"Come with me," he said from the doorway.
Christine looked up from her musical score, uncertain. "I don't want you to leave me in the catacombs again tonight," she said unabashedly.
He crossed his arms. He was dressed in his usual all black today, looking absolutely breath-taking framed by the green doorway. "It's not up to you to tell me what I'll do with you," he said coldly. "This is the second time I have extended this offer to you. Do you want to come with me or not?"
She blinked. "Yes."
He walked away to the front door around the stone.
The music score fluttered to the ground. "I'm coming!" she said hastily, patting her hair and slipping on her shoes. "Is this out out? Might you tell me where we're going?"
He waited for her with appraising eyes. "Does it matter?" he said roughly. "I said, out."
She followed him anxiously through the dark tunnels, which she admittedly was quite familiar with now, and through the cellars where stagecraft was kept. Cold air seeped under a poorly built side-door. Without being too obnoxious, she kept her gaze on him at all times, utterly seduced with longing about the way he moved; if only she could move like that, she would never have had to sit through a single ballet rehearsal!
"Out?" she asked again, pulling on her own curls and straightening her dress.
"Out," he repeated shortly, and taking her hand in a painful grip, he pulled her outside.
It was not cold outside, nor dark. The sun hung low in the sky, its feeble rays obscured by thick, foreboding clouds. People strolled far away in the distance, mostly on the opposite side of the street, their eyes darting around, their voices creating a mingling buzz.
"Erik, are you sure?" she wheedled, hanging onto his arm like a small child.
"Walk with me," was his reply.
He switched her hand so that he was on the outside of the street and she was tucked in by the buildings and took sure, slow steps. They passed most without event, although every now and then, one would stop and look back suspiciously.
Christine grew increasingly edgy with every passing second. It was a large step for her to be thrust so suddenly back into the world of other human beings… She almost felt as if she were no longer a part of them. These were people who did not understand, who knew nothing of her life or Erik's… They did not understand how lonely she had been after her father had died, or how desperate she had been for any attention at all… They did not understand Erik—they assumed and assaulted him with their dark eyes and upturned noses. She hated them all, she decided quite passionately, all of them with their plain airs and their luxuries, and their toneless, flat voices!
"You look angry," Erik commented, and she turned a little to see he was watching her with sullen interest.
"People are staring," she said, trying to work her face back into a relaxed countenance.
He shrugged. "Not very much. Not nearly as much as normal. Is it because I am with you? A lonesome, masked monster prowling the streets creates far less attention that a man and his lady strolling in the evening."
Christine was surprisingly stung by this. So she had been brought out only to test his experiment; only to see how many stares he would receive? "This is what you wanted?" she asked, a little incredulously. "You want to be around other people?"
He looked at her with unfathomable eyes. "Not other people." He paused. "Just you."
Slightly mollified, she tightened her grip in his hand and drew herself closer to his figure. As the sun lowered, so did the amount of people. They walked past a cluster of shops and restaurants; Erik offered sitting out at the café, but she declined.
"Erik," she started carefully at once point. "Have you seen my hair comb? The one with little rubies at the end?"
He looked at her blankly, then frowned a little. "I haven't seen it for some time."
"I can't find it… But I'm sure I brought it down with me."
"It must be around somewhere," he encouraged, a fulfilling light in his eyes. "We will find it."
At the corner of the last street they passed, the pathway crumbled into grassy plains and stone walls. Night had really fallen, making everything slightly blurred in the distance. To her surprise, Erik pulled her up the earthy slope without breaking pace.
"Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly, her hand limp in his with uncertainty.
"I want to show you something," he said quietly. "I want to see what you think of it."
His hands guided her up the precarious footing as they approached a forestry area of France Christine had never even seen.
"It was a part of an old castle at some point," he said informatively, keeping his hand on her while she followed. "It was pulled apart sometime last century, and now bits and pieces adorn the border. This particular piece was so very run down… but once the Opera was done, I had nothing to do, and you will find I am not a man who can live peacefully without finding something to amuse myself. So I put my efforts in Drimvere…" He looked around dispassionately, his eyes grazing the horizon. "I think you'll like it."
The wind grew slightly chilly as they walked for several more minutes, until a great forest of trees came into view. Erik walked right into those too, and she was about to ask how far they were going in there when he stopped and gestured wordlessly to the looming structure before them.
Her first thought was that it looked haunted, but that seemed terribly ironic, so she brushed it instantly from her mind. The trees were scarcer here, so the tip of the stone roof was outlined by a purplish-blue sky.
"How pretty," she said absently.
His hand was warm against hers and she had never felt more at peace with the world. And when she shivered, he enfolded her within his grasp and suddenly touched his lips to hers so that they were completely connected.
"I knew you would like it," he said.
.
Christine was a 'good ghost', as Erik put it. While he spent his time on tricks and clever ways to amuse himself that often came at the expense of others, she tried to be the one who watched over the Opera with a protective eye. She wandered around backstage, careful not to disturb anything, but perhaps straightening a curtain or moving a prop in the right direction.
Erik thought this was very funny and sough to undo her work whenever he could, so when she heard him behind her whilst she was carefully re-organizing the costumes, she assumed her had only come to tease her and did not turn around.
"I need you home," he said flatly from behind her, and she saw him standing there, unusually grave.
She set down her things without question. "What's the matter?"
"I said I want you home. Do not make me repeat myself."
It was very quiet; there was not even the sound of water or objects upstairs. It struck her as very ominous.
Too afraid to ask again, she simply followed him until he latched open the door in the rock and pointed her in.
