Thanks to all of you who reviewed. I try to respond to all comments, but I seem to have gotten behind this week. So, just know that I appreciate each and every one of your awesome reviews!
-0-0-
Late Summer 1841
Erik resisted the temptation to take too-quick an advantage of his new-found freedom, choosing instead to make short outings, enjoying the chance to stretch his legs and mentally putting together a list of hiding-holes to employ in the future.
In days he managed to gather more about the hospital and its staff than he had in the years spent in his cell.
It was on one of these intelligence-seeking missions that he stumbled across something both thrilling and terrible.
"Mme. Leclair, be reasonable. Surely we can—"
"No, doctor. I have had enough of this. Twenty years I have served here… assisted in dozens of your little experiments. Hundreds of the other procedures. I turned a blind eye year after year… but you have gone too far, and you continue to do so. I cannot be a part of this madness any longer!"
"Viviane…"
"No. Just… no. This has gone on long enough. My conscience cannot allow this."
"I see. And so you are determined to resign." A pause. "And then what? What will you do when you walk out this door."
"I… I think you know. I will… do as I must."
A long sigh. "Very well. Then you shall accept that I will do as I must."
"Doct—!" she began, but the noise was halted with a heavy thud.
Erik quickly dodged into a broom closet, willing his hammering heart to keep silent. He stayed there tucked away until he was sure the doctor had passed by… then he silently fled to his room and locked himself in.
An hour later there was a loud banging on every door as the guards made sure every patient was accounted for. Erik pressed his ear to the door, catching snippets of hurried conversation.
"…wants the entire building locked down now!"
"Summon the authorities at once! Tell them…"
"Vivian LeClair? Are you certain?"
"…dead. Found her in Buquet's cell with her throat slit."
"But how did he even—"
Erik jerked backward when his own door was pounded. He stepped back just enough that the guard could see him through the little window slit. When the viewing portal was snapped shut, he collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling and forcing his reeling mind to process all that had happened.
-0-0-
Winter 1864
Christine spent the majority of the day following Rose like a lost puppy. She didn't really know what else to do. She supposed she could stay in her room and cry some more, but after hearing the conversation outside her door, she was a little nervous that someone would just come in and drag her out, kicking and screaming… and that didn't seem at all appealing.
Besides that, she wasn't sure if she had any tears left. Her mother once told her that sometimes a good cry will make one feel better. Well that had done her little good; she'd cried all night long and now felt worse than ever.
She was numb with shock, suddenly feeling like a child lost in the middle of an ocean, confused and alone and helpless. The woman who, at first, frightened and repulsed her had become something of a lifeline in the darkness. So she meekly followed, did exactly what she was told – no more, no less – and did her best not to think.
Rose, for her part, seemed to take the clingy girl in stride. Countless young women had crossed her path over the years, all with different problems and histories, but underneath they were all the same – frightened, disoriented. They just needed a bit of guidance while they found their bearings.
Ah! But this one is not the same, is she? This woman is Erik's. He had made it abundantly clear to Rose, if not exactly in words, that this girl belonged to him… for some reason no one could fathom.
But, until the man decided what it was he wanted from her, she would stay under Rose's care. And then? Well… no thinking of that. Master Erik will do as he pleases.
Christine was shuffled from room to room as Rose gave her something of a guided tour. It was nothing like what she had been treated to that first ill-fated night. Rather than historical and architectural factoids, Rose's agenda seemed to be introducing her to as many people as possible.
"I do this every afternoon. I like to check on everyone… my daily stroll," she explained. Then with a soft chuckle added, "I would not want anyone to forget who I am!"
Rose trailed her fingers down the edge of the wall until they reached some sort of… arts parlor. There were easels everywhere and splatters of paint on the stone floor. It was mostly empty save for the sandy-haired man feverishly swiping a brush over his canvas.
"Jasper," Rose greeted with a smile. "I would like to introduce you to someone."
"A visitor?" he rasped, and Christine noticed the instant tension in his frame.
"Nothing like that, dear," Rose assured him. "She is one of us now."
"One of us, eh? Has she seen the doctor then?"
"Not exactly. Master Erik has brought her to us."
