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Chapter VII
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Shadows crowded around them, ominous veils devoid of substance that had no beginning or end. Nightfall began to breathe over the earth, choking what remained of daylight. A nocturnal screech from high above ripped apart the night, and Christine started in shock at a bird's raucous cry.
Erik slid his arm up to encircle her waist and hold her more securely. She melted against him, thankful for his touch, having missed it so. Despite that they often rode close, when he didn't lead Orion and walk while she rode, she'd felt the thick, invasive distance between them more strongly than when they lived on different levels at the opera house.
They had been riding for three days. By now she believed the danger lay far behind. Yet Erik kept up his frenzied pace, barely allowing them opportunity to rest, as though a dark spirit from the opera house chased them. Once he backtracked to confuse possible mortal pursuers, also utilizing other methods to lure anyone who might attempt to follow into the wrong direction. Regardless of what Meg told them, Christine could not believe Raoul would endanger their lives, but she sensed Erik put credence in Meg's words. The time to discuss the matter of Raoul had arisen. Still she resisted, uncertain of Erik's reaction to what she would say.
In the distance, Christine noticed the flickering light of a campfire through the trees. She felt Erik tense against her back, proof that he spotted it too. A branch snapped. Pulling on the reins, Erik brought Orion to a quick halt. The unmistakable click of a pistol broke through the eerie stillness.
"Move and you are a dead man, monsieur."
Christine felt shock ripple through Erik that matched her own. The voice that addressed them from the shadowed bushes was a child's. Orion gave a nervous whinny as the rustling of the young menace's approach grew louder.
A girl appeared, no more than twelve, if that. In both hands, she held a pistol aimed at Erik's head. Her face smudged with dirt, her long hair in snarls, she looked as if she hadn't bathed in weeks. Her smock dress appeared just as filthy.
"Why are you on this trail, so far from the road?" she asked, drawing nearer. "And why are you dressed as a bandit?" The pistol wavered. "If you've come to rob me and my papa, we have naught to give." The girl may be young in appearance, but she spoke as one older.
"We have come neither to rob nor to harm." Erik's reassurance came quiet. "We ask only to share your fire, and perhaps a meal. My ..." he paused, "… ward has had no sustenance since midday."
The girl's face scrunched in confusion.
"Food," Erik explained.
"We have naught but stale bread and leeks dug from the ground. The uprising in Paris caused Papa to fear when the troops tried to capture the cannon. We escaped, leaving all we had behind."
"An uprising? In Paris?" Erik repeated in shock.
Christine blinked, also stunned. She prayed that Madame Giry and Meg were unharmed.
"How could you not know this? The entire country must know by now. Or maybe you do know." The girl squinted suspiciously and took in his attire, from his soft woolen cloak to his tall leather boots, then did the same with Christine's, the threads of her dark blue cloak as fine. "Be you Marxist or Bonapartist?"
Wishing she had listened more closely when she'd stood at Raoul's elbow as he and his peers discussed politics during the three months she attended social functions with him, Christine worried Erik might give the wrong reply and a lead ball would be their fate yet.
"I am on the side of justice."
"For the people?"
"Yes."
His swift answer seemed to pacify the girl, and she lowered her weapon. "Many of the Bonapartists fled the city the day we did, but they left in fine coaches. I suppose if you were a true noble, you wouldn't be here, with no home to go to and begging for a meal. If my papa gives you leave to stay, you are welcome to our fire." She turned and disappeared into the bushes.
"Do not fear, Christine," Erik whispered near her ear, his breath warm and bringing with it a shiver of pleasure regardless of the worrisome situation. "I will not let harm come to you."
His assurance relieved her though his composure perplexed her when her own heart raced.
As they neared the fire, she saw a simple cart and a mule. A grizzled man sat with his back against a wheel. Both he and the wheel against which he rested were bathed in harsh moonlight, making his jagged features clear. His hooked nose matched his form, hunched with age, and his eyes were pale and watery, light in color, like the girl's, who she could clearly see now.
"Draw near to the fire," he commanded, his voice raspy. "I no longer see well."
Erik gave Christine's shoulder a soothing pat before he dismounted, then helped her down. The man flicked his eyes over Christine, lingered on her hand clutched tightly around Erik's arm, then lifted his appraisal to Erik's masked face. Tense seconds crawled by, lost to the darkness, before the man spoke.
