Chapter Nine: The Masquerade Ball
Erik was purposefully late coming home that evening. Rehearsals had lasted longer than usual—partially due to his ever-constant interruptions and partially because the big debut was fast approaching—the winter sun having set several hours before the last note was sung, so it came as a bit of surprise to everyone when the masked musician remained behind even as he shooed the last of the performers out for the evening, giving the excuse that he needed to finalize some paperwork regarding a few of the actors' contracts. Madame Giry had raised an eyebrow at his rather obvious pretense but remained quiet on the matter, reluctantly leaving him to his supposed work with a small, disapproving frown.
It wasn't entirely a lie, he reasoned—the paperwork did need to be completed. But the forms had been sitting on the desk all day, and despite ample time to fill them out, they remained untouched, his mind far too consumed with thoughts of Christine to allow him to focus on the task at hand. And so he turned to the only thing that ever brought relief from his dark thoughts—music.
Oh, to be able to compose again! Morphine was nothing compared to this, the sheer ecstasy of music flowing from his fingertips onto the page. He didn't need accompaniment to bring the notes to life—the music was pounding in his head, flowing in his veins, pulsing in his heart—each little black stroke of the pen leaping off the page and into the air like a flock of tiny birds taking flight off of a fence line. He could have stayed all night working on the piece—and if he had still been the infamous Phantom, he would have—but while Opera Ghosts and Angels are free to come and go as they please, men are bound by the constraints of time, and if he wanted to be at least somewhat functional in the morning, he knew that he would need at least a few hours of sleep. Of course, he supposed that he could always sleep here at his desk—and the thought was very tempting—but if he overslept, he ran the risk of being caught sleeping on the job, and if he didn't return to the apartment soon, Madame Giry would likely come looking for him. Such were the disadvantages of being an ordinary man. And yet, the very thought of having someone concerned enough about his well-being to meddle in his affairs brought a small smile to his face. He had always considered Antoinette a friend, but in the wake of their most recent tragedy at the Opera Populaire, they had grown closer, and her attempts at playing "mother hen"—while often bothersome—were appreciated more than he let on. In the end, however, it was the need for morphine rather than the worries of a mother that compelled his feet to drag him home.
It was well after midnight by the time he arrived home, the roaring fire reduced to a heap of snowy ashes, stirring slightly in the rush of cool breeze that entered the room as he closed the door behind him. A soft glow emanating from beneath Madame Giry's door told him that the ballet mistress was not yet asleep and had been waiting patiently for his arrival. On the stovetop in the kitchen a pot of soup that had grown cold waited for reheating. A bowl at his spot at the table sat unused. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he hated for the food to go to waste when Antoinette had put so much work into preparing it. Turning up the gas lamp that sat between the chair and sofa, he walked over to the stove, carefully lifting the lid from the pot so as not to wake the girls and setting it down on the counter. Taking the bowl from the table, he ladled out some of the soup. He didn't really care if it was cold. He'd lived off of much worse before, and at the moment, he didn't feel like taking the time to reheat it. As he moved to place the bowl back on the table, he caught a brief flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up, he was surprised to see not the ballet mistress he'd been expecting but a rather sleepy-looking Christine peering around the corner of the hall.
She squinted her eyes in the bright light of the gas lamp. "Erik? Are you just now getting back?"
"Christine! I-I'm sorry. Did I wake you?" he sputtered. It was a wonder he hadn't dropped the bowl of soup still in his hand.
She shook her head. "I woke up with a headache and I couldn't get back to sleep."
