A/N—In which we get around to some E / C interactions…

The Usual Disclaimer—These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

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A Second Chance

Chapter 9

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

And So It Goes

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along

I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense

And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose

But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break

And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows

Billy Joel

From the CD Storm Front, 1989


Humming to herself and smiling, Christine unlocked the dressing room. The remainder of the afternoon and evening were hers. Luigi had departed the building, the corps de ballet was onstage now practicing the Greek dance, her fellow principals had plans for an early evening. She was quite alone.

Or so she had thought. That sense of being watched, of his presence, filled the tiny room. She retreated behind the paneled screen and changed from Xaima's costume back to her street dress. He would not speak? Then so be it; she was tired of being manipulated. She gathered the parcel of ribbons and began to pull on her gloves.

"Why were you with M Geyer?"

Coolly Christine faced the mirror. "I sought advice on Xaima's solo. That is what M Geyer is employed for."

"Why did you not ask me?" he hissed.

She glared at the mirror, irritation flaring into anger. Weeks of worrying about him with no word, his blatant hostility when he finally did return, his refusal to show himself or answer any of her questions flashed through her mind.

"You weren't around," she said shortly. "And if you were here, you were shouting at me. I am so tired of people shouting!" She took a deep shaky breath. "This entire production is going badly, and I would like…I need…help with Xaima's part. From M Geyer if need be. But I would prefer you, my maestro, my friend." There, she'd finally said it.

She could not see the momentary flash of fire in his dark eyes. "Your friend," he said bitterly.

"It is all I can be, Erik," Christine answered steadily. "But I would be your friend."

"I have never had a friend; I would not know how to be one," he spat.

"I was always your friend, Erik."

"You had time for me only when that boy," he snarled, "was not around. And in the end, you went off with him and left me to die in the darkness."

She flinched and drew an unsteady breath. "I'm sorry, Erik, how many times will you make me apologize for that?"

He had been more than her friend, she had realized too late. Somehow, that friendship had deepened to love and she had not known it. Scorned and rejected, inexperienced, Erik had reacted with fear and possessive desperation, frightening her into retreat. She had come away from that encounter saddened and wiser, but the price he had paid had been enormous.

"What do you want from me, Christine?" he said bitterly. "I gave you my music, my heart, my soul. What more can I give you? What more would you yet take from me?"

Christine felt the tears gather in her eyes. "Nothing, Erik," she said softly, "but…I miss you. I miss our talks, our lessons, the time we spent together before…" she broke off. Then Christine stepped toward the mirror, resting her palm and forehead against its cool surface.

"Maestro, please…I need you. Can we not have a second chance?"

The silence stretched into long minutes, but he could no more deny her than he could stop breathing. And so she heard a sound she thought never to hear again, the faint, indefinable click that signaled the release of the catch. The heavy mirror moved slightly down and sideways.

He wore unrelieved black tonight, head to toe, not the always-formal evening attire that he'd always assumed in her presence. A thin black mask of some softer material covered his entire face, and with a sudden shock she remembered pieces of shattered white porcelain embedded in ravaged flesh. Of course the mask would be different. He stood there in silence, his eyes intense, his face unreadable. She looked away, at his boots, and saw the gleaming metal end cap of an ebony stick.

He did not offer his hand as she gathered her skirts and stepped cautiously through the doorway, but turned to silently remove and light the small bulls-eye brass lantern. As he raised it from its brick niche Christine wondered not for the first time how he made the ascent in darkness through the winding passages. The route seemed much longer than she remembered it, the stones slippery with mud and damp, and several times Erik stopped to rest, his breath rasping and catching as if suppressing a cough. His venomous glance had stopped her one expression of concern.

The underground house lay silent and utterly dark before them as she stood awkwardly in the threshold of the foyer, clasping her hands to keep them from shaking. Once she would simply have made them Russian tea before singing. Now, too much had changed. The destruction of the house pressed at her, the lingering acrid smell of damp smoke, the twisted remains of the organ in the outer cavern, the scorched walls and empty rooms, the heap of debris they had silently walked past, his bitter, aloof attitude.

"Wait here," he told her tersely and limped past her in the darkness. She heard the scratch of a lucifer and moment later candlelight began to glow. The flames reflected golden in his eyes as he lifted the broken candelabra, studying her, and she shivered. He had discarded the enveloping cloak and without it he was painfully thin. "Come," he said abruptly, and she followed, silent as the wavering shadows on the walls.

Christine had kept her eyes averted from the Louis-Philippe room door as they passed it. He watched her covertly as they walked, knowing she was unaware of the play of emotions across her expressive face. Somehow, against all odds, all hope, she was here again, willingly, in his home. He paused at the door to the room where once they had played chess and he had read aloud to her while she stared dreamily into the flames, his amber voice bringing the scenes to life. Memories rose unbidden; he pushed them aside and lifted the candelabra, bidding her enter.