"My daughter tells me you wish to share our fire."
"That is correct," Erik said.
"You have escaped Paris?"
"We have left the city."
Christine glanced at Erik, thinking his answer hid their true reason for escape. She hoped these people failed to realize that truth.
"Why?" the man insisted.
"My reasons are of a personal nature and do not stem from the revolution."
"You are a socialist?"
"I believe in what is just."
The old man frowned. "And what is 'just'?"
Erik took a few seconds to answer. "Perhaps a more suitable question would be to ask what is unjust," he countered. "It is unjust for another to dictate one's actions and blind him so that he has no power to choose, to deceive him, to control him, and to make the innocents suffer through the course of his contemptible acts."
Christine felt his pain, heard the trace of it in his voice. She knew he referred to the dark spirit's former hold on his life and not the revolt. Gently she squeezed his arm in consolation. His other hand moved to cover hers.
"You speak like a noble, with the understanding of a peasant," the man mused. "A blueblood with personal knowledge of such words…"
Christine drew a quiet, unsteady breath at the man's apt reasoning; Erik remained silent, not giving anything away.
"A strange thing…" The man eyed them both another interminable moment then shrugged. "As you say, it is unjust to make the innocent suffer, and your woman seems weary. You are welcome to stay. Celeste, fetch soup for our guests."
Erik escorted Christine to a spot by the fire farthest away from the old man then took a seat beside her. The girl hurried to do as bidden, bringing both Christine and Erik a bowl of watery porridge from a pot that sat atop the low flames. Christine drank the bland concoction more from hunger than desire. For the moment, it appeared, they were safe, but the news of Paris troubled her.
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"Mère ..."
Meg's voice came faint, fearful. The room lay in semi-darkness and a lone candle burned nearby.
Her mother moved to her side. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she brushed her hair away from her damp forehead. "Shhh. All is well."
Well? Everything in Meg hurt, her leg worst of all. "What happened?"
"You have been asleep a long time. The physician says you will recover. You had an accident, a fall, but you will be well again."
The stark memory of Raoul finding her and giving chase pushed through the clouds in Meg's mind. "I brought them Orion, just as we planned. I watched them ride off; they're safe, Mère. The Vicomte couldn't have found them. I disposed of all evidence of their stay. At the stable. Where they were."
"You have done well, my pet. Speak of this no more."
Meg struggled to sit up and gasped as fire singed through her right leg. She dared not move for fear of a recurrence. "It hurts so!" Moisture burned her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she glanced at the wool blanket that shielded her legs.
Tears glazed her mother's eyes as well. The sight caused Meg alarm; she had never seen her mother cry.
"You must rest and regain your strength, chère. The fall, it was very bad. Here, drink some wine to ease the pain." She held Meg's head up, tippling her own glass so she could drink.
"Mère, what are you not telling me?" Meg's voice came soft as she closed her eyes, again wishing to succumb to weariness but fighting it.
"Tomorrow. All else can wait until tomorrow." She smoothed the hair from Meg's forehead and kissed it. "For now, sleep."
Meg drowsily nodded and Madame waited until Meg's breathing grew even before she quit the room. Relief rushed through her that the fever was broken, which had held Meg bound for three days. On the heels of that thought, she knew ironic gratitude that she could suspend the tragic news fated to destroy her daughter's cherished aspirations.
With a shaky breath, she moved to pour herself a fresh glass of wine and took a seat among the pillows on the divan. She drank all of the claret, relying on the mellowing effect of the alcohol to calm her shattered nerves.
Shouts resounded through the streets, as they did almost daily, and she worried about their safety. The troops had tried to capture the cannon the commoners had gathered, initially brought in when the newly organized National Guard had procured the weapons as a defense against the Prussians. But they'd been unsuccessful. Women as well as men had approached the soldiers, fraternizing with them. And though the people were triumphant and the soldiers didn't attack, whispers of disquiet breathed veiled warnings to Madame Giry's soul. Concealed within the trappings of misty truths, all was not as it appeared. She knew this with every fiber of the woman she was, and the woman she had been.
