A/N: Okay. Don't say it. I know. I know, okay? It's been over a year since I updated this. And I'd do shout-outs for the last batch of (increasingly desperate) reviews, but they'd be rather redundant, so I'll just hurl out a random "Thank you!" followed by a down-on-bended-knees, hands-clasped "I'm so, so sorry..."
So. After that horrendously unacceptable wait, I'm afraid this chapter isn't even that good. But I promise you, the next one will be much better, as we finally get to the moment you've been waiting for. This is just some preamble, and very little E/C dialogue. And please, believe me when I say I'll get the next one out a lot faster. This story is not forgotten, just slightly dormant...
Christine's addled brain tried to make sense of what her eyes were telling her, whilst her heart told her something else entirely. Somehow, she had completely lost control of the situation, and didn't have a clue what to do. She knew what she'd seen before in his eyes, and yet now, Erik was trying to convince her of the exact opposite. He had never been able to conceal anything from her, but, suddenly, he was succeeding in blocking her out and keeping her as far away from him emotionally as he possibly could.
She wondered if her total confusion was obvious on her face, and performed a mental check to make sure her mouth really hadn't dropped open; it hadn't. Thank heaven for small mercies, she thought. At least she still appeared to look reasonably intelligent, even if her mind was reeling from Erik's conflicting signals. The absolute cold nonchalance of his gaze chilled her to the bone, and she struggled to understand what might have caused this sudden change. Frantically, she thought over their most recent exchange, trying to work out what she could have said to provoke it. Nothing was apparent. As the silence loomed large between them, all Christine could do was sit and think what she could possibly say to him, fighting the suddenly overwhelming urge to merely give up.
The Vicomte's carriage was a perfectly adequate size to accommodate three people, but Meg was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic. Raoul and Marie had seated themselves opposite her at the back of the carriage, at either end of the cushioned seat, whilst Meg herself was sitting in the middle of the other seat, going backwards. A small window directly in her line of vision showed the road previously travelled, and her own hastily abandoned home vanishing around the corner.
Both pairs of eyes bored into her, silently questioning. The driver knew the way to the Opéra, of course, but Meg was expected to lead the way back to the underground lair, as Raoul, driven forward by fear of losing Christine, had barely registered his surroundings at the time. Since Erik's reappearance, Meg and her mother had learnt the route to his house through the underground passages from the Rue Scribe, a journey that took only a few minutes. The more circuitous route the mob had taken – as well as Meg herself that first time – took far longer.
She was beginning to feel as though she might be interrogated, especially given the secrets she knew. She wondered if Raoul already knew what she'd been trying to conceal for all those years, and if he might suddenly begin to question her about it. How much did Marie know of that year? How much had she been told?
Meg swallowed her nervousness, and sat firmly on her hands to stop herself from fidgeting. It wouldn't do to show her anxiousness about the situation. She'd agreed to help them, certainly, but somewhere in her heart she felt a traitor for betraying Christine in such a manner, just as her conscience kept on telling her that aiding Raoul in his quest was the greater cause. All she could hope to do was delay the inevitable as long as she could, and hopefully give Christine enough time to do what she needed to do.
Raoul seemed to sense her discomfort. "I'm sorry to put you in such a position, Meg. I realise your loyalty to Christine has made this decision difficult."
She tried not to let the indecision show on her face. "You are not putting me to any trouble," she said. "I'm sure you're only thinking of Christine's best interests, and I have to admit, I'm as worried as you are." Mentally, she cringed, knowing that Christine would have chastised her for saying that.
"You do remember the way, don't you?" he asked, brow furrowed. Meg said nothing, in case her voice betrayed her in her half-truths. "You're my only hope now."
Once more, her conscience intervened. "Yes, Monsieur. I remember the way."
"Good," said Marie, speaking for the first time since they'd entered the carriage, "because I do believe we're almost there."
Meg felt herself go cold. She shuffled across the seat to the window, pushed aside the curtain, and strained to look behind her. The Opéra loomed through the sheets of torrential water, its green roofs harsh against the grey sky and its golden angels all the more sparkling from the rain. Its beauty struck Meg instantly, as it had done so many times in her youth, and a bleak desperation filled her soul.
Erik was a fool, and he knew it. They had been on the absolute brink of something beyond his wildest dreams, and inherent fear and stubbornness had ruined everything. He should have shut her out right from the start, before she managed to corner him in such a way; she'd learnt some new tricks over the years, that much was certain. How much of that had she learnt from him, he wondered, and how much had been born of necessity to get her own way with that stubborn Vicomte?
He sat not three feet from her, in absolute conflict: hoping beyond hope that Christine might break through once more, yet at the same time wishing she would leave him in his misery, to languish for another fifteen years without her. He wasn't sure which of those options he feared the most. Could he honestly let her go now, having seen her again? Could he release her once more to the arms of his rival, and tell himself it was for her own good, when her being here proved the exact opposite? He doubted it. But to contemplate any other, happier foreseeable future was too terrifying.
Erik had spent a lifetime without love, and had become accustomed to it; but Christine's presence stirred in him that almost unfamiliar yearning from fifteen years ago, when she had first drifted into his world. Honestly, he mused, she had never really left. He realised that much now, that every opening night she'd performed had been for him, providing countless opportunities to end the charade. They were both equally to blame for the position they were now in. Erik himself had certainly not made matters any easier, however.
Christine was looking away from him, now, no longer trying to read his thoughts, and he let out a silent breath. Trying to force such coldness into his gaze had been difficult enough; maintaining the expression would have been nearly impossible, not to mention exhausting. She stared, emotionless, into the fireplace, and did not move for several seconds. Then, silently, she rose, brushed the creases from her blue dress, and bent to retrieve her now-dry shoes from the hearth, where Erik had laid them only a few hours ago.
