I apologize for "Moonless" taking my attention for a weekend. :)

Onward!

Chapter 10: What She Wants

Christine struggled to get her shivering under control. She had dashed down the street until her feet began to pinch in her heeled shoes. Even after they began to ache, she had continued her brisk pace. Although she knew where she was going, she had not walked the entire distance before. She had to take several detours and double back several times before she found the right street.

The gas lamps were steadily being lit throughout the city, but the cloudy night was black overhead, and the cold air left damp mist on her skin. Few people walked on the streets. She knew she was conspicuous, her pale blue gown standing out in the dark, and she shied away from anyone she spied.

The further she walked, the more her temper cooled, leaving her as cold as her aching body. How could she have been so blind as to what Raoul expected of her? How could she have never made it clear to him what she wanted of her life? Perhaps she had, but he had never listened. Perhaps they had both ignored the truth of their relationship.

They were strangers to each other.

And that summer in southern France had long since passed.

When she had fled out the front door of the de Chagny estate, she had not taken anything with her except the New York letter still clenched in her fist. Her bare shoulders quickly became as numb as her cheeks, and her silk gloves did little to keep her arms warm. Her speedy footsteps echoed throughout the Parisian cobblestone streets.

What a fool she would look, turning up on his doorstep at this hour. Her hair had come partially undone, and her tears had smudged across her face. The cold had sent her nose running, and she had no handkerchief with which to wipe. Her dignity had long since fled as she had, but still she hesitated on the stoop of Erik's apartment building.

Her breath coming out in quick, white wisps, she gave her decision one last thought before stepping into the stairwell. The enclosed stairs at least offered respite from the wind. She gathered her skirts in her free hand and climbed to his floor.

She knocked.

She heard little noise from within. When the door opened, she looked into the face of Nadir Khan.

"Miss Daaé!" he said, disbelief widening his eyes.

"M-Monsieur Khan."

He glanced to his right, humor warming his eyes. "For a dead man, you are popular tonight."

A pale hand lashed out to grasp onto the door and swing it wider. Erik stood there in his full opera garb and wig, nostrils flaring, looking rather startled to see her. Doubts surfaced again that she was doing the right thing by being here. His dark eyes, framed by the black mask that covered his face except his mouth and jawline, roamed over her rumpled appearance, and to her surprise, he extended a slightly shaky hand, beckoning.

She stepped inside his apartment, running a self-conscious hand across her forehead to smooth back her wild hair. "Good evening, Monsieur Erik."

His jaw tightened at that. What did he expect? The presence of Nadir Khan was making her a bit nervous. She had never seen Erik interact with anyone besides herself and Raoul… if one could call threatening bodily harm toward him in any way "interacting."

"I-I am sorry to intrude," she said uncertainly.

"Nonsense," Erik murmured. "Daroga was just leaving."

Nadir arched a thick eyebrow at that. "Actually, Erik, might we have a word?"

Christine was close enough to feel the low rumble of annoyance that began to bubble up within Erik's chest. She smiled gently. "I would love to freshen up. May I use your bathroom?

"Of course, Miss Daaé," Nadir responded quickly. "Down the hall and to the left."

She nodded and excused herself to the two men. Erik's eyes glared at her back as she left, but she pointedly ignored him. She might not want to admit it, but she was growing used to his suddenly-shifting moods.

Overall, this was a small apartment. The bathroom, barely large enough for a sitting tub and sink, opened to the left, while a single bedroom containing only a bed stood to the right, the door ajar. She glanced inside, seeing the familiar trunk open next to the bed and its contents filed in neat piles across the white comforter. Not wanting to linger too long and appear nosy, she closed herself inside the bathroom, but not before noticing sorted bottles and other belongings that appeared to be more than just clothing.

Of course he was preparing to leave. It was obvious he was packing. But was that not what she had been helping him do all this time? She was all but helping to push him out of the city and out of her life.

She should not be feeling this sudden dreadful ache in her stomach.

There was no mirror in the bathroom, and she was not surprised. She splashed cold water on her face, but she could tell her eyes were puffy from crying. Her hair did not want to cooperate, and some pins were missing, but she straightened it the best she could.

What was she doing here? The letter from New York still lay clenched in her fist, now smudged and rumpled. What a fool she had been, confessing her desire to sing to Raoul of all people. How could she have expected him to understand?

But that man in the living room. He could understand what it mean to need music as much as one needed to breathe. It was he, after all, who had taught her voice to fly.

As soon as the door clicked closed behind Christine, Khan rounded on Erik, keeping his voice low and hissing so the girl just beyond them could not hear.

"I thought you were done with her!"

Erik waved an angry, dismissive hand. "I am done with her."

"Her presence here suggests otherwise."