Always, she'd felt an intuition about such issues, stemming from her former role as a servant to darkness before her advent into light. She could sense a ghostly evil lying in wait, silently mocking the shouts of victory as the workers overtook the city and red flags of The Commune fluttered from buildings in defiance of the old Napoleonic regime.
Since the government withdrew its troops to Versailles and the Communards actually let them go, many of the wealthy and nobles, as well as some of the fearful, had swarmed from Paris en masse. The workers had taken over, embittered by shortage of food and empty promises of the government, eager to form a socialist republic now that Prussia had defeated France and Napoleon had fallen.
Madame had been so mired in the plight concerning their own little world of the opera house kingdom that she'd paid scant attention to gossip of dissent outside its doors. Now that such a bleak day had dawned she had no choice but to confront her options. In truth, there were none. To escape to Spain and follow her Maestro and Christine would have been her preference. She wanted nothing to do with The Commune. But Meg could never endure such a journey. Nor did Madame have a beast or cart upon which her daughter could ride.
Fresh tears welled in her eyes for her only child. Dear Meg. Not yet seventeen and never to dance again. Just as Christine desired nothing but Music, both the man and his song, Meg wanted nothing but to dance. The physician offered little hope. The dislocation in her knee was severe. He had pushed the bone into place, but didn't foresee that it would acquire sufficient healing for her to continue the rigors demanded of the ballet. She might never walk again.
Madame closed her eyes upon remembering the physician's grim pronouncement. A tear dampened her cheek. She whisked it away with her fingertips and inhaled a deep breath. Moving to light all five candles in the candelabra, she hoped to dispel the deepening dusk that shadowed the room. A pool of muted golden light soon encased her, yet the black despair in her soul would not retreat. And the wine did nothing to mellow her anguish.
Stern to a fault, she still possessed a mother's heart. She ached for her daughter's happiness, and had tried to be both father and mother to her when Meg's father denied them both. When everyone denied them, except for her maestro in his musical kingdom, which she came to regard as the only true home she'd known. No longer her home ... now a shell of its former glory ... condemned ... forsaken ...
Unbidden, her eyes went to a faded stack of bound letters on the desk. She stared at them a moment longer, then forced herself to turn away.
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Once Celeste and her grandfather retired for the night and the old man's snores quietly rumbled inside the cart, Christine approached Erik where he had moved on the opposite side of the fire once he'd tended Orion. She lowered herself beside him. He glanced at her, then back into the flames. She put her hand to his sleeve and felt his muscle tense. At least he didn't pull away, and for that she was grateful.
"I fear for Madame Giry and Meg's safety," she began. "I feel so helpless. I wish we could do something for them."
"Yes." He nodded distantly.
"Perhaps once we are in Seville we should send for them. She's been a mother to me, and Meg is like a sister. They have both served us well."
"I agree."
She bit the inside corner of her lip. "Perhaps, until then, Raoul could help them or at least look in on them to make certain they are both well. Would a letter get through to Paris if we send one?"
His eyes snapped toward her. Even in the dark, she could see them blaze with green fire. "Raoul deceived us!" He sneered the name, his words coming low, fierce. "He betrayed us!"
"You cannot ask me to believe that. There must be some explanation for what happened - "
"The explanation is obvious!" Erik swiftly rose from the ground and flicked back his cloak in displeasure. He paced away then swung around to look at her. "You heard what Meg said. He cannot be trusted. He betrayed us to the gendarme!"
"She must have misunderstood..." She looked askance. "Raoul wouldn't do such a thing. He couldn't..."
"What is he to you, Christine?" Erik's voice came more quietly. Pained. Dangerous. "Perhaps you have a hidden agenda for wishing to contact the Vicomte? Was he indeed your lover?"
Incredulous anger brought her quickly up to face him. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner! What more must I do to prove that it's you I love? That it's always been you!"
Behind the black bandit mask, his eyes widened in shock at her uncharacteristic outburst, but she'd had enough.
"You won't allow me to come near you, won't allow me to touch you, and when I do, you withdraw from me! Give me the reason for that, if you will," she demanded.
"I have more than adequately explained my reasons."
She waved his words aside, the pent-up frustration of so many days bursting forth from her tongue in quiet fury. "Always, you have an excuse. Yet even before we left the opera house you ran from me. How many times, Erik? How many times did you push me away after you entreated me to come to you?"