She looked so innocent standing there in her nightgown, white robe hanging haphazardly across her shoulders—like a young girl on Christmas morning, eyes aglow with childlike wonder. Her hair was delectably disheveled, spilling over her shoulders in unkempt curls still frizzy from lying against the pillow, and her feet bore no shoes, the creamy white skin of her lower legs reflected in the polished shine of the hardwood floor. She wasn't wearing any makeup, nor did she need it, her natural beauty only more apparent to his eyes without the added layers of powder and perfume. Her tired smile was warm and inviting. It was amazing how breathtakingly beautiful she was without even trying. Only in his wildest dreams had he ever seen her like this before, and only the taste of blood from where he'd been nervously biting his lip—a bit harder than he'd intended—assured him that he was, in fact, awake. He wanted her now more than ever, and yet he knew that he could never have her. Erik suppressed a frustrated growl, deliberately averting his gaze. This was exactly what he had been hoping to avoid.
Does she have any idea what she's doing to me right now?
Probably not, he reasoned. A part of her still wants to believe you are an angel—that you can do no wrong and that your thoughts of her are pure. You have not behaved like the Phantom in so long that she has forgotten how dangerous you are. She expects you to see her as a protégé and nothing more.
He remembered, then, the night that they'd first met—the night when he'd first seen the little orphan girl in the chapel crying as she prayed, her thin cotton nightgown dirty from where she had been kneeling on the floor—and wished that he had never brought the Angel of Music to life in her mind.
Even now she does not see me as a man. An angel or a demon, a phantom or a ghost—perhaps even a teacher or a friend—but never a man. Never someone she could love.
It was a wonder that her faith had never faltered after what he supposed must have been a horrifying revelation. And he suddenly hated himself all the more for the possibility of having lead one so pure astray, for while he remained skeptical of God's existence, to shatter the faith of the innocent was a sin that even he believed was worthy of the fires of hell. And if heaven did exist, that she should be cast out for a sin wherein he was to blame was a thought he could not bear.
But despite it all—despite the lies and the deception and the pain that he had caused—he could not bring himself to regret having made her acquaintance, for the years that he had been her Angel had been the happiest of his life.
The lilting sound of her voice brought him out of his reverie, and he noticed that she had made her way to the kitchen, taking the seat across from where the soup bowl in his hand still hovered just above the tabletop.
"I…I was wondering if I could talk to you…." she asked, "about…about what happened yesterday." She looked away shyly before looking up to meet his gaze. "I'm sorry if I offended you. It was just…unexpected…and—"
"I'd rather not discuss it." He turned around to place the bowl back on the counter, needing an excuse to look away. He suddenly seemed to have lost what little appetite he had. "It was something I never should have done, and it will not happen again," he promised.
He glanced briefly at her out of the corner of his eye to gauge her reaction. Was that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes? He shook his head. Now I'm just imagining things.
She bit her lip. "I want to make it up to you."
He turned slightly at the suggestion, curious to see what she might have to say.
She took a deep a deep breath. "There's going to be a masquerade ball this Saturday at Webster Hall…." [1]
She paused for a moment, hoping he would understand the insinuation in her words. But he remained passive, seemingly uninterested, and waited patiently for her to continue.
"Meg invited me to go and I was wondering…well, I was hoping that you might come with us…with me…."
Christine blushed at the forwardness of her words. For a woman to initiate such an invitation seemed terribly improper, but perhaps it would assure him of her feelings. Perhaps he would forgive her cold reception of his kiss.
Erik closed his eyes and sighed. Oh, to dance with Christine! To hold her body close to his. To feel her head against his chest. To watch her twirl and spin and laugh for hours on end. It would be paradise, if only for a moment, to have her in his arms. But what then? What would happen when the ball was over? When the clock struck twelve, the spell would be broken, and he would once again have to settle with seeing her from afar. He didn't think he could do it.
How dare she play with your emotions! his mind screamed. How dare she tempt you with such hope only to snatch it away again!
"Do you take me for a fool?"
Christine looked confused. "What? No, I—"
He whirled to face her. "Then why do you insist on making a mockery of me?! A masquerade ball, you say? Quite fun, indeed—unless you have to wear a mask all the time, of course." Erik glared. His temper was getting the best of him, but he couldn't stop. "Are you so ashamed of being seen with me in public that that is the only social event for which my presence would not offend you?!"
