VII
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"I don't like leaving you like this," Antonia said once she dropped Christine off. "If I hadn't promised Mum that I'd help her with her dinner party tonight, I'd stay. I could probably get out of it early."
"No, it's all right. Don't worry about me," Christine reassured, stepping out of Antonia's mini and ducking under the umbrella she held against the downpour of rain. She turned to look inside the car at her friend.
"Are you sure, Christine?"
"Yes, I'll be fine."
"Right-o, then. I'll definitely come over tomorrow night, to help however you need me," Antonia called out over the spatter of heavy drops hitting the pavement.
"I'm depending on it."
With a parting wave, Christine hurried inside the building as Antonia drove off. Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she closed it while moving down the corridor to her flat. Unlocking the door, she let herself inside, relieved to be alone at last.
Christine preferred solitude at this time. She had so much on which to dwell and did not wish to pass the evening in forced conversation, which she would most certainly be doing if her mind lay elsewhere. Before pulling off her slicker or setting down her things, Christine went to her bedroom.
The dressing table stood solid and dark in the gray shadows.
"Dear Erik," she said to the mirror, though she doubted he could hear her. "Don't give up hope. Please, don't give up. I'm coming to you. Somehow, I will find a way."
She remembered another mirror and conversing with him through its glass. The days at the opera house seemed as if they belonged to another time, another place, and in truth, they did. That evening, more than a century ago, he opened a mirror for them to meet and for her to enter his domain which existed far beneath hers. Tomorrow night she must find the key to open this fateful mirror that separated not levels of earth but worlds through time, and reunite with her lover. But how?
The professor's words came back to her. Pictures, yes ... she must take more pictures of the carvings, since he'd been unable to read all of the messages due to the flash. She wanted to know every inch of what that dresser said.
Eyeing the room, she determined the best lighting as she set down her things and shrugged out of her coat. She took the shade off the lamp, bringing it close to the dresser, on the floor. From the main room she brought in a second lamp and plugged it in on the other side. She hoped she had produced enough light for the Persian symbols to be seen clearly without need of a flash.
With her digital, she took longshots and close-ups of the sides of the mirror, its bottom, and the carvings running along the wood. Satisified with the results, she uploaded them to her computer and sent them to the professor with an urgent request to decipher them and send her their message as soon as possible, before tomorrow night.
One day. She had only one day to right a grievous wrong neither she nor Erik deserved.
"A day is as a thousand years to God, and a thousand years is as one day," she remembered Gran telling her, stating the line came from the Scriptures. From the moment they met, Gran helped strengthen Christine's fledgling faith when she'd had nothing to cling to. Somehow, though, she knew of God's existence. Now she remembered her firm Catholic upbringing and quiet moments of reflection in the chapel after lighting a candle for her father. She wondered if a dormant seed of her childlike faith had remained for Gran to nourish back to life, and wished for the peaceful solitude of her little chapel right now. There, she had escaped from the cares and concerns involving the opera house. There, she had found her Angel of Music, a magnificent man, who had become her world.
If only she could find him again ... no, she must find him again. If all time lay within the scope of the Creator's grasp, then He was not only the originator but also the Master of that time. Wasn't he?
Her room wasn't a chapel, but she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps she was foolish to do so, here, in her flat, but desperation prodded her to retrieve a votive candle and light it. For her Angel.
Christine knelt beside her bed before the steady flame of the rose-scented candle, its sweet aroma bringing a wealth of other memories regarding the single red roses he gave her. Each of them tied with a black ribbon. Determined not to succumb to more tears, she clasped her hands and bowed her head as she had so many times in the past.
"I asked once, and you gave me courage to face a frightening situation at the opera house. I'm asking again; please, Father, give me that same courage. I don't understand about alternate times or histories or how they could even exist. I don't care to know how or why they do. All I care about, all I ask is for you to help me find a way back home to my husband ... Please, help me. I love him so. I don't want to live a lifetime without him."