"Oh. Well that's different then, isn't it?"
Rose went on to introduce the two and offer a bit of idle chit-chat, after which Jasper gave an acknowledging head-nod and returned to his project.
As they left the room, Christine frowned as something bothered her. Everywhere else they'd gone, Rose had been greeted first. Briefly she entertained the idea of how exceedingly awkward it would have been just now if Rose had attempted to introduce her to an empty room.
"How did you know he was there?" she asked. She wasn't sure if it was particularly well-mannered to bring up Rose's blindness, but she was terribly curious about the woman's perception.
"He is always here, this time of day," she answered with a fond smile. "We thrive on order here; most of us, anyway. Order means security."
Christine scowled, feeling a thread of bitterness. "He must rule with an iron-fist then," she muttered.
Rose actually laughed. "Not that kind of security," she said. Sobering slightly, she added, "This is our home, Mlle. Daae and this is… what we do. Worry not, child, you will find your legs soon enough."
Christine did not know how to respond to that, and so she quietly trailed behind Rose as she floated to her next visit. Rose's words were confirmed again and again as each person she sought was found exactly where she'd expected them to be.
Christine had quickly come to realize that her presence made people extremely suspicious. Rose pretended not to notice, filling the sudden voids in conversation and altogether ignoring the way she shuffled uncomfortably in the corner to avoid accusing – or petrified – stares. Why is everyone always watching me? Rose's pretense (and it had to be a pretense; the woman noticed everything) did not seem to put anyone at ease, but Christine supposed that she might not be the best judge of these things. Everyone hereseemed off-kilter to her.
Eventually she took to standing outside the door whenever Rose was admitted to one of the private rooms. The hallways were interesting in a way she hadn't noticed before. There were no numbers on the doors like a proper public lodging – or names, if this was some sort of hospital, after all – but there were placards where such markers may have been placed at one time. It disturbed her; there was something distinctly off about this place, and she couldn't put her finger on it.
Until now, she had not noticed the direction of the doors, either. Most of the door handles were on the left, opening into the private rooms. However, a handful – her own, included – opened out into the hallway. They were backwards. The locks, her brain supplied. All those rooms can be locked from the inside… why does mine lock from the outside?
It was perplexing, that much was certain. Not the knowledge that she'd been locked in – that much she knew – but the fact that there seemed to be others in her predicament.
Since she wasn't sure how long her chaperon would preoccupied and, realizing the area was entirely vacant, she slowly treaded down the hallway, idly drawing her fingers along the wall as she had seen Rose do. Although she did not need the texture to guide her, she found the sensation somewhat calming.
Upon reaching the first locked door, she took a deep breath and peeked inside. The tiny window in the door was bare, lacking the convenient privacy curtain that she had. Small blessings…
A man sat on his cot staring at the wall. He was a little scruffily – with wild hair and the beginnings of a patchy beard on his face – and was clothed in the same, odd nightclothes that she'd seen some of the other occupants in.
The room itself was sparse – more so than the others – with nothing but a small cot and mattress, devoid of sheets. It was smaller than hers, with a simple chamber pot instead of an adjoining washroom. Really, it seemed more like a cell than a bedroom. Why would a mansion even have rooms such as this?
She followed the man's gaze to the blank wall and noticed it was heavily scratched and, in some places, bore the imprint of chains. Near the top and down by the floorboard, there were dark spots that indicated that nails or screws had been forcibly removed.
What had happened – or was happening – to that poor man?
Her mind took in the evidence, considered his locked door against her own, and the question suddenly translated: What will happen to me?
Without warning the man turned his head and snarled at her. In a blink – before she even had time to process the look – he flew at the door, pounding his fists against it with a roar and glaring at her with eyes that could only be described as… empty.
She squeaked and jumped back, heart pounding.
Christine jerked almost violently when she felt a cool hand grasp her elbow. She whipped around; Rose was right behind her and, though the woman's face seemed concerned, the grip on her elbow was almost painfully firm.
"Oh there you are, mademoiselle!" the older woman exclaimed, pleasantly, releasing her elbow with a pat. The tense moment had vanished so quickly Christine wondered if she'd imagined it. She tried to glance back at the window but the angry face was no longer pressed against it. I am losing my mind! "I thought I'd lost you! Come along… or would you prefer to do something else?"
