hours, for all she knew. Time had no meaning in the house beyond the lake and every passing minute was the same as the last. If the grandfather clock in the parlor did not ring the hour, she would have thought time stood still.

In a way, it did and it had stopped the moment she kissed him.

She often looked back on her actions for answers, ignoring her reactions, and found any assessments worthless. Maybe she did it because she could not hear Raoul behind the door anymore. Or perhaps she wanted to prove all Erik's biting accusations were unfounded, that she could grant compassion the way he did pain. There was something wonderfully romantic about self-sacrifice, and part of her longed to share her generosity to a friend over tea and biscuits. As it was, she would content herself with the knowledge that Raoul was miles away in his comfortable home, nursing a broken heart while Christine graciously remained here.

Liar Liar…

On that night, Christine crushed his lips to hers with a bruising intensity. Any gasp or sound from him was drowned out from the blood roaring in her ears. His hands lay paralyzed at his sides, and she wrapped her own around his neck, beckoning him closer. She slipped into an ocean of light and sensation, color so bright and glorious, warming her whole body. Then darkness, so beautiful in its intensity and it beckoned her to follow. Just let go…

And when he buried his hand in her mussed curls, matching her passion, it all became painfully clear. This was why! It was right in front of her all along, god, how could she have not seen?

Desire as she had never felt coiled at the base of her being, throbbing, demanding, hurtling towards a blinding conclusion she did not understand and she feared it as a threat to her life. Still she followed, the end within her grasp, possibly the end of all she knew. So beautiful, so wonderful, how could she resist? Just let go…

He did not meet her gaze when they parted, though Christine's never left his form. No reason, no logic could penetrate her mind. There was only his lips and she felt she would die if she did not feel them again.

"Fetch some water," he said, breaking her from her reverie. "You remember where the kitchen is, right? In the cabinet are several mugs. Fill the largest one with water, he'll need as much as he can get."

Christine blinked in confusion. She must have misheard them, there was no one their but the two of them. Nothing like that could have happened with another person present.

Erik slid the paneling shut to the torture chamber.

Raoul! Her momentary bliss came crashing down as she remembered her poor child-hood friend. He had been suffering, possibly dying in that room of mirrors while she and Erik…

"Christine, go now!"

His tone left no room for disobedience and Christine's feet carried her off to the kitchen before she could think to protest.

Erik's kitchen was immaculate, beautiful, spacious, and precisely organized, an icon to the culinary arts and yet the bloody jug still evaded her. Christine refiled through drawers, cabinets, upsetting various utensils in a futile search for something for Raoul to use to drink out of. Because Raoul had almost died for her, yet she could not remember why he had come.

In a way, the kiss had achieved its goal. Erik appeared calm and showed no more desire to play angel of death, but everything else lay in chaos. When she returned to the parlor, Raoul might very well be dead, or worse, he could be alive and Erik could kill him again. She still did no know what he would with Raoul and worse, she did not know what he would do with her. She was his now, not his student, but his property like the organ, or Ayesha, though she liked the idea of the organ better then the cat.

Raoul's body lay splayed over a couch when she returned. At first Christine thought Erik had left them alone, possibly to say goodbye, but she saw him against a wall on the opposite side, his eyes fixed on the young nobleman. Raoul lay so still on the couch and Christine feared Erik might have given into his executioners instincts and simply killed him. The thought should have terrified her, but she found herself oddly detached, like she a specter to pitiful actions, instead of a leading participant.

Christine knelt next to the couch and placed her hand on his forehead. He was not sweating, but his clothes clung uncomfortably to his body and she could see the eyeballs moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Raoul groaned and turned away from her hand.

"Raoul, sit up," she commanded. The young man's eyes fluttered open, blue orbs lost in a sea of pain, then they focused and found her face near the side of the couch.

Raoul leaned towards her and squeezed the hand she offered. "Christine? A-are you alright?"

Christine squeezed back and Raoul broke off in a fit of coughs. She looked to Erik for some kind of guidance, but her tutor stood as motionless as the victim, watching the proceedings like a comedy.

"Don't try to talk, just drink this." She held the water to his mouth and Raoul gulped down a generous sip.

"But how did you-" his eyes shifted to the figure against the wall. "You bastard, what have you done to her?"

Erik quirked an eyebrow.

It was an inappropriate time to blush, but Christine did anyway. Not too long ago, Meg had courted a young assistant to Joseph Bouquet named Pierre and through ballet gossip and Meg's own testimony, Christine learned much about what happens during courting. She had found herself jealous of her friend's gazes filled with longing, stolen kisses behind the curtains, and caresses not meant to be seen by her envious eyes. Madame quickly put an end to the affair, but there were still a few times Meg returned from the flies with swollen lips and red marks lining her neck. Christine could only imagine what she looked like after Erik's caress.

Raoul made a move to sit up, but Christine easily pushed him down.

"Please don't move," she begged. "You'll only do yourself harm."