While the minutes elapsed she remained in silent meditation, trying to find peace from the turmoil inside her spirit. And, as it often had before, the sacred ritual she had practiced since childhood did give her some consolation.
But an hour later, as she prepared a small dinner of canned salmon and cooked carrots, and the rain continued to beat against the panes, she cast a fretful glance to the dark skies seen from her window.
Another worry troubled her.
What if the moon did not make an appearance tonight as she hoped? Whenever it had shone on the dresser, she heard Erik's voice or saw the glass waver. Perhaps her ability to leave this dimension could not take place until the following evening, when the strength of the moon would be at its apex, but she desperately wished to connect with Erik before then. She had heard his voice during those moonlit moments. He might be able to hear her, as well...
Nightfall seemed never to descend. Toying with her food, Christine managed only a few bites. She felt in limbo now that she knew she truly did not belong to this century and was impatient to leave it. While she waited for the hand that told the hour to pass three more revolutions around the clock, she read further in Gran's journal, hoping to find something within its faded pages that might help her. Toward the end, the entries grew few and far between after the General died and the years elapsed. Then she saw her own name mentioned.
Curious, she read Gran's impression of their first meeting. Her eyes widened when Gran admitted that Christine's wrapper belonged to another era, both in style and materials. She had written:
The exquisite Alençon lace, the most expensive of its time period, has not yellowed one iota; nor has the blue satin faded. Despite its soiled appearance, the wrapper looks as though a seamstress has only just made it for her. I have seen nothing like this off the racks, even in the expensive boutiques of London ...
In shock, Christine read on, of the fear that possessed Gran should someone learn the truth. At mention of a photograph found in one of the General's family albums, the convincing factor "that Christine had indeed come from another century," Christine flipped through the remainder of the journal. No picture lay tucked within its pages.
Disappointed, she then remembered the biscuit tin in the carton with Gran's other personal items. She retrieved it and dumped the contents on her bed.
Hurriedly, she shuffled through an assortment of photos, clippings, and letters. Her fingertips brushed the ruffled edge of a sepia-toned daguerreotype and she pulled it from the pile. Letting out a startled sob, she cupped her palm over her mouth as hot tears rushed to sting her eyes. For the first time in well over a year, she looked upon her husband's beloved countenance. A faded image, but after so long with nothing but a memory, this was gold.
His eyes, so passionate and intense, beckoned her, seeming to wrap inside her soul. He did not smile, but not many who had their photograph taken in that era did. The entire process was a lengthy one, Christine remembered, and for someone who did not possess an inordinate amount of patience, grueling as well. But for her, Erik agreed to undergo the ordeal.
His lips edged up slightly at one corner in that wry, amused quirk that always made her heartbeats quicken. Knowing the hard leather was often an irritant to his flesh and desiring above all else his physical comfort, she had finally convinced him not to wear the half mask for their small, private wedding ceremony. Only a few close friends - Meg, Madame - and Erik's newly discovered family attended, all who'd previously seen his face after his escape from the opera house months before, and knew his true identity - save for the photographer, who was well paid to keep his silence about the entire affair.
In his father's drawing room, near the hearth, Erik had turned toward her so that his right side did not entirely meet the camera, while she stood close to him, her arm linked through his as she gave a slight, mysterious smile and stood proud in her wedding lace and finery. Nothing could have kept the joy from her heart that afternoon or the smile from her face. She had been certain nothing ever would separate her from his arms again. They had married and left Paris that same day.
"Oh, Erik." Betrayal knifed through Christine, so severe, she felt as though she'd really been stabbed. "All this time, she knew ... Gran knew."
Christine pressed the aged photograph to her heart and curled up on her chenille bedspread. She gave into the tears that had been building for hours and wept for the days forever lost to them ... as well as a lifetime together that she feared they might still lose, if her plan to return should fail.
xXx
A/N: Thanks for the reviews! :)