"I'm not questioning you," she said at once in a rush, "but you must tell me what is wrong, if something terrible has happened, or if you're hurt—"
He grabbed her and shook her to silence her, but his eyes were bright, and he said, "Hurt? I am not hurt. So kind of you to care, Christine, so very kind…" Without letting go of her, he pulled her over to the table. "You just must be careful now…" He hesitated, his hands resting slightly on the table top. He seemed to stare at her intently, evaluating her. "You need to see this." he said finally.
It was a small newspaper she didn't recognize, but on the folded top page was a large picture of her.
It was an obituary.
She picked it up and scanned it hungrily… tragic stardom…signs of mental illness…missing in suspicious affair… depression…by her own hand…
Her voice was shaky; it demanded an explanation. "Erik?"
He took the newspaper from her carefully, and folded it so she couldn't see the picture. "I assure you, the death had nothing to do with me," he answered softly. Truthfully. "You understand you have been missing for many weeks, last seen in the cellars of the Opera. It seems a young woman took her own life down here a few days ago. She was found yesterday." His eyes were solemn. "I had nothing to do with the girl's death, Christine, I assure you."
The way he spoke was so utterly intoxicating… It stirred her stomach and made her ache for something around her, holding her tightly. "But what does this have to do with me?"
Erik watched her for a long moment. "You were identified by Raoul de Chagny," he said very slowly. "One of the cleaners thought the girl looked familiar. Upon hearing the description, your young Raoul came at once." A strange light danced in his eyes. "It seems… his grief was terrible to behold."
The tone in his voice left no doubt that he gloried in Raoul's grief. There was no doubt that Erik did not care what grieved Raoul.
With a dull realization, Christine found that she too, had very little pity to spare for the man who was once a future prospect for marriage. I am as terrible as he is…
She pushed her thoughts away and tugged the newspaper back out of Erik's hands, turning it to the next page… Viscount de Chagny, only living son of Count Gordon de Chagny… inconsolable… Arranged funeral for tomorrow, midday…
She looked up interestedly. "May I go to my own funeral?"
Erik took the newspaper back from her and shut it in the table drawer. "Christine, you shouldn't say such morbid things," he whispered, pulling her into his arms. She wondered briefly if Erik had ever been mistaken for dead, a parallel of her own situation. It was too quick and too clean. Too easy for them both to be ghosts.
"Are you sure you had nothing to do with this?" she pressed, looking sordidly at the two colors that separated his face. "You can tell me… You must tell me."
"I had nothing to do with the girl's death," he repeated stubbornly.
She sighed, defeated by the lure of his voice, the strength of his words. "I believe you," she told him.
A smile broke out over his half-features. "Good," he said. "Because I love you."
.
They were searching for the Opera Ghost, she discovered. He was the prime subject in the girl's murder. All assuming it was Christine, that made three members of the Opera who had perished in the past year, presumably by Erik's hand. The articles were very interesting to read, as if was clear the reporters did not know whether to treat this as a murderer or an old legend gone wrong. However, authorities paced the corridors, keeping sharp eyes for the legendary shadow. Others kept watch in the foyers and the streets, convinced it was only a maddened criminal who would eventually make his escape.
Meanwhile, the papers began being filled with descriptions and accusations. Every night, Erik and Christine would carefully smuggle themselves outside a hidden door and it would be a game to see who could come back with the newspaper first.
Erik always won.
They would read it together on the tattered black couch in the cavern room. Erik sat on the end, dragging his long, cold fingers through her hair at a steady pace. If he wasn't doing this, he would holding the newspaper, and not let her see all that she wanted. Thus, they both won: he was permitted to touch her, and she gained control of the paper.
"If they see me now, all hell will break loose," she mused, idly turning a page only to be met with another picture of her, this one a sketch that made her look much prettier than she really was. The picture-Christine seemed very young, even to her own eyes. "I must be twice as careful."
"You should always be twice as careful," Erik murmured lightly, his fingers working their way down to her temples and cheekbones. "Hmmmm." He stretched each curl out, as if it were a spring, and then massaged it back into position. He suddenly leaned up, so he was directly over her face. "You know, no one ever sees me when I wander around."
"People only see the shadow of a ghost."
"But not me," he continued determinedly. "Never me. Just… a ghost. An apparition. That is all."
His tone was over-confident, and his hand wound tightly in her hair. Christine would have loved to take his hand, or even touch his face, but she knew it would not be allowed.
"Wonderful," she said carefully. "What are you trying to say?"
"It would really be fun, would it not, to have people see you?" he chuckled. "The looks on their faces… their terror… seeing a new, young ghost of the most beautiful woman, come to take revenge on them all."
"Revenge?" she questioned.
"For letting you exist in the chorus for so long," Erik said, and his voice seethed with repressed fury. "For wasting such exquisite talent. All those years."
"My voice was not good all those years!" she protested in wonder at his obvious anger and disapproval. "Erik, my voice has only been decent that past year that I had you."
He looked affronted. "Your voice is unchangeable," he said coldly. "It can only be honed and polished, as I have done for it. Anyone who fails to recognize the beauty before final structure is wasting the talent they simply cannot accept. In doing that, they wasted you. And you ought to have your revenge."
She stared at him with blank, wide eyes. His profile turned delicately away from her, and she simply sat there, staring at her master with unashamed wonder.
At long last, she worked up the slightest courage and kissed him on his cheek. "Everything turned out fine in the end," she said comfortingly. Her arm trailed down his to rest on the cool palm of his left hand. "I seek no revenge—only you."
"How silly," he said absently, and for a moment she was wounded, and she withdrew quietly, prepared to go obediently up to her room. He grabbed her wrist loosely, his touch sending an excited bubble through her midriff.
"To seek what your already have," he finished quietly.
.