Annoying, prying Khan. He had an uncanny knack for stating the obvious. But Christine had come here of her own free will, and Erik had no idea why she might be here, late at night, once again seeking him out. When he had left his cold remedy behind for her, he had tied no strings to it.

He told Khan as much, but the older man only snorted. "You had best send her off. Let us not forget that you are a wanted man."

Yes, yes, how could he forget?

Khan must have noticed the weariness to his posture. His face was too well covered to give anything away, but the Daroga had long ago learned how to read Erik's more subtle signs, damn him. His tone softened. "I only want to see you happy, Erik."

Erik jerked his eyes back to the fire, unwilling to see the kindness in Khan's. There would be no happiness for him… but sometimes, sometimes he could steal moments that did not feel like pain.

Christine reentered the room, her face pink from the cold water, the shape of her hair changed. As soon as she nodded at the two of them, Khan stepped over to the door.

"I should be going. More gold bars to procure," he added, winking at Christine. "Good evening, Erik. Miss Daaé."

The two of them watched the Persian leave. Christine stood in the middle of the living room, and now he took a moment to drink in the sight of her. She was dressed in greater finery than he had ever seen her wear. A satin blue gown graced the curves of her body, the thin straps hugging low around her sleek, bare shoulders, which gleamed pale in the light of the fire. A heavy necklace with dark stones hung around her slender throat. She wore no cloak, and although she had tried to fix it, her hair was still askew. Her long hem was dirty.

He dragged his gaze back to her face and found her cheeks flushed. He supposed he had taken a bit too long to look upon her. "Did you walk the entirety here?"

"I had to. I… did not bring my handbag." Her pink tongue lashed out to wet her lips. "Again, I apologize for intruding."

She moved as though to leave, but he stepped between her and door. Her blue eyes flashed with defiance, but she did not try to push past. They were closer now, and he towered over her. She had always been so small before him, though she shrank away less often than before.

"Foolish of you to travel these streets alone," he said, "especially dressed as you are."

One of her arms, gleaming white skin bare from the elbow upward, came around to hug her middle. "I forgot my cloak."

"Indeed." Unable to stop himself, he stretched out a hand to caress a knuckle from the corner of one of her eyes to her soft jaw. She stood still, letting him. "You have been crying. Christine?"

Immediately, the sheen to her eyes increased. She took a single step back. "I should not have come here," she said, breath hitching. "I don't know where my head is tonight." This time, she did try to shoulder pass him, but he caught her wrist in his long fingers.

He jerked her toward him, and for a moment, she was off balance, pressing the satin of her bodice against the backs of his fingers that held her wrist. "You came here to me, tonight. Why?"

The paper in her fist caught his attention again, and he quickly plucked it from her grasp, ignoring her cry of protest. He took only seconds to read the letter written in Italian. When he was finished, he held it up between two of his fingers, allowing her to snatch it back. She folded the paper and stuffed it under the edge of her bodice.

"You could have asked to read it," she said, glaring.

"When did you write to them?" he demanded. He still held onto her wrist, doing his best not to grip her too hard but nevertheless wanting to keep her rooted in place.

"Months ago."

"When?"

She puffed a sigh, blowing tendrils of dark hair from her forehead. He felt the warm breeze on his hand and tried not to shudder. "If you must know, just after you brought the chandelier crashing down at my feet. Meg was trying to cheer me up, and so we wrote them together." She straightened her spine, drawing her head back to look up directly in his eyes. "I was terrified, Erik – of you, of your rage. I did not know what to do except to try to flee."

"To New York."

"To anywhere."

He shifted upon his feet, giving his head a half shake. "I would never intentionally hurt you."

She did not reply, but she did not need to. In the space of her silence, he heard the echo of the word he had just chosen: intentionally. Of course he would never want to hurt her deliberately, but even he had a limit to his control.

He pushed the words out with biting force: "Are you going to New York?" Slow, steadying breath. "The Academy of Music has its problems, but your voice could bring the talent it is lacking." Hesitating, he said with a hint of a sneer, "Now that you are free of me, you could go wherever you wished."

When she tried to tug loose her wrist, he let go. She moved in front of the fire, staring into the flames like he had done moments earlier. He studied her slight form, her back to him. She truly looked lovely in that pale blue gown, the shade an echo of her own irises.

"Perhaps I am free of you, but I am not free," she said softly. Tugging off her left glove, she held up her hand. The large stone there caught the glow of the fire, and he felt blinded by it even though such a thing was impossible.

He snarled, all of his pent-up despair rising to the surface. "You dare show that damned rock upon your finger to me, Christine?"

He leapt to her side, as close as he could manage without touching her. If he put his hands upon her milky skin right now, he feared what he might do. He knew she was engaged; he had thought when he had first seen her at the cemetery that she was already married, and he had expected such a thing to occur with the quickest availability of a priest.

