Author's Note: A special thanks to Andimpink and PhantomFan01 for their reviews for the past few chapters. If anyone else is reading this, please consider leaving a review if you enjoy the story so far. I appreciate each and every comment! :) Now, onto the story! Things are about to get interesting...
Chapter Six: Restless
By the time she was thirteen, Mélodie was beginning to grow restless. While Erik and Christine might have been satisfied living in such a secluded area, she was not. She'd read too many books about foreign countries and faraway lands to be content to live in isolation forever. Books were wonderful things—one of her favorite things, in fact—but they were simply not enough. She was tired of reading about adventures and culture and romance. She wanted to live them. She stared out her bedroom window and sighed. I'm never going to leave this town.
"Mélodie?"
She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn't hear him.
"Mélodie?"
The sound of her father's voice made her jump. She turned to face him and noticed that he was wearing the wig and mask. That could only mean that he was going out. "Sorry, Papa. I was just…thinking…"
Erik frowned. While his daughter had always been prone to daydreaming, she seemed to get lost in her thoughts quite a bit more than usual lately. She seemed anxious almost—frustrated. Or perhaps she was depressed. Yesterday she had asked once again why they couldn't go to Paris to see one of his operas performed on stage. The de Chagnys and Madame Giry and Monsieur Leroux all lived in Paris, after all. Why did everyone always come to their house out in the middle of nowhere? Wouldn't it make more sense for them to go visit them in the capitol? His reply, of course, had been the same as always: Paris was a dangerous city—a city of muggers and cutthroats and prostitutes—and he would not risk her or her mother's safety. In truth, it was not those participating in illegal activities who concerned him but rather the ones who wore the badges. He was still a wanted man, and though he would have loved to return to the city, he knew he would be recognized immediately. While he could act like a normal man here in their quiet village, to walk the streets of Paris in the daylight would be suicide.
"I'm going into town to mail another batch of songs to the publisher. Would you like to come with me?"
She wanted to say that if they took that trip to Paris he wouldn't have to worry with the postage, but she bit her tongue. At least going into town was more interesting than staying in the house. "Can we go by the book shop?"
He smiled. "I suppose. Go get dressed."
By "dressed," of course, he meant the mask. She sighed and reluctantly walked over to the vanity. There was no mirror, of course. There were no mirrors in the entire house except for a small one in the upstairs bathroom that Christine used when applying her makeup or fixing her hair. She picked up the mask and hesitated. She knew practically everyone in town. Would they truly think of her differently if she went without it?
Erik was waiting at the front door. "Mélodie?"
She shook her head. He would never allow her to leave the house if she didn't put it on. "Coming, Papa!"
She slipped on the mask and shoved a coin purse into the pocket of her dress. She had been saving up, and she hoped she had enough to buy a new book. She wondered vaguely how much a train ticket to Paris would cost…
xxxx
A small bell over the door clanged as they entered the book shop.
"Just a moment!" An elderly gentleman poked his head out from behind the door leading to the back room. When he recognized the familiar pair of masked faces, his lips crinkled up in a smile. "Why, hello, Erik," he nodded a greeting. "Hello, Mélodie. What can I do for you folks today?"
"We were just in town to drop some of my work by the post office," Erik explained. "Mélodie wanted to stop by and look around."
"Do you have anything new?" she asked eagerly.
The shopkeeper's blue eyes twinkled. "As a matter of fact, I do. We just got a new shipment in on Tuesday." He pointed to the front left corner of the store. "Why don't you take a look over there?" He turned back to Erik. "I'm surprised to see you out this time of the week. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were a recluse!"
Erik smiled. The man had no idea how close he was to the truth. "Yes, well, even a recluse must make a living."
The old man returned the smile. "I suppose that's true."
He was rather handsome for his age with a full head of thick silver hair and a well-groomed white handlebar mustache. Erik envied him sometimes. He would never age that gracefully.