Christine had not entered the library music room during his few days of convalescence, and the sight of it now filled her eyes with tears. A rough seat stood where once the padded ebony bench had waited; the piano was a mass of splinters, held upright by rough logs bound to the supporting legs, the keyboard ruined, the ornate music support broken off. The shelves were empty, with no sign of the hundreds of gold-tooled leather volumes or objets d' art which had once filled them. In the corner, where an opulent Chinese lacquered chest had stood, only charred paneling on the walls remained. "Oh Erik," she whispered, but her eyes held no pity, only grief at his loss.

Erik had not mourned the destruction of Don Juan; it had served its purpose, but the cabinet had contained his other scores, years of careful composition, the outpouring of passion, pain, torment, and longing into music. Most of it, he knew, he could never duplicate.

He entered behind her, setting the candelabra on the piano, and moved to light another. Christine turned, her hand gently touching the familiar, battered instrument. "Your poor piano," she whispered. "Is it ruined?"

"No," he said tiredly, "not that the crowd didn't try hard enough. The Daroga was kind enough to bring me the items I needed to try to repair it." He shut his eyes briefly, remembering the horrific sounds as the men smashed their way through his house, looting or destroying his possessions.

She caressed the shattered lid, her expression sorrowful. Avoiding her eyes, he seated himself at the instrument and tested the keys. "I apologize for the tone," he said coolly. "It seems some things are irreparable. You will need to warm up."

But sadness and nerves tightened her throat and he glowered at her initial ascent of notes. "What are you doing?" he said impatiently. "Stand properly and breathe!"

"I'm sorry, Erik! This is hard for me as well!"

Frowning, he rose from the keyboard. "Await here," he ordered, taking a candle and returning a few minutes later. "Drink this," he said tersely, handing her a cup with hot liquid. Christine sniffed the not-unpleasant aroma cautiously, aware of his eyes on her.

"What is this?" she asked hesitantly.

"Merely a tisane; it will help relax your throat and help you with the lower register."

But still she hesitated, and his voice grew sharp. "What is it?"

"Carlotta," she whispered miserably. "You destroyed her voice."

Erik's black eyes snapped, his unpredictable temper flaring. "I did not destroy her voice," he said icily. "That which I gave her only tightened the throat, tightened the vocal cords. She recovered quickly, though not that night." He stalked to the fireplace, his balled fists not quite striking the broken mantelpiece. "You may trust me, Christine, I will not harm you," he said, frustration clearly audible in his voice.

She raised the cup with shaking hands and drained it, her eyes on his face, feeling the warmth spread through her tight throat and downward. The herbal concoction was not unpleasant, with a lingering sweetness. Just as abruptly, the anger drained out of him. "Christine," he said tiredly, "I would never harm you."

She met his eyes. "I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. He nodded once, stiffly, and took the cup from her. Resuming his seat at the keyboard, Erik waited patiently for the tisane to take effect as Christine nervously turned the pages of the libretto.

For an hour or more they worked on phrasing, spacing, breathing, posture, tone, emphasis, and lower range, both easily slipping back into the roles of teacher and student.

They were in the middle of a passage when Erik abruptly withdrew his hands from the keyboard with a muffled oath, dropping them into his lap at her startled glance. Puzzled, Christine walked around the piano, her gaze falling first to the scarred ivory keys and then to his hands. In all the time they had played and sung together, she had never heard him miss a note, never heard him fail to complete a musical phrase. Swiftly she knelt before him and drew his long callused musician's hands into her own.

"Oh, Erik," Christine murmured, horrified. His once elegant hands lay swollen and crippled in her gentle grasp. She stroked them gently and Erik jerked his aching fingers away from her slender cool hold, but not before she saw the reddened and twisted joints.

He rose from the bench and walked away, thrusting his fists painfully down into his trouser pockets, hiding them from sight. His hands…once she had told him his hands were things of beauty. The poignant memory returned, of one of their early lessons, before she had seen his face.

"I will guess whom you are, M'sieu, someday," she teased.

"How?" he inquired, deliberately casual.

"I would know you from your hands alone," she answered.

"My hands?" he replied, genuinely puzzled, raising them into the air, studying them as if seeking some mysterious identifying marks.

"Yes, your hands, Erik," Christine said firmly, a tantalizing smile about her eyes. "You've the most elegant hands I've ever seen on a man, so long and powerful. They have a grace and beauty of their own, when you play. I would love to see you conduct sometime."

Erik raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Conduct? No. The magic is in the musician, child, not the conductor."

She smiled. "All the same, you cannot deny that you have beautiful hands."

He had turned away in disbelief then as well, hiding his face lest his expression give away the effect of her words.

Christine saw her tutor's discomfort and kept silent, allowing this proud man time to recover his composure. After a moment, Erik turned. His eyes settled on her face for a long, tense minute, then looked carefully away, no emotion altering his features, ashamed that she should have seen him so humiliated.

"Perhaps we will forgo the accompaniment," he said quietly, and she nodded.

He had survived the mob, the destruction of his house, and a lifetime of violence, she thought. Yet the loss of his music was the cruelest blow of all.


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