"You bring up issues better left forgotten."
She ignored his warning. "I speak not only of the Phantom. His darkness isn't the only barrier you erected between us. Four weeks you waited before you came to me. I was frantic with worry, thinking perhaps you misunderstood my message when I gave you the ring. Thinking perhaps you didn't hear my plea for you to come join me."
"Christine, don't - " His voice was hoarse.
"Why, Erik?" She stepped closer. "Why do you always push me away? Is it that you no longer care? Was I only a pupil to you, and now that the opera kingdom is no more, your interest in me has waned too?"
"You know that's not true." His breathing came ragged. His jaw grew rigid as he fought for control…
But she didn't want his control, and the desire for his touch drew her forward until she could feel the heat flame from his body.
"Then show me what is true. Show me, as I showed you that night."
"You have no idea what you ask of me." His words came out in a low growl as a flame of a different sort kindled in his eyes.
"I ask for the same as I give to you." She looked deeply at him. "Everything."
The quiet appeal in her voice moved him, but the fear of rejection glittering in her eyes broke down his every defense. Powerless to resist the majesty of Christine, he reached for her and crushed her to him. Buried his face in her thick curls. Breathed in the scent of her, his beautiful rose.
She let out a soft gasping sob of relief, her arms locking about his waist. Erik closed his eyes in tormented delight.
How long had he denied himself the pleasure of her closeness! How long had he fought the passion that simmered just beneath the surface throughout these past days and nights of sweet agony in her continual presence ... But no more, no more ...
He pulled slightly away and pressed his trembling hands against either side of her breasts, running them slowly down to her waist and hips in worship, needing to touch her again, to feel all of her supple form beneath his seeking hands.
Her eyes fluttered closed and she lifted her face to his in entreaty. His need of her just as overwhelming, he pulled her hard against him. His lips found her parted ones, possessing them with tender fierceness. Their kisses gave and demanded as strains of exultant music filled their minds and souls. He broke away to graze the delicate lobe of her ear with his teeth, to taste the silkiness of her neck with his tongue. She gasped in delight, her fingers digging into his shoulders then lifting to tangle in his hair.
"Christine ... Christine," he murmured hoarsely.
His mouth trailed lower still, over the graceful line of her bared shoulder, and beyond. Until the ruffles of her low-cut bodice impeded his warm quest of her silken skin, and her breath caught in stunned pleasure.
Eager for more of her sweetness, he reclaimed her lips, wrapping one hand in her hair at the nape, his heart pounding as furiously as hers. He pulled her head back and his tongue probed in hungered exploration the honeyed recess of her mouth. Drinking deeply, he slaked his thirst for her, having too long denied himself refreshment. With his other hand at her hips he drew her closer still, aching to draw her unto himself until they were fully one. Taking them to a place beyond all reason, beyond all that was right, beyond all hope of turning back...
A harsh fit of coughing from somewhere in the nether regions of the earth splintered through the consuming haze of passion clouding Erik's mind. He broke their embrace and looked into her eyes, darkened with desire. Their breathing came rapid as they stared at one another, thoroughly shaken. Each of them knowing that if he moved toward her again, or she toward him, they would most assuredly step past the point of no return.
Time stood suspended, as breathless as they, wrapped up in a current of electricity as intense as lightning.
From behind the cart, the old man coughed, cursed, and coughed again. The sound of him rising decided their fate for them.
Erik closed his eyes and waited until he regained enough control to speak. Even then his voice came out raspy. "Never again doubt my love or need of you, Christine. You are my sole reason for existing." His eyes searched her glistening ones, her glowing face, her lips swollen from his kisses. Unable to refrain, he brushed his fingers against her cheek, aching to touch her once more. "But neither again seek what I should not yet - cannot yet - give you. I am only a mere mortal. I am not a god who has the strength to resist you, my alluring goddess."
He turned and strode away, leaving Christine to stare after him, shaken and without words.
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A/N: Thank you for the great reviews! :)
I know at times I use both the English and French terms of greetings or endearments (my Angel; mon Ange, etc)- I usually write it how it sounds best in that instance rather than rigidly sticking to a certain way.
