Hey guys, sorry it took so ridiculously long to get this chapter up. Forgive Verity, please? This chapter has something new with a lot of letter-writing, so pretty please review to let me know if it works. Other than that, enjoy!
My Dear Erik,
How is Switzerland? Is the chalet as nice as you hoped? (You know, for a mysterious figure seldom seen outside the Opera House, you do have a lot of interest in places around the world- I should show you Italy) This is not to say I have entirely forgiven you for leaving me here to deal with my aunt's tantrums, not to mention that insufferable fop Raoul, who seems to be around constantly now, even at rehearsals. Oh, and did I tell you, we had an exorcism here the other day, to rid the theatre of your presence. Raoul, Firman, and Andre brought in a priest to spread salt around and chant a bit in Latin. You should be extremely flattered. That's really all the news here. Oh, and thank you so much for the castanets from Spain! They're lovely, and I've managed to irritate the entire opera house clicking them around, which is excellent fun. (no one was irritated by the shawl you sent from the Netherlands, or the necklace from Greece, but I love them anyway)
Faithfully yours,
Francesca
Francesca smiled to herself, especially at the sentence about showing Erik Italy (it had become a favorite daydream of hers lately), as she sealed the letter to Erik, with royal blue wax this time around her seal, the letter F in calligraphy. She had decided to use a different color wax for every letter she sent to Erik, just to pass the time. Though things hadn't been terrible at the opera house the past few weeks, what with things finally settling down after Buquet's death, a highly amusing exorcism, and the way the story of her explosion at Chez Henri had spread the theatre like wildfire, earning her an odd but not unpleasant sort of respect, she missed him terribly. Every day it seemed like, there would be something funny she would want to tell him, or she would hear some chorus girl giggling about her latest suitor and she would think of him and wonder how whoever the other girl as talking about could possibly measure up, or she would spend the whole day looking forward to voice lessons. And always, always, always, her heart would sink when she remembered he wasn't there. she But still, regular letters from Erik, sometimes with exotic gifts as well. If Francesca had had any doubt that she loved him, that she was absolutely crazy about him and couldn't stop if she tried, these letters, the fact that anywhere he went in the world he would still think of her, be there for her, erased them all. Christine had received exactly one letter, the day after he left, and she had refused to open it. Francesca knew it was wrong of her, but that Christine and Erik weren't exchanging letters had her roaring with triumph. Besides, Christine seemed perfectly content with her fop, anyway. Francesca ran off to deliver the letter to Madame Giry.
My Dear Francesca,
Switzerland is lovely. You would love the way the mountains look in the very early morning, although I cannot recommend the local pastime of skiing (not that I fell when I tried it. I never fall. I just did not enjoy myself, is all). I am very near the border Switzerland shares with your native land, and I'm sure you would love it here. Someday I will show you everywhere I have written to you about. I am deeply honored to hear about the exorcism. Actually, I have largely sorted out the business I am traveling for, and may be returning in a few weeks, and I do hope I will be able to get into the theatre, now that I have been warded off. Remember that I am truly sorry I cannot be there to keep your melodramatic relations or the "insufferable fop" in check. You know I would . . .
I remain, your obedient servant,
Erik
Erik paced impatiently through his rented chalet, pondering the question he had taken this trip to struggle with in peace. He hated to whittle something so major into just three words, but there thy were: Francesca or Christine? He was writing a new opera, Don Juan Triumphant, in the hopes that it would help him sort things out. The opera was shaping up to be his best work yet, but his mind was still muddled. On the one hand, he had wanted Christine, fought for her, hoped for her, for years. And even if she wasn't the sharpest, maybe it would be wrong of him to leave her, especially since she was an orphan and all. Who else did she have? That ridiculous viscount? It might be cruel, immoral of him to leave someone so naive to face the world; as he said, who else did she have? On the other hand . . . he just couldn't stop thinking of Francesca. Wherever he went, something would make him think "oh, Francesca would love that" or "if Francesca were here I know what she'd say" or if he saw two lovers, it disturbed him how often now, instead of fantasizing about Christine, he would think of his kiss with Francesca outside the opera house.
Erik had actually started writing music when he found in his lair, at the age of about ten, an old book called It's Easy to Write Music!. One trick the book had recommended was to think of each piece of work as a person. "Maybe someone you know," the book advised, "or perhaps someone entirely new! Be creative!" Erik would not admit even under the most refined of tortures that he used this technique even to this day. When he was younger he had written a series of comedies, which, regardless of the plot, were in his mind always about a couple named Gertrude and Wendell, a tall, skinny, frizzy-haired woman, and a short round man with an enormous moustache, both of whom laughed a lot and sat in big armchairs. Later it seemed that everything he wrote was about Christine. With this new opera, however, the music clearly fell into two categories: the high, mournful, slow ballads were clearly Christine, and the fast, bright, full chorus numbers were Francesca. But there was one song he couldn't place. It was his masterpiece, at turns sad and joyous and lost and reassured. It did not require any particularly special vocal talents- no piercing highs or swinging lows- but whoever sang this song needed passion; they needed to mean it.
As Erik wrote on, he became convinced that the girl this song was for was the one he loved, that this was the key he needed to crack. At first he was honestly clueless; all he knew was that he had written this song about the girl he loved. But now he was getting certain he had to head back to Paris and sort this out in person, because the more he thought about it, the more he believed that when he thought of the girl in his song, her name should be Christine, but also, the more he felt that her name is Francesca.