"No…" Christine answered softly, "No, I am coming… I just… sorry. Coming."
Rose chuckled and looped her arm through Christine's. "No need for apologies, dear. You have had a taxing morning; I'm sure I can find it in my old heart to forgive a little absent-mindedness."
"There are many more people here than I thought," Christine noted as she allowed herself to be tugged down the hall.
"Of course there are. There used to be more but…" a shadow crossed Rose's face, followed by a frown as she attempted to remember what about that troubled her. Shrugging off the moment of bewilderment, Rose smiled brightly, "Ah, well, you will see some familiar faces soon… it's almost supper."
"I do not want to eat," Christine said, mentally cringing at how petulant that sounded.
"Dear child," Rose said, gently, "I do not think you know what you want. Trust me for now, yes? At the very least, take some tea. Erik would not be pleased if you had an empty stomach when you sing for him this evening."
"No…" Christine whispered, horrified. Surely she could not be expected to go back there… not willingly. Madness.
Rose treated Christine's stunned protest with a dismissive hum before she knocked and entered one of the private rooms. "How is the new baby today, Michelle?" was all Christine heard before the door clicked closed.
She leaned against the wall and knocked her head against it. Erik? Was she honestly expected to go to him and continue their… whatever it was they did… as if nothing had happened? Was everyone determined to act as if nothing had changed? Everything had changed! How was she meant to act today as she had yesterday?
Christine felt her knees sag a little, but pushed herself back. She could fall apart in her room, later. Right now she was too wary to relax, couldn't shake the feeling that she might have to flee at any moment.
The light tapping of footsteps drew her attention down the hall, where she discovered the very person she'd wished to avoid.
"Why do you insist upon this, Master Erik?" asked an unfamiliar voice. The murmured response was too low to make out, but the voice was clearly his.
Erik and another man exited one of the backwards doors and went across the hall to another. While Erik unlocked the door and quickly went inside while the other man fiddled with the satchel in his hand. He withdrew something shiny – a knife? – and a bottle of something that Christine did not recognize. He wrapped both in a towel and followed Erik into the room.
What is going on? She wondered. Her body jerked as she went to follow and immediately thought better of it. Perhaps she did not want to know what was happening. Or risk angering the masked demon with her prying. Hers was a backwards door, too, after all.
Once Rose had completed her own visitation, Christine described to her what she had seen. The older woman did not seem alarmed in the slightest and with a serene smile, answered, "It is not for us to know what Erik is up to. He is the Master here and, though you do not admit it, you must never forget it."
Christine scowled but said nothing more on the subject. She did refuse to admit it… and it bothered her that others did not feel the same way. Why did they not just leave? She would in a heartbeat. Perhaps they were prisoners, as she was. But then, why were they so accepting? Why was he their master? What had made them so hopeless to do as they were told without question?
Then again… hadn't she just simply been doing as she was told?
The thought made her uncomfortable. As did the fact that, though there might be a man being tortured down the hall, she wasn't screaming with terror or outrage or… or feeling anything besides utter bewilderment. Maybe Rose will tell me what to do…
That seemed like a good idea.
-0-0-
Erik looked down impassively at the man sleeping on his cot. The sedative would wear off soon enough and his partner's handiwork was impeccable, as always. Remy would soon ask The Question. It was always the same question, the same answer… the man instigated the same conversation in every locked room, every week, without fail.
"Why do you insist upon this, Master Erik?"
"Because he is not an animal. And because you would be grateful for the same treatment, were your positions reversed."
There was a time when the repetition irritated Erik, but over the years he had come to accept that the man's behavior was not a sign of incompetence, but the effect of an addled mind. Much like Maurice the cleaner, Remy did his job, did it well, and cared for little else. He was content to do whatever Erik required him to do quietly, without question… except the one, but he seemed to care nothing about the answer so long as the wording was consistent.
And so Erik endured the exchange five times, every seven days, without variation.
"Why do you insist upon this, Master Erik?"
Erik had never considered himself a patient man, but he was a practical one, and so his level of tolerance had expanded accordingly.