"NO! I just thought—"
He began circling the table. "You thought that I'd say yes. You thought you'd get your way because you always do." There was venom in his voice. "Oh, yes! Perfect, beautiful, wonderful Christine always gets what she wants! It's easy when you're beautiful, isn't it? A bat of the eyes here, a few tears there, and you have the whole world falling at your feet!" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "WELL, WHAT ABOUT WHAT I WANT?!"
The moment the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Brown eyes wide with fear stared up at him, filling quickly with tears of humiliation and disappointment. He hadn't meant to make her cry. The grip on her shoulders slackened, and he bowed his head in shame, giving a sigh of defeat as he turned away from her yet again, unable to bear the emotion in her eyes.
Christine slowly stood from her chair, approaching with the caution that one uses when advancing toward an injured animal before laying a tentative hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to turn around to know that she was crying. Every flutter of her dark lashes spilled another tear, and every tear that fell was like a knife twisted in his heart.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just thought that it would be something we could both enjoy together. But I see that I was wrong…. Goodnight, Erik."
He felt the warmth of her hand slip from his shoulder. It had only been there for a moment, but he already missed it. He considered stopping her, but by the time he had worked up the courage, the familiar tapping of a cane told him that Christine was already gone…and he was probably going to get a lecture.
"Erik…"
"Leave me." He still refused to turn around.
Madame Giry sighed. "You know, Erik, for someone who has spent his entire life alone, you are very good at pushing away those who actually do love you."
xxxx
The remainder of the week passed slowly, the relatively comfortable atmosphere of the little flat replaced by an obvious tension so thick it made the air sickly sweet and hard to swallow.
Erik threw himself into his work, finding any excuse he possibly could to keep him late. One day he decided to conduct an inventory of the entire costume department, and when that failed to keep him occupied, he feigned a miscalculation and counted everything again.
Christine spent most of the week at the apartment, her health wavering from day to day. On good days, she and Meg would laugh and talk of their days at the Opera, reminiscing about the time that Sorelli lost her footing in the middle of La Traviata or the day Carlotta lost her voice from repeatedly screaming at the managers. On bad days, she hardly left the bed, sleeping for hours on end until another bout of nauseating headaches made it too difficult for her to rest.
Meg enjoyed taking time off from her work to visit with her friend, but Erik's obvious avoidance of Christine worried her. Though she had heard at least part of their late-night argument about the dance, she dared not bring it up. The masquerade ball had become a taboo subject neither of the girls was willing to touch, Christine unsure of whether she even wanted to go now that Erik had so rudely rejected the invitation, and Meg feeling incredibly guilty for having given her the idea in the first place, squirming in discomfort whenever both parties were present in the room.
Madame Giry surveyed the entire affair with a sort of detached coolness, refusing to take sides on the issue or cause any further disturbance, but while she did not voice her opinion aloud, her disapproving frown whenever Erik came home glaring daggers was enough to let him know that she was not happy with the situation, his cold civility toward Christine during a few brief unavoidable encounters having done nothing to improve the girl's rapidly deteriorating condition.
All in all, it was a quiet week. There was no arguing, no shouting, no tears…but neither was there warmth or affection. Christine realized, then, that she had come to take Erik's love for granted; she felt more a prisoner now than she ever had within the lair. Even at his very worst at the Opera House in Paris, she had always known somewhere deep inside that his actions, horrible though they might have been, were somehow in his mind a manifestation of love. Even in the year that they had spent apart, his love had been present in her heart. But now that familiar presence was gone, replaced by an attempt to shield all of his emotions from the world. It was almost as if he was trying to force himself not to love her—and if Christine hadn't known any better, she might have believed it—but she knew now that such a feat was impossible. She had tried to forget him as well and failed miserably in doing so. They were destined to love each other, it seemed, but not to be together as they would have liked. Somehow life always seemed to get in the way.
xxxx
Christine nervously fidgeted with her mask as the carriage pulled up in front of Webster Hall, the silvery beads dangling underneath each eye tickling her cheeks as she fussed over the white spray of feathers that sprouted from the center. Despite her anxiety about attending the masked ball after the argument with Erik, Meg's infectious excitement had eventually gotten the best of her, and after several days of being cooped up in the apartment, she was more than ready for an excuse to get out of the house. But as they stepped out onto the street, she became anxious again.