However, seeing proof of such a thing stirred up his dormant rage. Today, he had been so dreadfully reminded with Daroga's probing questions that he carried half the face of a corpse. He had escaped the Shah, who had tried to poison him in Mazandaran, only to let down his guard long enough to become the favorite display item in the traveling fair's collection of curiosities. It had taken five men to take him to the ground, and even then, they had beat him senseless to do it. The first crack of the whip across his back had shocked him into stunned silence. A grown man, whipped like a dog!

They had thrashed him often after that, stripped him naked and treated him worse than an animal. He never sang for them as he had for the Shah, never gave them the pleasure of trying to make him do more than stand there while they removed his hood for an audience time and time again.

Madame Giry, horrified by what she saw, had dropped one of her hair pins into his cage. It had been easy enough to follow her back to the Populaire, after he had killed every single one of the men who had ever dared strike him.

But even though Madame Giry had released him from his prison at the circus, he had still labored under the weight of his own terrible memories.

Until an untrained yet sweet voice had soothed his soul.

She stood before him now, pale face swallowed by wide, blue eyes. She had jerked her hand down and covered that hated piece of rock on her finger, but it was too late to take back her mistake. Erik had only caught a glimpse of the fool's token of affection before, the promise that bound her to another man, a whole man. Now, the size of it loomed like beacon.

Today, Erik had been reminded that he was less than, that he would always be less than. And that she… she had chosen someone else.

The floor hit his knees with a dull thud as he landed at her feet. Even though he wore wig and mask, he felt exposed before her. He was aware of broken porcelain scattered around him – a teacup he had swept off the table – and the legs of the chair he had overturned raised to the ceiling.

"Are you quite done?" she asked, but her tone was not mocking. After the fit he had just thrown, he supposed her question was reasonable.

His shoulders would not cease shaking, and so he continued to kneel there, bent under her stare. His own breathing was loud in his ears, but she was still and quiet. He heard as she replaced her glove, the whisper of the silk cutting him deeply.

Then, the white lace ruffles of her skirt came into view as she stepped closer. He felt the slight pressure of her small hands upon each of his shoulders. Her slender palms traveled up to his collar, not touching the line of skin between collar and mask, and back down to the points of his shoulders. She did this repeatedly, stroking down the long length of his shoulders with calm, soothing pressure, until his heart had slowed to a steady beat.

Once he thought he could move again, he caught both her hands and pressed her knuckles to his distorted mouth, only for a brief second. Then he stood, his older bones creaking as he did so.

She craned her head back to look him in the eye. "I apologize if that startled you."

She did not quite know the reason for his reaction, and so he stayed silent.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "My fiancé does not want me to sing," she explained. "In fact, tonight he told me as much and said I should put the whole childish affair behind me." She gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Perhaps I am such a child, stomping my foot when I don't get my way. But I feel that this is more than that, Erik. More than anything, I do not believe I can give up music."

"What are you saying?" he asked, although he already knew. He and this angel before him were so different from one another, and yet her soul beat to the same rhythm as his.

"I want to go to New York."

Across the ocean. Away from that boy, perhaps. But also far away from him. "The Populaire would take you back. I am sure they are desperate for talent right now."

She shook her head. "I cannot go back there, what with the way they have turned my life – our lives – into a spectacle. I would be put on stage not because of my voice but because of the gossip I would generate. I would be laughed at, gawked at, like a-"

"Freak?" he finished with deadly venom. "Be careful with your next words, mademoiselle, lest you cannot take them back."

Her eyes widened. "I could never be that cruel to you."

One of her gloved hands lifted and slowly touched his black leather-encased cheek. And yet she had been that cruel. Not too long ago, she had stripped him of his mask in front of hundreds.

He stepped back out of her reach. "Did you come all this way to tell your dead maestro this?"

Her cheeks flushed. "I-I thought…" She trailed off, averting her eyes for a moment. Then they snapped back to meet his. "I thought you might help me."

Help her! He barked a rough laugh at that. "If there is not a high enough price on my head, there surely will be after I kidnap the Vicomte's wife and take her to America!"

"I will not become his wife."

He felt the adrenaline hit his system, sending his heart beating in his ribcage like thunder in his ears. "What?" he hissed.

Her lip quivered, rooting him to the reality of what she was saying. He struggled to focus upon her words and not the way his mind was spinning. She was frightened. She ground her teeth in that way she did when she was trying hard not to cry.

"I am not marrying Raoul. I-I want to audition for the opera in New York." She raised her chin, and his heart pounded all the more for the strength he saw there. "And I want you to take me there."