Once Remy had cleaned and sharpened his tools, they moved on to the next room.
-0-0-
The rest of the afternoon seemed to drift by for Christine. She followed Rose around until she was pushed down into a chair at the dining room table. She picked at her food, taking bites only when she was instructed to. It seemed bland. Everything seemed bland… the people, the conversation, the lighting… like the world was made up of muted colors. She dreaded meeting him again tonight, but it seemed that, if she obeyed Rose and went through the right motions, she could avoid the feelings. She couldn't exactly forget about their upcoming music session, but she found she could stop thinking about it… as long she stopped thinking at all.
She had vague memories of her father's shadowed behavior during part of her early childhood. Just bits and pieces – him setting a plate of food in front of her and walking away without a word, vacantly reciting the same bedtime story night after night, and the noticeable absence of music in their home, which seemed incomprehensible at her young age.
I wonder if this was how Papa felt when Mama died? She thought. But she did not entertain the thought beyond that. Turn off your mind.
This was the state Erik found her in that evening.
At first he was alarmed and worried. He recognized the symptoms of shock; he had often seen accident victims behave thus.
He brought her to his desk and used a little, pocket mirror to shine light directly into each eye, closely examining her reaction. She remained perfectly still until he reached for her. He'd only wanted to reposition her head – likely she did not even know how much the simple gesture cost him – but she'd pulled away as if she'd expected him to strike her.
With a glare he shoved away from his desk and went to his piano. Based on her earlier behavior, he gathered this change was emotional in nature, which left him at something of a disadvantage. He did his best not to be insulted, but he'd been having difficulty controlling his own emotions lately.
"You will warm up your voice now," he told her, giving introduction to one of the vocalises he had taught her over the weeks.
When she did not enter as expected, Erik slammed a hand down on the piano and she jumped to attention.
"Sing!" he snapped. Her lip quivered and tears formed in her eyes. He felt a headache forming. Crying females…
"Sing, Christine," he coaxed, throwing his angelic voice behind her ear. Christine's head tilted slightly toward the sound, but she quickly turned back, giving Erik a wary look.
Softly… very softly… she began to sing.
"Keep going, Christine." He encouraged her, drove her higher and louder, switching exercises rapidly, hardly giving her the chance to breathe, much less think.
He didn't attempt make her sing any actual songs, though he had stacks of music he longed to hear her try. Duets, too, if only… But, no. Erik could not bear the thought of hearing beautiful music from some… crystal-throated puppet. Not today.
And so he pushed her, up and down scales – driving up and down sandy desert hills as he had with the priceless Arabian steed he'd stolen from the Shah Himself – just to the point of exhaustion and then a few steps further. Allowing only a split-second of recuperation before pressing on.
Anger and adrenaline drove them both forward. Christine tried to disappear, but each time her eyes went vacant, Erik changed pace and they focused again. He knew how difficult it was to fully detach one's mind in the face of such exertion. You can ignore pain… but you cannot ignore panic.
He raged at her behavior. Death, he thought angrily, pouring abuse upon the piano keys. The woman comes to me, dead. But I will not allow it! So help me, I will force life into you!
Frustration broke him as she reached her highest note. Something inside of him shattered. "Give me what you gave the old man!" he shouted.
She stopped abruptly. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she'd been running, and she attempted to catch her breath… but there seemed to be a glimmer of awareness in her eyes that had not been there when she arrived.
"Excuse me?"
"I will not!" he cried. "Not until you give me what I want."
"What do you want?"
"I want…" Your life. Give me your soul, Christine! "I want…"
With a long exhale, he forced the tension out of his balled-up fists. As he inhaled, he forced the tension out of his mind. Books, neatly on a shelf. Organized. Locks on the doors. Inaccessible.
When he spoke next, his tone was even. "Leave now. I no longer require your presence."
Christine's pulse raced. Was this her chance? "You… you are letting me go?"
Erik glared. "Return to your room."
"But… if I repulse you so, why keep me here? Take pity, sir… release me!"
"I keep you in my home because it suits my purposes to do so. But you are intruding upon my space. You will return to your own room now."