"Your wife's performance last Sunday was astounding," he continued. "I think the entire congregation was speechless. She should be on stage, not hiding away in this little speck of a town! So should you, for that matter. You'd make a lot more money that way."
Erik winced. He often felt guilty for taking Christine away from the opera. He knew, though she would never openly admit it, that she missed her life on the stage. He had worked so hard to help her achieve her dream of becoming a star, and then—through his own selfish actions—he'd snatched it away. Thankfully, no one in this part of the country had ever heard of Christine Daaé.
"With all due respect, monsieur, my wife and I sing because we enjoy it, not because of the money."
"I understand, I understand." The old man smiled knowingly.
Erik nodded to a newspaper lying on the counter. An article on the front page had caught his attention. "Is that this morning's paper?"
"It is." He handed Erik the paper. "You can take it if you like. I've already read it. Not that there's much to read—births, deaths, a few upcoming weddings. Nothing too exciting. They're planning on replacing one of the stained-glass windows in the church—you know, the one that cracked after that hail storm last summer."
Erik skimmed the article. "So I've noticed. I wonder if they'd consider letting me design it?"
The man laughed. "So you're an artist as well as a singer?"
Erik smiled. "I am a man of many talents, Alphonse."
The shopkeeper shook his head. "Honestly, I think you'd learn more news listening in on one of my wife's quilting bees than you'll find in that paper. Gossip travels fast in a small town. Why, rumor has it, a gypsy circus is on its way to town! Can you believe that? Why on earth would they come all the way out here?"
Mélodie's ears perked up. Gypsies! Now that sounded exciting!
Erik stiffened.
Alphonse chuckled. "I take it you're not too fond of gypsies?"
Erik frowned. "I am not a prejudice man." He pointed to the mask. "With my condition, I can't afford to be. But I've met my fair share of gypsies, and in general, I have come to decide that they are not the sort of people with whom I'd like to associate."
Mélodie was curious. "When did you ever meet any gypsies, Papa?"
There was a distant look in his eyes. "A long time ago…when I was very young." He shook his head. He didn't wish to continue this conversation. "Have you found anything to your liking, Mélodie?"
"Yes." She walked over to the counter laid the book by the cash register.
"Ah," said the shopkeeper, "a good choice."
"How much is it?" she asked.
"Well, ordinarily I'd say five francs, but since you're such a good customer, why don't we just call it a gift?"
Erik protested. "You can't afford to just give away your merchandise."
"After you started giving my granddaughter singing lessons for free, it's the least I can do. We'd pay you, but her father's been too ill to work, and I don't have the money."
Erik reached for his wallet. "Which is why I'm not letting you give us that book." He laid the bills on the counter. "As I said before, I do what I do because I love it, not because of the money. Your granddaughter has an exquisite voice, and I'd be a fool not to train her. I would never stifle such a gift simply because you could not pay."
The old man sighed wistfully. "Her dream is to someday perform on stage, but what can the daughter of a farrier do?"
Erik smiled. He'd known another little girl from a poor family who'd done quite well on the stage. "You might be surprised."
As they headed out the door, Erik breathed a sigh of relief. The older she got, the more questions Mélodie began to ask about his past. He'd hoped to keep her safe from that knowledge for as long as possible, and when she'd asked about the gypsies, he knew his answer had not been satisfactory. There would be more questions soon. Somehow he'd always managed to dodge questions regarding his life before Christine whenever they'd come up before. He should have known he couldn't keep her safe forever.
xxxx
The gypsy fair arrived in town the following Sunday, their colorful caravans clattering over the cobblestones with an ominous sound that Erik was all too familiar with. The moment he heard the hoof beats of the Arabian steeds, he tensed, and what was supposed to have been a nice family outing after church was quickly cut short. After hearing her husband recount his conversation with Erik in the bookstore, Madame Desmarias had insisted on repaying the musician for his kindness by inviting the Gérard family over for a meal. But Erik knew his daughter well enough to know that her curiosity would get the best of her if they lingered. Lunch with the Desmariases would have to wait.