Christine heard a small snort of amusement from behind her, and grudgingly admitted Erik's humor was not unfounded. If she, a former ballet-rat, could easily overpower a young man in his prime, what chance did Raoul stand against Erik? He had already lost.

Raoul lay on the cushions, fuming alone in his anger, until he became aware of his surroundings. There were no harsh lights, cast iron trees, or torture devices in sight, but a richly decorated parlor complete with lush tapestries, a welcoming fireplace, and furniture to entertain on weekends. No finer room could be found even in the Cheatu de Chagny.

"Where am I?" he asked and Christine nearly winced.

She had learned there are thigns best left unknown. Once, Christine had overstepped her boundaries by betraying Erik's existence and the consequences were laying half dead in front of her. She did not know what she could betray of Erik's secrets and the threat of more retaliation made her head hurt. Luckily, Erik spoke for her.

"You are in my home, boy, uninvited, unannounced and certainly not welcome."

Shooting up from his seat, all of Raoul's weakness seemed to vanish. "And I suppose you extended a cordial invitation to Christine before you dragged her down here? What kind of person keeps a room of death in their home, if you're one at all?"

Erik smirked, a low grin like a cat before the pounce. "Fortunately it is none of your concern."

Once again, Christine could feel the situation spinning out of control. She looked to Raoul for calm, but as always, he plowed ahead, heedless of anything but his own purpose.

"It is my concern when you kidnap my fiancée to feed some twisted obsession, you monster!"

Erik took a step forward and despite his resolve, Raoul shrunk under the intense gaze. Any lingering amusement or mockery on Erik's part was gone now and Raoul wondered if this was how often Christine felt like this as his pupil. Erik raised a threatening finger and pointed it at the Raoul's flushed neck, free from a the hangman's mark.

"Just remember, boy, if Christine hadn't asked for your sniveling little life so nicely, your hide would be swinging from my tre-"

"Enough!" Christine shouted.

Both men stared at her and Christine almost laughed at their gape-mouthed expressions, though she swore she could see amusement in Erik's eyes.

"Erik, give us a few moments." He made no move to leave. 'You have my word. I'm not going anywhere."

He did not trust her, not now, probably not ever, but Erik dropped his hands to his side and nodded. He glanced quickly to Raoul the voiceless message was clear. Try anything, he warned, and you'll be back in my forest!

Turning slowly, Erik nodded to her again, then quit the room. When they were alone, Raoul was the first to speak.

"Don't tell me you mean to stay," he said, like she had told a very bad joke.

Christine gazed helplessly at her hands and fought back the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her again.

"I gave my word, Raoul," she whispered. A hand came down on her shoulder and roughly spun her to his face. It was still flushed, but not from the heat.

"You gave your word that you would be my wife! What of that, Christine? Does a promise to him mean more then one to me?" his voice was laced with anger and an odd tone of resignation, like he already knew his cause was lost.

She had promised the rest of her life by his side as his wife, his lover, and his friend. She had filled all those roles to him in the stolen moments of their secret engagement and they had been some of the happiest moments since before her father died. A part of her still burned to fulfill that vow. But even when the engagement ring laying trustingly over her heart, she could not make Raoul see she had given Erik something a long time before, and once it was given, it could not be taken back.

"Please don't make this harder then it already is." From the folds of her dressing gown, she produced the beautiful engagement ring. The gems once winked with the promise of young love and a happy future that was theirs for the taking, but now the gems dully absorbed the candlelight. She pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers over the ring.

For a moment, he stared at his hand not believing it had happened and wishing it all to go away. A future, a life he had wanted fought so hard to make happen, lay in his hands. A dream was shattered by the person he had hoped to share it with.

"I was right wasn't I?" he said, his eyes never leaving his fist.

"What do you mean?"

He looked up and gave her a sad smile. "That night on the roof, I said you loved him. You do, don't you?"

She remembered that night well. It was the first time she let him kiss her, the first time he told her he loved her, the first time she realized her life was out of her control. She had been outraged when he accused her of 'love of the most exquisite kind' but unable to deny it. She found it true now.

"I don't know," she admitted and tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

He took her hand from her ear and brought the other into his grasp. Silently, he ran his fingers over the digits as if imprinting them forever in his mind. He felt his heart clench in his chest as he realized memory was all he would have of her from now on.

"I should have known. You're not my little Lotte anymore."

Through her tears, she smiled.

"I don't think I ever was, Raoul. It was just a story, nothing real." Perhaps if she had believed it, she could have been his wife by now.

He drew her into his arms one last time. If he could not give her his heart, if he could not give her himself, then at least he could give her this, alone, without a masked man marring their happiness.

"You'll always be to me," he planted a kiss on her forehead. "Don't ever forget that…Little Lotte…"

When had she started to cry? In the parlor? On the stage? Her whole life? The tears ran freely now, down her checks, wetting her dress, and she let them. Someone should cry for the death of her childhood, and it might as well be her. She seemed to be the only one to mourn it.