"I don't know, Meg…. What if I fall again or start feeling ill and we have to leave the party early? I don't want to ruin the evening."
"Well, you're definitely going to ruin it if you have that attitude," Meg teased. "Come on, Christine! When was the last time you went dancing?"
Christine's face suddenly fell. There was a distant look in her eyes. "A little over a year ago," she whispered, "at the New Year's masquerade ball…in Paris…."
Had it really been that long ago, she wondered? It seemed like only yesterday she had been dancing in Raoul's arms, dreaming of a future which she no longer had, whispering of love that she knew nothing of. She had been a child then, a foolish, selfish child who had acted carelessly with the hearts of two men and ended up breaking both because she was not strong enough to choose. They were all to blame, she supposed—Erik for his deception, Raoul for his misplaced good intentions, and she for her indecisiveness. They had put her in a difficult position before she had been ready, and the combined pressures of her rise to stardom and her personal life had simply been too much. She had never meant to hurt either of them, of course, but the heart cannot be compromised, and in the end she had made the wrong decision. Now that she knew what she should have done, was it too late?
She had hoped that this time things might have gone differently, that it might have been her chance to start anew. She imagined Erik in his Red Death costume, a long red cape sweeping the floor behind him as he descended the stairs, looking longingly into her eyes as he had that night. If only she hadn't been wearing that ring around her neck…if only her heart had been strong enough to see the suffering behind the anger and the threats…where would they be now?
Meg frowned. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that up…."
Christine shook her head sadly. "It's not your fault he didn't want to come." She shrugged, giving her friend a small smile. "I thought it was a good idea." She rubbed her bare arms, shivering. "It's freezing out here! I hope it's warmer inside!"
Meg nodded. "Let's go."
The ballroom was already crowded by the time they stepped inside. A thousand brightly colored costumes, each one feathered or bejeweled, filled the dance floor from the fireplace in the back to the refreshment table in the front. Some were sipping wine by the fireside, gossiping about the latest fashions and faux pas. Others were mingling with the crowd, catching up with old friends they hadn't seen in ages and laughing at how ridiculous they looked. A few simply stood by themselves, unsure of whether they should join the fray or simply stand aside until they found a dancing partner for the night. In the far left corner of the room, a small group of musicians had gathered, each man testing his instrument to ensure it was in tune.
A sudden voice from behind startled Christine out of her survey of the room.
"Meg Giry, is tha' you underneath all those feathers?"
Both girls turned to face the man who had addressed her. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with vibrant orange hair and smiling blue eyes. He was wearing a gold-colored suit and matching mask with a fiery sun peeking out over his right eye. Christine raised an eyebrow, giving Meg a knowing smile. It was no accident that their costumes matched.
Meg blushed deeply. "Hello, Jeffrey. What are you doing here? I thought you said you couldn't come."
"Change o' plans," he smiled. "I had a hard time findin' the costume at the last minute, but I wanted to surprise you."
He had a hint of an Irish lilt that made it a bit difficult for Christine, who was still learning English, to understand all of his words. Nevertheless, she found his voice surprisingly pleasing and thought he would make an excellent tenor if given the proper vocal training.
Meg turned to face her. "Christine, this is Jeffrey. He's one of the chorus singers for the upcoming production of Faust. I would have introduced you to him on Sunday—he's usually in the choir—but he wasn't able to be there this week. He's my…well," she blushed again, "we've been…courting." She turned back to the young man. "Jeffrey, this is my best friend, Christine. She just arrived from Paris here last week."
