AN: Happy Holidays, guys! I'm sneaking in this chapter just before x-mas, hoping you guys will really enjoy it! Leave me a lil present in exchange, though...REVIEW!
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the PotO soundtrack (huzzah for early x-mas presents!)
She turned the gloves over in her hands. The dusting and vaccuuming had been done in the main hall, just in time for her to start dinner. But before she did that, she looked over the damage that the duster had caused the fine gloves. The gray dust streaks were clearly visible on the glowing white gloves, and she sighed. It had been an accident, sure, but it was only her first day! And...Erik had looked at her and as if she were no more than a flea. She'd never been on the receiving end of the phantom's apathetic gaze, she knew. Before, even a day ago, his eyes were full of emotion of some kind for her. That look hurt her more than any stern words might have.
No time for this now, she shook herself, I have to get supper on the table. She pocketed the gloves and went downstairs.
Irritated. That was the best way to describe Erik's mood. The mishap in the hall had only heightened the feeling. And what had possessed him to walk through the hall, knowing very well she'd be there cleaning? Maybe he'd just wanted to observe her and then slip past her undetected, but that damned duster had ruined it. Now he was gloveless, and trying to play over the sound of the vaccuum in the hallway. Dumb or not, she still made too much sound for his taste.
He hit a few keys in frustration, and gave up playing altogether. Instead he turned his attention to one of the catalogs the latest costume designer had sent over to his P.O. Box. Erik was always more enraptured with the sound in his plays than the beauty, but soon learned that both were absolutely necessary for it to be a masterpiece. Don Juan Triumphant had been a dark, seductive work and Erik had needed the characters to look the part. Now he was working on something new, a revival of The Tragedy of Medea, and he needed the designs to match his vision. The beautiful woman driven mad with love would not be a monster in his piece. If anything, she would cause everyone to grieve when she died. I'll make sure of that.
Thoughts of the new play took over his mind, and he didn't hear the vaccuum being turned off, or her steps down the stairs. It was only the sound of the grandfather clock striking the hour that roused him from his music.
Christine stirred the soup absent mindedly. Again, another note had been left by the master of the house. Split pea soup and biscuits. A glass of brandy after, in my study. And again, he displayed no form of kindness or a polite invitation to join him.
The timer on the over beeped at her, and she set the soup to cool off of te stove. With oven mitts, she brought out the tray of soft biscuits. Well, even now he's not expecting much of my cooking..., she mused and as she set a pad of butter on the tray, but I should start to look at some cookbooks and brush up just in case. But perhaps these simple cooking tasks were not just to test her abilities. He might have been displaying some kind of sympathy towards her when he expected only simple dishes from her.
And yet, I can't see him and as being that considerate... She ladled soup into a large bowl and set it on the serving tray before taking off into the dining room with it. Whether she was simply tired after this day or annoyed by his lack of feeling, she frowned and as she set the contents down on the table. What exactly was she suppose to do, when little was going in her favor on the first day?
With a little shrug she went away to fetch the brandy before she fixed her own dinner. She'd worry about cleaning the gloves later, since that would probably take longer to do. She noticed a little note over a small cabinet in his neat writing. Liquor cabinet. You're not 21, so don't abuse my trust.
He was certainly going to make it hard to warm up to him, wasn't he? She took out her little skeleton key and unlocked the cabinet. She didn't have much experience in spirits, but there were not massive quantities of the stuff here. Some mixes, all labeled, and then a crystal bottle drew her attention. Some caramel-colored liquid swirled inside and as she grasped it, and she guessed this was what he'd wanted. Grabbing a clear glass and the drink, she headed up to the study by way of the back stairs.
When the clock had finished striking the time, Erik realized that it was dinnertime. He set the design books aside and placed a hand to his head, suddenly realizing his gloves had come off. He was able to sense the rift between his wretched skin and the smooth mask, thanks to that girl's little mishap. His irritation returned full-force, and he sighed. He would definitely not be going down to supper by way of the main staircase. If he had to look at her dumbstruck, frightened expression again, he might lose all patience with her at once.
With his mask secured he left his music room and headed to the back stairs. He was not able to open the door to the stairwell when it swung open for him, and he found himself looking at the mute girl carrying his brandy and glass to the study. She looked up at him and nearly dropped what she was carrying. She managed to salvage the breakable bundle, but her eyes never left his face. Erik found himself even more annoyed at this and sighed audibly at her.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't gawk at me." He spoke in a tired voice, but retained all his irritation. First, the glove incident, and now she just kept staring! How jarring was the mask to her? She'd already seen it a few times, but she still looked at him with wide, studying eyes! If it was going to continue to bother her like this, hiring her might have been a pointless endeavor.
His chastisement seemed to work, because she quickly looked down in embarrassment. She opened her mouth and as if to say something, but closed it quickly. Again she raised her head shyly, and lifted a free hand to make a sign. I'm sorry. He shook his head and moved to the staircase behind her.
"I don't understand sign language, and it's probably not very necessary for us to communicate by any other way than a note now and then. Good night, Miss Daae." With that he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Christine shaking a little.
How dare he? She thought angrily and as she placed an old washboard in the kitchen sink full of warm, sudsy water. She pulled the white gloves from her apron and wanted nothing more than to throw them in the water and leave them there. Again the only side she was being shown of her 'good genius' was his arrogant, callous one. Without her scrambled memories, Christine doubted that she could have seen him and as anything other than a jerk.
She began to scrub the fine gloves and as she seethed. Slowly the warm water and fine, scented soap began to clear away the grime, leaving the gloves their pristine white color again. This is not what I wanted. Her heart seemed to beat in her ears and as she wrung the gloves dry. What did I want from him? What was I expecting when I found him again? She knew the answer, and pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. I wanted to be found. I wanted him to help me... I wanted to stop feeling so alone.
But it wasn't fair, and she knew that. None of this quite was. By all rights, she should have died in the accident with her parents. The only reason she hadn't had been the divine pact that had been made so long ago, and even that had come at a price. Erik owed her nothing, was completely out of this contract. It was she, Christine Daae, who had to accept the consequences of her decision. Hadn't those been the angels words? WHy can't the past just die...?
The first tear rolled easily off her cheek and into the water. A few more followed before she wiped at her tears with a soapy hand, still holding the gloves. But that doesn't mean this isn't painful. It doesn't mean I'm strong enough to be this lonely.
The soup had actually been quite good, to Erik's surprise. It hadn't grown cold while he was delayed, and he'd found it to taste. Erik had eaten in relative silence, noting with some discomfort that small noises were coming from the kitchen just beyond the dining room. In the quiet he could hear water filling the sink, and the slight scrub of material against the washboard.
Does she know that those gloves can't be washed with the ordinary detergent? He remembered he hadn't given her any instruction on what to use on them, and panicked for a moment. He really rather liked his small collection of gloves, and those were his favorite pair. They were an excellent material, and didn't limit his dexterity even when playing. It would be a shame if they were ruined because the new housekeeper washed them incorrectly.
His worry over his gloves overcame his dislike of her stare, and he rose to bus his own tray. Erik picked up the tray and moved to the kitchen door, only to find it partially open. He peeked in to see she was no longer washing his gloves. They were carefully laid to the side now, but she was hunched over the sink, hands clasped in front of her downcast face and as if in prayer. Even from this distance he could see the tears gleaming from her cheeks. To him, she looked so very angelic just then. And painfully unhappy.
Without a word he left her alone.
AN: LIke it? Review! Make my holly-jolly day! I have to admit...I felt so sad for Christine as I wrote this. But, there's always the hope for a happy ending, right?