Getting out of the carriage, Erik hurriedly made his way to the door, doing his best to stay as far away from the passing gypsies as possible. When Alphonse answered the door, he quickly explained that an urgent family matter had arisen and that they would, regrettably, have to take up their generous offer another day. The disappointed look on his friend's face was almost enough to make him change his mind, but a brief glance at one of the older decorative wagons suddenly made him catch his breath. The paint had been redone and a few minor changes had been made, but there was no question that he had seen this particular caravan before. He felt the blood drain from his face. These were the same gypsies who had paraded him around half of France as their big attraction; if they recognized him, the life he'd worked so hard to establish in this quiet little town would be over, and his entire family would have to pay the consequences.
"Erik?" Alphonse looked worried. "Are you feeling alright? You don't look well."
"Y-yes. I'm fine." In all honesty, he was feeling rather lightheaded. He had been expecting the gypsies, but he hadn't been counting on them being the particular band of gypsies who had made nearly eight years of his life a living hell. He stumbled through an apology. "I'm sorry. I just…"
But before he could finish the thought, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, and he turned just in time to see Mélodie stepping out into the street.
"Mélodie! Get back in the carriage!"
"But, Papa, I—"
He grabbed her arm a bit more forcibly than he'd intended, practically dragging her back across the road. "No buts! Get back inside, now!"
She craned her neck to see around her father's form but did not resist the pull on her arm, the worry in his voice being enough to temporarily curb her interest in the strange sights and sounds coming from down the street.
"I just wanted a better look," she pouted.
Erik glanced nervously back over his shoulders. "Mélodie, please. Don't argue with me right now."
Closing the door, he sent Alphonse one last apologetic look before leaping into the driver's seat and turning the carriage toward home. Mélodie stared longingly out the window until the caravans grew too small to see.
xxxx
"Mama?" Mélodie poked at the vegetables on her plate. "Are you going to the craft bazaar tomorrow?"
Truthfully, she had little interest in whatever wares the locals would be selling, but she couldn't help but wonder what sort of items she might find for sale dangling from the caravan windows. Erik frowned. He knew where this conversation was headed. They had made it through nearly two days without the mention of the word "gypsy," and he'd been hoping the subject wouldn't come up again. The gypsies were rarely in one place for more than a week, and if they were lucky, by the time next Sunday rolled around, all the caravans would have vanished.
Christine glanced across the table at Erik's uncomfortable expression before she answered. "No, sweetheart. Not this week."
"Why not?"
Erik interjected. "Because the gypsies are in town."
"What do you have against the gypsies?"
"They're dangerous, Mélodie, and I don't want you anywhere near them."
Mélodie threw up her hands in exasperation. "Paris is too dangerous. The gypsies are too dangerous. What isn't too dangerous for me to do?" She huffed angrily.
Erik closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath, visibly fighting the urge to lose his temper. When he spoke, it was with such an air of finality and detached coldness that even Christine felt a bit intimidated.
"Mélodie, that's enough. We're not discussing this anymore. Now eat your dinner."
Christine shuddered inwardly. She hadn't heard him use that tone of voice in a long time, and she knew better than to question it.
But Mélodie, it seemed, would have to learn the hard way.
xxxx
Erik's fingers slipped effortlessly over the piano keys. Head tilted back, eyes closed, he was all but lost to world around him. Right now there was nothing but the sound of his music and a soft and steady summer rain drumming on the roof. It was a perfect day for reading or sleeping or, in his case, composing, and aside from the notes he caressed from the keys, the house was silent, each member of the family having taken up their preferred activity for a rainy afternoon. Christine was asleep in the upstairs bedroom, having spent the morning cleaning house, and Mélodie had locked herself away in her room—likely either reading or writing another story. Erik was so wrapped up in his music that he failed to notice the soft padding of footsteps coming down the stairs, so when a gentle hand touched his shoulder, he nearly jumped. Erik opened his eyes, slightly concerned. Christine never disturbed one of his musical reveries unless it was something of great importance.