He took her hand, politely kissing the back of her white glove. "A pleasure to meet you, Christine. I've 'eard you're quite the little songbird yourself! You should come audition for the next production if you're plannin' on stayin' for awhile."
Meg gave her an apologetic smile. Though she had informed him of her friend's former prestige—leaving out, of course, the details regarding a certain phantom—she had not mentioned the frailty of her current health.
Christine merely shrugged it off, smiling at the memory of Erik's fantasy of her returning to the stage. "I'm not sure I'll be here that long," she answered honestly, "but I'll certainly consider it."
Just then, the music started up, and the crowd began to clear away, leaving the floor open for the dancers. Jeffrey offered Meg his hand.
"May I 'ave this dance?"
Meg glanced briefly at Christine, unsure of whether she should leave her friend alone when she had no partner of her own. Christine just laughed, playfully shooing her away.
"Go have fun, Meg. I'll catch up with you later."
xxxx
Erik ran his thumb over the smooth glass surface of the pocket watch in his hand, watching as the seconds ticked away. For the many years he'd spent beneath the Opera House, time had been irrelevant. In a world of darkness where the sun never rose or set, the hours merged into the days and days merged into years. When he first returned to the surface world, it had been difficult for him to adjust to a society where men worked strictly by the clock and punctuality was praised. He had never truly realized the value of a moment's peace and quiet until he came to understand just how scarce such a privilege often was. Even in Persia, though time was kept, it seemed to have passed slower. But New Yorkers were fast-paced, with a no-nonsense sort of attitude that gave him the impression that they probably knew exactly how long it took to drink a cup of tea down to the second. It was an admirable quality, he supposed, but it seemed to him that the more time-conscious one became, the less he came to value what little time he did have with the ones who meant the most—an affliction to which he now realized that he was not immune. Every second that ticked by was another second off her life, another breath she'd never take, another heartbeat closer to her last. Time measured in heartbeats somehow seemed more important than the little black second hand let on. It was 11:03. Precisely two hours and three minutes since the masquerade ball had begun. He wondered what Christine was doing right now….
"You've been staring at that watch every five minutes for the past two hours." Madame Giry took a seat on the sofa beside him, a steaming cup of tea in her right hand. She took a sip. "Why don't you go?"
"I can't." His eyes never left the clock.
"Why not? Because your pride will not allow it? Erik, are you really so selfish that you would deny what very well may be Christine's dying wish?"
Erik glared. "You know that is not the case. I would do anything for her," he whispered.
"Then go. She obviously wants you to be there or she would not have invited you."
He scoffed. "Do you honestly think she still wants to see me there? After the way I reacted?"
Madame Giry gave an exasperated sigh, setting down her tea. "Erik, you know that I consider you a friend—family even. You have many good qualities despite your faults—your attempts to honor Christine's wishes and her virtue are evidence of that." She crossed her arms. "But you are, without a doubt, the most stubborn man that I have ever met."
"You know, I've killed people for saying less than that." His tone was serious, but the slight curve of his lips suggested otherwise.
The ballet mistress returned the smile. "Yes, I know. I've had to bail you out of things more than once."
He was quiet for a moment. "Thank you."
Though he had often thought the words, he'd never spoken them aloud.
Madame Giry smiled. "You'd have done the same for me."
Erik merely nodded. There were few who he could honestly say he'd risk everything for, but Antoinette was one of them. He closed his eyes.
"I can't lose her," he whispered. "Whether by her will or by her God's, she will leave me again." He looked up. "I can't go to the ball tonight because I know that if I get the chance to hold her, I'll never be able to let her go." He laughed bitterly. "Besides, I have no costume. What would I go as? Myself? 'The Phantom of Manhattan' doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?" [2]
Madame Giry frowned thoughtfully. After a moment of hesitation, she stood and began walking toward the bedroom. She turned and held up a hand when she heard him start stand.