There it was again… that 'you will' statement of fact. And the fact that he just… threw her out… whenever he decided he was finished with her. Like a toy to be put on a shelf. But I suppose, she thought, remembering the battle of words he'd held with her father… I suppose that is all I am to him.
She would leave, of course, because she would like nothing better… but it chafed that he had ordered it.
Annoyed, that's what she felt as she slammed the door behind her. And it was an oddly freeing sensation. It was the first emotion she'd felt all day besides confusion and disbelief. She hated it… but she wanted more of it.
She left, again confused. But it was a different kind of confused… a good kind.
-0-0-
Gustave sat in the tavern below his small, rented room, hunched over his mug of ale, nursing the feeling of failure that grew in his breast. The police had been of little help… he should have expected as much. Perhaps, having refreshed himself with food and drink, he had been more emboldened than he'd had the right to be. He believed that telling the full story might make the authorities see the seriousness of the situation. Now, he began to suspect that he should have been more sparing with the details.
"Tell me again where this alleged event occurred."
"There is an asylum… out of town a ways. Surely you know of it."
"Sir, that establishment has not been in operation in years. Perhaps it was just a large house you saw. You, yourself, admit that you were quite ill."
"No! It was a… it was a hospital of some kind. I'm sure of it. I swear to you… you must believe me! My daughter has been kidnapped by… by a fiend!"
"But you told me she stayed willingly."
"No… well, yes, but…"
"Please try to understand my position here, monsieur. You say that you were treated in a hospital – or whatever you insist this facility to be – but could not afford the care. Your daughter agreed to work off your debt."
"Not 'work off'… I never said that. She is not under his employ. I do not know what the foul creature is doing to her. If only—"
"I just fail to see how this is a case of kidnapping."
"But—"
"I shall make a note of it in the log, M. Daae, and one of my officers will look into it. Until then, I suggest you go home and rest. Count yourself blessed to have a daughter who was willing to work to pay off your debt and to have had a caregiver who was willing to take service in exchange for coin."
He'd left with his confidence shattered. They'd made a half-hearted attempt to placate him by filing a report that they both knew would never be followed up on… but that was all. He should have said something differently… phrased things better. He felt like he had wasted his one and only chance at getting help for Christine.
Again and again, he relived the memory, thinking of what he could have said or done to make events turn out differently.
About the thirtieth time he did this, a large man took up the seat next to his. He looked like a ruffian and smelled even worse; he was crowding Gustave on his bench but, when he tried to scoot away, the man grabbed his elbow.
"Are you the violinist, Gustave Daae?"
He flinched, an unexpected pang of longing hit him as he remembered how long it had been since he'd played. His fingertips itched, wishing for his violin. Music, Christine… is everything lost to me, now?
When Gustave did not respond, the man cleared his throat. "There is a rumor that you are looking for someone." He continued, sipping his own drink casually.
"Yes. My daughter, Christine. But the authorities said – "
"Let me guess… they said they'd look into it and sent you on your merry way. Well they would say that, wouldn't they?"
"But they might still –"
"Come now… you cannot honestly believe that. Tell me, do you want your girl back or not?"
Now he had Gustave's undivided attention. "Can you help me?"
"I know someone who can. Look… there is a man who is in the business of finding people."
"She's not lost. I know where she is… I just need to –"
"Get her back, yes. And this man can do that too, for the right price."
Gustave looked suspiciously around the establishment. No one seemed to be looking; he leaned in further and continued the discussion in hushed tones. When the man told what fee to expect, he jerked back, hastily looking around once more.
"Knock that off!" the man hissed, smacking him upside the head. "People'll think you're up to something."
"Aren't we, though?" Gustave asked. "I don't know about this… I am not the sort of man to have underhanded dealings…"
"Do you want the girl back or not?"
"Of course I do! If the police were to find out –"
"Just think it over," he said, giving Gustave a firm clap on the back before sauntering back to his own table.
Gustave sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was too old for this. Of course, he did want Christine freed… but he was not completely naïve. The sort of man he had just been referred to could be found in just about every city – if one was willing to risk searching the very dregs of society – and they were all the same. He knew the type of activities those sorts of men got up to, and very little of it involved rescuing damsels in distress.