As she watched Raoul pool away in the gondola, the tears continued to fall, but remorse she felt seemed to disappear with the strokes of the oar. Maybe she could blame it on destiny, but what was done was done, now she had to live with her choice.

Christine lingered on the lakeshore long after Raoul rowed out of sight and Erik stayed with her, never speaking only watching, waiting. He was only a few feet away yet the distance seemed to stretch on forever. An eternity of this, indeed, she thought bitterly.

Finally, Christine sighed and turned to him. She still had no answers and the questions doubled from the kiss. She wanted to know and dreaded the answers as well.

"It's been a long day, Christine," he finally said. "You should go to bed."

With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back into his home.

And that was the last time she saw him.

His absence did not bother her at first. Silence was a relief compared to the last few months and she was glad to enjoy a simple life, if only for a short while.

She amused herself by exploring his vast library or singing at the piano with her own poor accompaniment. Occasionally, she would take walks along the murky lakeshore or admire the exotic treasuring throughout his home. The beautifully made home fascinated her, and she could spend hours in one exploring or sitting quietly with a book. She avoided the room with the torture chamber.

But as the days mounted and she still had no sign of him, her brief reprieve began to feel like a prison sentence. She still went about her usual routine, but without another person to speak to, she had to turn to her thoughts for comfort. And she found it less comforting the less rational her thoughts appeared after each lonely day.

She missed him. Maybe she only wanted another human to relate to, but she missed his silent presence,and she missed his voice as it had sung her to sleep. If he meant her to stay with him, shouldn't that mean he wanted to spend time with her as well? As her solitude stretched into its fifth day, she found it was a question she could not ignore.

She ate her noon meal when she thought it was noon, and felt she would go mad if she stayed like this. Over her vegetable stew, she resolved that the only way to find Erik was to draw him out and his only weakness, save his music, was his anger. The two together could bring her powerful tutor to his knees.

The ornate organ sat in the music room, collecting dust like any other useless furniture. Most of her lessons had been conducted at the piano and she only heard him play the organ twice. Once, before she ripped off his mask, the other… she still blushed from that memory. Even with a diamond studded cat collar, this was by far his most prized possession and he guarded it like gold.

Christine smirked. It was perfect.

She sat at the organ, first gently running her hands over the white keys. Then, she pressed the keys, the buttons, the switches, anything that was manipulate under her finger. Her touch became less intimate, more demanding and she pounded out a harsh melody, grinning as she set the instrument horribly out of tune. With one foot, she pumped rigorously on the pedal, then switched to the other. To her dismay, she found it would not go down as far as the right. She leaned more force into her toes, but it did not give. With a cry, she pushed all her weight onto the left foot until the pedal sank beneath her.

She expected some of groan of protest or loud smash from the abuse, but instead, she heard the sound of wood sliding over stone as a section of the wall lifted and moved to the side.

Christine gasped. The air held a kind of impenetrable secrecy, like a tomb only the foolish would enter. She stood up and looked in; it looked just like any other doorway in the house, but she still felt her heart drop down to her stomach.

It should have come as no surprise that a home would contain as many secrets as the man who built it. Yet there was something tragic about the hidden paneling, and a doorway trigger by a paddle, like he did not feel secure in his own sanctuary. And here she was, candelabra in hand, crossing the door's threshold, seeking to compromise the haven of her wayward captor. Never mind how abandoned she had felt a minute ago, this was wrong. She felt the same trepidation in the moments before she exposed his face and like that time, there was no going back.

The candles offered very little assistance. She could vaguely made out a table, covered in papers and assortments of black ribbon, but little else. The air held a heavy scent of dead roses and decaying candle smoke.

Christine started when her eyes made out a figure in the dark.

"H-hello?" she called, her heart pounding in her chest.

The figure stood several inches below Erik's impressive frame and it's clothing shone against the darkness like a beacon. Closer she came, gaze fixed on the figure until her eyes accepted the dark and she recognized her own lifeless face atop a wedding gown.

A wedding dress made for a solitary bride.

Christine sighed and touched the silky material of the gown.

A million rational thoughts or outraged emotions should occur to her as her pale and waxy face gazed back at her behind the gauzy veil. Outrage, maybe, or thinly veiled horror to discover this testament to a twisted obsession lay not thirty feet from her bedroom. But she gazed into the lifeless eyes, feeling nothing but pity and mild resentment.

"Let him have his secrets," she said to the doll, " but leave me out of them."

Feeling new determination, Christine turned on her heel… right into a living body. A face she had not seen in days was etched anger and Christine gasped, dropping the candelabra and plunging them all into blackness.

There is a legend, or a story, of demons released into the world of the living. They walk among people, inconspicuous living normal lives under the light of the sun, but when in dark, their true nature is revealed.

The yellow eyes glared at her through the dark, and no matter how she ran, they would always be with her.

God help her, she was far closer to hell then she was to heaven.

Christine felt hot breath on her neck as he growled, "It seems Pandora has not learned her lesson."