"Wait here."
Momentarily, she returned with a box in her hands. She held it out to him. Noticing the question in his gaze, she gave a quick nod.
"Open it."
He did so with caution, removing the lid with the utmost care and setting it aside. He gasped when he saw what was inside. With a trembling hand, he reached into the box, pulling out a stack of papers he had thought long gone—drawings of Christine, snags of poetry he'd written, bits and pieces of musical scores, a rough draft of some of the songs from Don Juan Triumphant—and beneath the papers….
"Red Death," he whispered. "My masquerade ball costume." He looked up. "You've had this all this time? Why did you never show it to me before?"
"I didn't know if you were ready. After the mob was gone, I salvaged what I could—what I thought would be important to you. I kept waiting for the right time to give it to you, but the box held so many memories that I wasn't even sure if you would want to look inside."
He fingered the red and gold fabric of the shirt. "It's too late to go now. There's less than an hour left."
He was grasping at straws now, and he knew it, looking for any possible valid excuse to avoid going. Madame Giry knew it too.
"Better late than never."
Erik sighed. I should have seen that one coming.
Reluctantly, he stood. He had really hoped it wouldn't have come down to this. "Then I suppose," he admitted, "that only one problem remains."
Madame Giry put her hands on her hips, skeptical. "And what problem might that be?"
Erik closed his eyes, his jaw tightening at the confession. "I don't know how to dance."
xxxx
Before Raoul had come into her life, Christine had always been a bit of a wallflower. She was incredibly shy until one got to know her, and her timid personality combined with the polite hesitancy to interrupt often found her alone without a dance partner. So she was not surprised to find herself once again standing quietly by the punchbowl, absentmindedly sipping at her drink and staring at the other dancers with a mixture of longing and relief. Even if one of the men here did ask her for a dance, she wasn't sure she'd be able understand him…and there was really only one man she wanted to dance with tonight. She sighed. The headache was coming back again, and the hour was getting late. She was just about to consider catching a cab back to the apartment when a familiar smiling face framed with blonde curls emerged from the crowd, hand in hand with a certain Irishman.
"Christine, why aren't you dancing?" Meg demanded. "Surely someone has asked you for a dance?"
Christine shook her head. "It's fine, Meg." She tried to smile.
Meg frowned. "You're still waiting for him, aren't you?"
"The night isn't over yet," she protested weakly.
Meg bit her lip. It was nearly 11:30. If the former Phantom had not yet arrived, she highly doubted that he ever would. She gave her friend a sympathetic look.
"You can dance with Jeffrey for awhile if you like. I'm sure he wouldn't mind." She glanced briefly at her dance partner, who gave a nod and smiled.
"O' course," he answered. "It would be m' pleasure."
Christine smiled. "Thank you, Jeffrey, but that's really not necessary. I'd rather you and Meg enjoy your time together tonight."
He nodded, understanding. "Well, whoever 'e is, 'e ought tah be strung up for standin' up a beautiful lass such as yourself." He smiled. "Why, if 'e was 'ere, I'd—"
"You'd what, Jeffrey?"
Christine froze at the familiar voice. She turned slowly to face him, afraid that it must have been some trick of her mind. But when at last she met his gaze, he did not disappear.
"You came," she breathed.
Erik offered her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry I'm late."
Dressed in the Red Death costume she so vividly remembered, he cut an imposing figure. From the frightening skull mask that covered the entire upper section of his face to the black boots that added at least another two inches to his already impressive height, he was certainly a sight to behold. The red velvet and gold trimming were as bright as the day that they had first been worn, giving him the appearance of a nobleman or king. Already he had attracted the attention of more than a few passing single ladies, and Christine couldn't help but feel slightly angry with the women who were so obviously superficial. They thought him handsome now, of course, but would they if they knew the truth? She was ashamed to think that she had once been like them, looking on the outward appearance of a man to judge his inward character. Erik had many flaws—internal as well as external—but she could now see that he was more than just his scars. If only he would give her another chance to show him how she felt….