It was tempting… to retrieve his daughter and punish the man to took her. But… but he was not sure he was that desperate, just yet. Maybe I should try talking to the gendarmes again… perhaps if I go at a different time of day and speak with a different officer…
Not long after the gruff man left, the innkeeper's wife tapped him on the shoulder. "M. Daae," she said, handing him a crisp looking envelope, "This has arrived for you. The messenger did not wait for a reply."
With scarcely a nod in the woman's direction, Gustave opened the seal. Inside was a legal document of some sort. Quickly, he read over it. It was a standard service contract… one in which a Mademoiselle Christine Daae was employed to work as a servant under a Doctor Erik Rouen. Doctor, indeed! He scoffed. Perhaps the man knew medicine, but he was like no doctor he had ever seen! And Christine… a servant? He had seen the masked man's unholy interest in his daughter; it was hardly a new scullery-maid he was after.
Still, the contract looked official enough. The signature at the bottom was definitely not Christine's handwriting, but he suspected he'd be hard-pressed to convince anyone – much less, those useless police officers – of that.
When he turned over the envelope, a smaller scrap of paper fell out onto the table. Whatever it was, it had been hastily torn off another page, and the inscription was simple. In spiky script was the message:
"Do not attempt that again."
Gustave gritted his teeth in anger. The letter and the document were both crushed in one tightened fist, though he seemed not to notice. He settled his tab with Erik's coin and marched to his room… the room that Erik paid for. He packed Erik's clothes inside Erik's satchel. He emptied this little purse on his bed and counted the money. Though the hour was late, Gustave wasted no time in leaving.
Once, he'd felt insulted to have such charity forced upon him. But no longer. He would use the man's own money to destroy him.
-0-0-
Erik closed his eyes as he poured the bottle of antiseptic down the length of his arm. It was the only indication of pain he would permit, and only that because he was alone, with no witnesses peering at him with a snake's focus, eagerly waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness.
And he was feeling very weak, indeed. All day, he'd watched his little lamb trot trustingly beside Rose, as if the small woman could do a thing to protect her, if the need arose. Innocent creature, he thought, just doing as she's told because she's never learned to do anything else. It sincerely bothered him that she would so blindly place her fate in the hands of any random stranger if she thought it would loosen his grasp on her for even a second.
Can she truly despise me so much? Is such a thing possible? He remembered, then, the little slave girl in Persia who had decided she would rather die at the hands of the queen than lie with him - once! - and spend the rest of her life in luxury. So, yes, he supposed it was possible to hate someone so fervently. It did strike him as odd, though, since such a strong reaction would require some level of emotion toward the party.
So… she wasn't completely indifferent to him. That was something.
And he wasn't completely indifferent to her, either, which was why her words stung so.
Take pity, indeed! Erik had lost count of how many people had begged him for mercy. Sometimes it was granted, sometimes not… but only in accordance with his own agendas. Pity had never been a driving force. Not once. And yet, for the briefest of moments… Erik was actually tempted to give Christine what she wanted, simply because she'd asked. For one instant, Erik had been moved.
It bothered him, this sudden onslaught of humanity. But the discontent quickly translated to anger as he was reminded that the only time the girl had shown the slightest streak of independence in this entire, wretched day, was when she was attempting to leave him!
He was exhausted in every way. The woman's mere presence seemed to sap his energy. He was tired and grouchy and a little twitchy in his left eye.
And his arms hurt, which certainly didn't help. Soon after she'd left, Erik had made short work of destroying his bedroom. His glass display cabinets had met their untimely end to his bare fists before he wizened up and used a rusty pipe to take care of the rest. Not the most intelligent thing I've ever done, he admitted as he poured the searing alcohol down his other arm. It had been a long time since he'd let his temper get the better of him… and there were no browbeaten, royal eunuchs to clean up the mess this time.
All for the better, Erik decided. The fewer people who knew of his secret shame, the better. He rolled his shirtsleeves down over the bandages, pulled on a pair of tight gloves and went in search of a dust pan. He'd be sore for a few days, but nothing he couldn't manage. A small price if it meant no one had to see the type of man that bubbled under his cold exterior.