"Erik, have you seen Mélodie? She's not in her room."
"What?" he whispered.
"I just knocked on her door. She didn't answer."
"Perhaps she's just asleep," he suggested hopefully.
Christine looked at him skeptically. "You know she's a light sleeper."
"Did you look?"
She shook her head. "The door was locked."
They shared a worried glance before Erik leapt up from his position at the piano and tore up the stairs with Christine not far behind.
"Mélodie?" There was panic in his voice. "MÉLODIE?" His fists pounded on the door. "MÉLODIE, OPEN THIS DOOR RIGHT NOW!"
When there was no response, he kicked the door with all the force he could muster. There was the splintering of wood as the door burst open to reveal an empty room with an open window, the long white curtains billowing in the breeze as the rain poured in. Erik raced over to the window, leaning out as far as he could, looking for any sign of their daughter. It was a long way down, but not so far that she couldn't have safely made a jump to the ground.
"MÉLODIE?" he called into the storm. "MÉLODIE?" He pulled himself back inside and turned to Christine, the upper half of his body already soaked from the rain. "The carriage is still here. Maybe she hasn't left yet."
Christine nodded. "I'll go check the barn. You go get ready in case we need to leave."
Without waiting for a response, Christine flew down the steps and flung open the front door, not even bothering to close it behind her. Barefoot and wrapped in nothing but her nightgown and a bathrobe, she raced across the yard, stumbling a few times in the slick mud that squished between her toes and stained her robe a nasty shade of brown. When she reached the barn, she had to yell even hear herself over the rain on the tin roof. The storm was picking up, and Mélodie was nowhere to be found. And then she noticed that Toulouse was gone. Wrapping her muddied bathrobe tighter around her shoulders, she ran back toward the house, rain soaking through to her skin in mere seconds. She noticed Erik was already at the door, wearing his mask and wig and grave expression.
"Erik, one of the horses is missing!" she called to him as she ran. "She must already be in town!"
Erik cursed under his breath and nervously fingered the gun in his pocket. While his weapon of choice was either a sword or a rope, times were changing, and a gun was much easier to conceal and much more effective in certain situations. Christine noticed the weapon as she reached the door and suddenly looked up at him, a bit startled.
"You don't think you'll really need that, do you?"
"I hope not," he answered honestly, "but I'm taking it just in case."
Christine still seemed a bit uneasy. Although she didn't doubt Erik's ability to defend himself, she knew what he had once been capable of, and the thought that he might slip back into the mindset of a killer—even to protect their daughter—somewhat frightened her.
He sighed, taking her gently by the shoulders so that she was looking into his eyes. "I won't use it unless I have to," he reassured her.
Christine looked down but nodded reluctantly. She didn't like the idea of him using a weapon, but she understood the need for self-defense. "I'll go change."
"No, Christine. I need you to stay here." He could tell that she was about to protest, but he cut her off before she had the chance. "Please," he whispered. "Christine, I need to know that at least one of you is safe. Besides," he continued, "the carriage is too large for one horse to pull. I'll have to ride. It'll be faster that way anyway."
Christine looked as though she was about to cry. Erik had warned her about his familiarity with this particular group of gypsies, and the realization that not one but both members of her family would be in danger while she was safe at home was more than she could bear. Nevertheless, his arguments made sense; she doubted that she would actually be able to be much help against a band of angry gypsies—if anything, she would just be another person for Erik to worry about protecting.
Erik wrapped his arms around her, not caring that the mud on her clothes was likely staining his shirt. "I'll bring her home," he promised.
At last, he pulled back, and Christine couldn't help but pull him in for one last kiss. She brought her hand to the exposed side of his face, stroking it lovingly. "Be safe," she whispered.
"I will."
Christine stood in the doorway and watched as Erik retrieved César from the barn and rode off into the storm. She couldn't tell if the water droplets on her face were from the rain or from her tears.