Erik turned back to Jeffrey, who had flushed the color of a tomato. "I do hope you won't 'string me up' before the performance next month. I think the manager should be present for opening night, don't you?"
"Erm…uh…Y-yes, sir."
Erik chuckled softly at the boy's discomfort at having been caught. He glanced at Meg, who was trying not to laugh at her suitor's obvious blunder and guiltily avoiding her supposed uncle's gaze.
"I apologize for interrupting," he said, "but I'm afraid I must steal a certain angel away for the night." His eyes flickered to Christine before looking back at the young Irishman. "Don't keep her out too late, Jeffrey. I want the both of you to be well-rested come Monday for the rehearsals."
"Yes, sir."
Taking Christine's hand, he noticed the other couple start to leave. He called after them.
"Oh, and Jeffrey?"
The young man glanced back over his shoulder.
Erik gave him a bemused smile. "Mind your tongue before you go making any more empty threats. That's going get you into trouble, and I'd hate to lose my best aspiring tenor."
The Irishman grinned sheepishly.
Erik shook his head as he watched the two of them depart.
"Meg seems to really like him," Christine observed. "He appears to be quite the gentleman from what I've seen."
"He's a good boy," Erik affirmed.
Though his primary concern had always been Christine, throughout the years, Meg had earned his respect and had often been the recipient of his protective intervention at the Opera Populaire—whether she realized it or not. Potential suitors were no exception. But Jeffrey had proven to be surprisingly likeable.
"His voice needs a little work before he's ready for any of the larger roles," he added, "but I could certainly see him accomplishing such a goal by the end of the season."
"What changed your mind?" Christine suddenly asked. She blushed when she noticed his surprised expression. "I-I mean I'm glad that you're here, but I thought…."
He sighed. "I was a fool, Christine. I knew you never meant any harm by the invitation. In all honesty, I'm flattered that you even asked. But after what happened the other night, I…." He closed his eyes. "I tend to jump to conclusions when I am…out of sorts. I look for cruel intentions where there are none." He took both her hands in his and looked into her eyes. "Can you forgive me?"
She smiled slowly. "In exchange for a dance."
Erik's face fell. "Then I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."
Her brows knit in confusion.
"Please don't misunderstand me," he added hurriedly. "It isn't that I do not wish to dance with you so much as that I cannot."
Christine shook her head. "I don't understand."
He sighed again, licking his lips nervously. "I have never danced with a woman before."
Christine blushed again, remembering the feel of his hands drifting over her body the night they had performed on stage together. "What about Don Juan?"
"Don Juan is a fictional character whose every move was choreographed for him," he reminded her.
"But didn't you plan the choreography?"
"Indeed. But dancing for an audience and dancing for pleasure are two very different things. Ballets, operas—those are things I understand, things I have lived and breathed for the majority of my life. But when it comes to waltzes and other such social dances, I'm afraid my knowledge and experience is severely lacking."
"I could teach you if you like," she offered shyly.
Erik hesitated, his eyes darting briefly to the back of the room where the orchestra was still playing. The old grandfather clock in the corner showed that it was less than ten minutes until midnight, when the ball officially ended. If he was going to dance with her, it was now or never, and he wanted it to be something memorable.
"Would you excuse me for a moment, Christine?"
She nodded, slightly disappointed. That hadn't been the response she was expecting.
Reluctantly, he let go of her hand. "I should only be a moment," he reassured her.
Christine tried to follow him with her gaze, but she soon lost sight of him amid the crowd. Despite the high-heeled shoes that she was wearing, she was still too short to see over all the dancers' heads, their brightly colored costumes blending into a shifting sea of colors that made it difficult to pick out an individual. But Erik was true to his word, and a few minutes later, he returned.