At that moment, in a deafening silence that seemed to stretch for centuries, Erik felt what he had hoped would only be a once-in-a-lifetime sensation – that of his heart snapping neatly in two.
Fumbling with keys, when one knew exactly which one to use, was not as easy as it appeared to be. The rain, however, helped immensely, making the metal slippery to handle with her cold fingers, and causing Meg to drop the bunch on two occasions and have to start again. Luckily, Raoul seemed not to notice her stalling, and his irritation was more caused by his desire to get inside out of the rain.
"Are you certain, Miss Giry, that you even have the correct key?"
Meg pondered for a moment how much time they could gain if she made them drive back under the pretence of not having it, then decided against it. That would only make him suspicious, not to mention annoyed. "Yes, sir. I do have it." Another wrong key. "I'm sorry; I'm just so flustered."
After a few more failed attempts, however, Meg had to concede defeat and unlock the door. It creaked open into the darkened foyer; Meg stepped inside at Raoul's courteous gesture, followed by Marie and Raoul himself, and the door closed once more, plunging them into darkness, and blocking out the pounding of the rain.
Raoul peered into the blackness and tried to get his bearings. They had agreed on the journey not to bother lighting up the entire building, as, for starters, it might alert Erik to their presence, and they weren't entirely sure if the cellars were electrified. They'd brought along two gas lamps instead, which Marie hastily lit, casting eerie yellow light around them, but doing nothing to dispel the darkness.
"Well, Meg. Lead the way." Raoul gestured ahead of him, and handed her one of the lamps. She took it with a slight nod, and set off towards the multitude of rehearsal rooms and backstage areas, part of her hoping that she might accidentally get them lost. If all else failed, she could use the darkness to her advantage; she knew that Raoul had frequently managed to lose his bearings around the backstage passages, whereas she knew them intimately. She had played here as a girl, chased the other dancers through the building during her younger days when her mother gave them a break from the arduous rehearsals, and knew the maze of corridors like the back of her hand. She would do everything in her power to buy Christine as much time as possible.
The only thing in Raoul's direct line of vision was the back of Meg's head, and the area that the gas-lamp lit ahead of them. It seemed he was already taking for granted the luxury of electric lights, having forgotten how bad visibility could be, especially in the stuffy corridors of the Opéra. Marie had been oddly quiet since they had left the Giry residence, to the extent that he was beginning to think she knew something he didn't. He dared not question her, though; he had laid his hope on Meg, and if Marie had any doubts, they would only confuse him even more.
He had no reason not to trust the Giry daughter. He had always considered her an honest soul, and a good and decent friend to Christine. If anyone had her best interests at heart, it was Meg… wasn't it?
As she fastened the tiny buttons on her ruined shoes, Christine focused all of her attention on the meniality of the task, rather than paying any heed to Erik. She could feel the desperation and utter despair emanating from his presence, and knew, even as she had risen to collect her shoes, that she was making a terrible mistake. No, she told herself. Don't think of it. He has made it clear what he wants you to do. Even so, it took nearly all of her will-power not to turn around and face him once more, even though she was certain she would see the truth in his eyes.
She rose once more and looked around the room, trying to find out where Erik had placed her cloak. Spotting it hanging near the door – or, at least, where she remembered his front door to be – she collected it, and wrapped it about herself in one swift movement. The dress she'd travelled in was still in her old room, but she suspected it was beyond redemption, the mud and dust from the catacombs ingrained and the hems all torn. To cross the room to fetch it would be more than she could bear, so she relinquished it. She owned other dresses; the loss of one wouldn't matter, especially as it would only serve to remind her of this day and her failed quest. She tied the cloak tighter, refusing to turn around or meet Erik's penetrating gaze as he watched her. It was then that she realised she had no earthly idea how she'd come in, as the exact location of the entrance had been lost to her blissful unconsciousness. She had planned to leave silently and without any fuss, disappear from his life without a word as if nothing had happened, but it was impossible.
In her hesitation, Erik grasped at one final chance. "Christine…" She still refused to turn; it would be easier on them both. Her stance, however, relaxed a little, and, even from behind her, Erik took the opportunity she was offering. She heard him rise, move around the sofa, and approach, coming to a half mere inches behind her. A mirror – which seemed oddly out of place in his home, and certainly hadn't been there before – revealed both of their reflections to her, as Erik raised a hand as if to touch her shoulder, then dropped it once more. Christine met own eyes only briefly, afraid of what might stare back – herself, or some heartless creature she did not recognise?
Erik shook his head in bitter defeat. "Go, if you must," he told her, gesturing slightly to the left, indicating the door was concealed behind some heavy draperies on the far wall. "But at the very least, grant me the simple courtesy of telling me why you came here."
Christine bowed her head, and stepped away towards the concealed door. She pulled the hood of her cape up over her hair, and then moved the draperies aside to reveal the hidden entrance – and subsequent exit – of Erik's domain.
This is wrong…
A bell rang: Erik's early alarm system on the other side of the lake. Raoul must have found out she was here, or perhaps worked out for himself her reasons for leaving. She had very little time left; she needed to get out and head Raoul off at the pass before he arrived. At the very least, she needed to get outside the house and pretend, when he arrived, that she had been unable to gain entry. She would feign confusion, and say nothing more of it. But how could she leave Erik like this now, believing God only knew what her reasons were for being here?
A/N: I warned you it sucked, right? I mean, nobody's going to frown because I misled you into believing it was actually decent? Good; just so we're clear. If you review, I promise it'll get better next time. :P