Christine could feel the tears lurking hot behind her eyes. She fully expected Erik to react with anger once again. She had not been surprised at all by his earlier reaction to seeing her ring, but she was so tired of the pretense and manipulation that had existed between them.

They had gone through so much together. The least they could do was speak honestly with each other going forward.

Erik did not take long to reply with a simple, biting, "No."

She sucked in a breath, hating how much it sounded like a sob. "Erik-"

"You are obviously upset and not thinking clearly," he said, drawing himself up stiffly. "You do not know what you are asking."

She grabbed onto his sleeve, but he shook her off. He pretended to busy himself, righting the overturned chair and grabbing a broom to sweep up the shards of the teacup.

"What a fool you must think I am," she cried, staying at his side. "Poor Christine Daaé – she can never make any decisions for herself. Well, only I am responsible for my future, and I know that future does not exist here in Paris. It- it also does not exist in Rome, where I will be trapped into tea parties and boring dinners with strangers." She finally was able to latch onto his sleeve, halting him. He glared at her, but she would not be deterred. "For better or for worse, you stirred up this want in me, Erik. I want to sing."

As he shrugged her off again, she stood in the middle of his living room, trembling with anger and fear and utter dread. But she was the daughter of Gustave Daaé, renowned master of the violin. She had spent her childhood traveling the roads of Europe. She could do it again.

"I will go to New York," she said, "even without your help."

He studied her, perhaps trying to see just how serious she was. "How do you expect to make such a trip by yourself? Do you know where to book tickets? Do you even know which cities in France sail such ships?" He stalked over to her, shoving his masked face close. She could feel his hot breath on the bare skin of her shoulders. "Ten days is a long time for a young woman traveling alone. You might arrive on the shores of America, but you may not be in one piece."

She tried to shove him back, but he was immovable. "You are trying to scare me."

"I am trying to save you!"

His sudden shout made her own voice rise to meet him. "Then help me, Erik!" She pressed her gloved hands to her face to hide the flush of tears. "My life here is over. So is yours. Is it so wrong for both of us to carve out new lives elsewhere?"

She supposed she should have been more prepared for him to refuse. When had she ever given him anything but rejection?

The coolness of his fingers settled on her hands, gently pulling them down. He procured a handkerchief and wiped first under one eye, then the other, the motions of his hands tender. Tucking the handkerchief away, he replaced the fabric with the calloused pad of one thumb, his touch ever so gentle on the sensitive skin under her eye. She looked up to find his face close, his dark brown eyes stormy.

He shifted, clearly warring with himself. The flash of a tongue caught her eye as he wet the bottom swell of his lip. She felt a surge of heat, and she stepped out of his grasp, needing to clear her head.

"I-I will not marry you, Erik."

He growled, eyes flashing. "I know this. You have made your position on that matter abundantly clear. However, if I escorted you to New York, I have a price for my help."

"Which is?"

Walking over to the kitchen table, he tugged open the string of a bag that sat there. She had not noticed it earlier. As he spoke, he partitioned out gold coins into several stacks. "You will be auditioning for the Academy of Music, yes? I want to be allowed to continue as your tutor until you sing for them, and I will choose what arrangement you will use."

She wanted to balk at that. However, she knew she would need help if she had any hope of earning a role as an unknown soprano at a different opera house. She nodded. "Anything else?"

The clinking of the gold coins paused. His back was to her. When he spoke, his voice was rough. "I had never… touched my lips to a woman's before you stole those first two kisses from me." He turned enough so that a single dark eye alighted on her, burning her with its intensity. "I will be allowed to take them back."

She drew her hands up to her chest as though that could possibly dissuade him. "I told you that I would not be yours."

"Two kisses, Christine. That is all I ask of you."

Her cheeks were aflame as she stammered, "N-Now?"

He scooped a handful of coins into his palm and strode over to her. Slowly, he drew one of her hands into his own and deposited the coins into it. "One kiss, when our ship departs the shore of this country." He curled her gloved fingers around the coins. "One, when you join the company of this opera house."

"W-What if they do not accept me there?"

The smooth side of his mouth curled upward. "They will. When they hear you sing, they will have no choice but to fall in love with you."

She glanced down at the coins in her fist. "What are these for?"

"Travel clothes and other items you might require." He casually turned back to the bag of gold and began to refill it, but she could see the tension in his movements. "Do you accept my terms, my dear?"

She swallowed. He wanted to resume his guidance of her singing as her music teacher. They had easily fallen into those roles before, and she thought they could do so again.

And he wanted two kisses, freely given.

She remembered the feel of his lips upon hers. He offered her a chance at a new life full of music again, and in return, he asked for so little.

She cleared her throat. "I do."

Next up: Some secrets can't stay hidden for long, not even from Raoul.