"Where did you go?" she asked curiously.
"I needed to speak with someone."
Suddenly, the mood of the music shifted, the gentle tinkling of piano keys joining the soft hum of the strings. The melody was unfamiliar yet so entrancingly beautiful that she quite nearly forgot her dancing partner had returned until he offered her his hand.
"Shall we?"
He led Christine out onto the dance floor where she positioned his right hand behind her back as she put her left hand on his shoulder, blushing at the closeness of their bodies. She noticed a slight wince when she moved his arm but decided to remain quiet on the matter, resolving to speak with Madame Giry about her concerns on the way to church the following morning.
The chatter of the crowd died down as a singer joined the orchestra for the last performance of the night. [3]
You're in my arms
And all the world is calm
The music playing on for only two
So close together
And when I'm with you
So close to feeling alive
Erik's heart was pounding. Through the fingers of his glove, he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the thin black leather the only thing separating his hand from the bare skin of her upper back. He knew he should be watching the other dancers, watching his own feet to make sure he didn't miss a step…but he couldn't take his eyes off of Christine.
A life goes by
Romantic dreams will stop
So I bid mine goodbye and never knew
So close was waiting, waiting here with you
And now forever I know
All that I wanted to hold you
So close
This was the song that he had written for her the night of her arrival in New York…and now they were dancing to it! Dancing just like a couple, just like he had always dreamed they would, the Devil and the Angel waltzing hand in hand…. There was no choreography this time, no romantic plot that she had been forced into or characters that she had been forced to play. Now there was just Christine, dancing willingly in his arms. And the emotion that suddenly swelled within his heart was almost overwhelming.
So close to reaching that famous happy end
Almost believing this was not pretend
And now you're beside me and look how far we've come
So far we are so close
She spun as he extended his left arm, her dress sweeping the ground as she glided across floor, but the sudden movement seemed to trigger another one of her dizzy spells. She started to stumble, gasping softly as Erik caught her in his arms before she had the chance to fall, pulling her close again. He held her there for a moment, leaning over her and looking deep into her eyes, but she turned her head away, blushing, before he had the chance to see what she was thinking.
Oh, how could I face the faceless days
If I should lose you now
We're so close
To reaching that famous happy end
And almost believing this was not pretend
Let's go on dreaming for we know we are
The masquerade was coming to an end. From somewhere in the back of the room, the old grandfather clock could be heard beginning the first of many chimes announcing the hour. Couples around the room began removing their masks to seal their last dance with a kiss.
So close…
He felt Christine's fingers brush lovingly against his cheek, her thumb gently rubbing the edge of the mask, and his heart suddenly clenched in fear. Would she expose him here as she had on stage? Would she kiss him when it was off? Would the humiliation be worth it if she did?
So close…
She surprised him by doing neither. Instead, she gave him a small, apologetic smile and slowly let her hand return to his shoulder, closing her eyes and leaning her head against his chest.
And still so far…
A flood of relief washed over him, followed by a twinge of disappointment. Even here, it seemed, amid a sea of masked faces, he could never be a normal man. He could never be the man that she deserved. And so, blinking back the tidal wave of emotions assaulting his heart, he did the one thing that he could do and held her close in an embrace for as long she would let him.
[1] Webster Hall actually did exist in the 1800s and often hosted dances and other social functions, such as masquerade balls. However, I have no idea what the inside of the building looked like in the 1800s, so I'm just making up the description of the ballroom.
[2] Yes, I'm poking fun at The Phantom of Manhattan, which if I understand correctly was the basis for Love Never Dies. From what I understand, LND was actually an improvement from the book. I try to be open-minded, but when a book's summary suggests that the Phantom actually forced himself on Christine, I have no desire to read it. Erik may be capable of many things, but rape isn't one of them.
[3] The song used in this chapter is "So Close" by John McLaughlin from the soundtrack to Disney's Enchanted.
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