Christine fought down the panic threatening to steal her breath, and holding onto the papers, scooted backward as once again she found herself watching the approach of a dark fury with fey eyes. She knew she was innocent of any wrongdoing, nevertheless, she felt like he had caught her snooping. She had read some of it, but that was purely an accident. Wasn't it? She whimpered as he reached her and bent down, grasping her by the elbows with his icy hands. He lifted her as if she were no more than a bag of laundry, and Christine cried out in fear and pain as his grip pinched the tender flesh of her arms.
"How dare you enter this room without my leave to do so!" he growled through clenched teeth.
"N-No! It wasn't like that! I would never come in here without permission. Really I w-wouldn't! You see, I came looking for Nadir to ask him something, but...but he wasn't here and Lucifer was," she cried wildly, babbling and knowing it, but the look in his eyes forced even more words from her mouth. "H-He knocked your p-papers on the floor! I promise not to tell anyone!"
He held on to her, glancing quickly around. "I see no cat." He turned his fearsome eyes back to her. "What do you promise not to tell, Christine?"
She had always been secretly charmed by the way he spoke her name. No one said it quite the way Erik did, rolling the R, and putting a soft emphasis on the first syllable more than was usual. It made her name feel special to her. But it wasn't charming at all now- merely an angry hiss. She desperately longed for Nadir to show up.
Christine was afraid to meet his eyes, and had to force herself to look at him, knowing her need to hear the truth would cause her to say something she just might regret. Regardless, she was going to ask it anyway, and cursed the inquisitiveness that nearly always got her into trouble.
This close to him, she could see the minute shading of his eyes from yellow to a warmer amber ringed around the pupils, and the black fringe of eyelashes. A few unruly locks of usually neat hair lay on his forehead over the mask. It made him more human to her, more like a normal man, albeit a furious one. She could feel his warm breath on her cheek; she was held in a painful grip, but Christine doubted if he even realized he was hurting her.
Erik's gaze was fixed on her face, and she shuddered at the raw emotion she saw there, but said in spite of it, "You're H.T. Poman, a-aren't you?" His iron hands tightened momentarily, and she bit back a groan of pain. "You're hurting me, Maestro. Please..."
He remained bent over her and she watched frightened, as his eyes took on a gleam she had never seen there before. His tongue flicked out to lick suddenly dry lips, his breathing fast and heavy. She felt swallowed by that hungry gaze pulling her in, sucking her in until she ceased to exist, her world shrinking down and filling with darkness. His large hands, which only moments before had been wrapped too tightly around her arms, slid carefully up to her shoulders, nearly encircling her slender neck, his thumbs lightly stroking the soft skin of her throat.
"I... Christine, I..." his voice was a mere breath of sound, as the mindless anger slowly drained from his eyes. But she wasn't out of the woods yet, for he tugged her nearer to him, his gaze dropping to her tender mouth.
Just when she lost hope that he would come to his senses, he made a noise deep in his throat and released her suddenly. She stumbled backward nearly falling.
He said nothing, seemingly at a loss for words. His dark mood had finally played itself out, but Erik's stress was still clearly visible to her, as evidenced by his fisted hands, the knuckles gleaming whitely. Christine eyed him warily as she rubbed her sore arms. Gone was the controlled and confident man she had known from the beginning, and in his place was one not used to revealing any emotion at all, except anger.
He was perfectly fine showing that.
In a sudden flash of wisdom, she knew the reason for the anger and sarcasm he used so unfailingly with her. It was his protection against hurt; he would be the aggressor at all times and never leave himself open to an emotional attack of any kind. But now she could clearly see his struggle to regain himself. Erik wore more than one mask, and had no wish to give even small glimpses of the real man to anyone. Including her.
There was so much more to him than sarcasm and aggression. Aside from his considerable musical talents, he had shown her a sensitivity that he managed to keep well hidden from others. She knew it was there.
It didn't, however, stop her from wanting to leave.
Christine turned and set the papers on the desk, then shook out her skirts as she tried to stop the tears threatening to fall. All the while he remained silent, head down, ashamed to meet her eyes
"I'm going home," she stated, her voice as shaky as her knees. Escape from this room and this man was all she required now. Her hand on the doorknob, she nevertheless paused when he spoke behind her.
His head had snapped up at her declaration to leave. "Don't go," he whispered. "The answer to your question is... yes."
The truth still had the power to shock her. To think that Erik was the author of Phantom Trails, and had been living beside them all of these months. Teaching her all of these months.
She nodded, not meeting his eyes, feeling awkward and unsure of herself, but most of all, uncertain of her teacher.
He put a hand out toward her, then just as quickly snatched it back. "Did I...hurt you?"
She shook her head, knowing he had frightened her more than anything else, but still she refused to look at him.
"My...privacy is important to me." He sighed wearily and walked over to his desk, straightening the papers he caught Christine reading. "There was a time in my life when I had absolutely none, so perhaps I treasure it far too much."
He turned, hesitantly approaching her, and although she watched him with some anxiety, she remained still. He made no move to touch her. "I ask you to forgive my unseemly conduct toward you and...and stay, Christine."
She had the feeling that apologizing for boorish behavior was an entirely new experience for her teacher. Her fear of him was almost gone, but she as yet didn't feel as easy around him as she once did. She was becoming used to his erratic behavior and she wasn't sure if that was such a good thing. But in spite of her reservations, she finally met and held his gaze, all the while twisting the fringe of her shawl nervously between her hands. His eyes were intense on her, their affect nearly physical. For all her innocence of the world at large, she knew for a certainty that her teacher was a haunted man. In those few tense moments, her childhood had been discarded- left behind like an article of clothing which no longer fit.
"I forgive you," she replied softly, "and I'll stay."
He let out a pent-up breath, and with a slight bow, gestured for her to precede him, and together they made their way upstairs. She glanced quickly at him, relieved that they had managed to salvage their relationship. She recalled the strange look in his eyes as he held her, and decided then and there to put the memory away until later. Then she could ponder his odd behavior in the privacy of her room and try to make sense of it. He said nothing more until they reached the tower room, where he took her shawl and draped it over a chair.
"Sit down," then catching himself, he added a gruff, "please." She sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, wondering what would happen next. Her teacher however, remained on his feet, his restlessness causing him to pace the floor. Finally he stopped walking and looked pensively at her. "It goes without saying, that anything revealed in this room goes no further. Agreed?"
"You have my word, Erik," she said solemnly.
He nodded and continued walking about the room, always seeming more content that way, unless music kept him in place- to which he gave in willingly. "You have many questions for me, no? Well, just this once, I am willing to answer them. I think I owe you that much." He went over and sat at the piano, waiting for her to speak.
She mutely stared at him; of a sudden, not knowing what to say, and so remained silent.
He became impatient. "Well? Weren't you the young woman so defensive of the Phantom? Thinking he only performed good deeds for his fellow citizens? Don't you want to know the truth? Now is your chance," and he waved a pallid hand in her direction.
She paused, realizing his patience would run out long before her curiosity did. "I-Is that your real name? Poman?"
"No. Next question."
"Well, where did you get the name then?"
"It is an anagram for Phantom."
She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. "Blast! Why didn't I see that?" She glanced quickly at her teacher and mumbled an apology. "Forgive me, Erik. Sometimes I get a little carried away."
But the widening of his eyes was not from her cursing. "You know what an anagram is?"
"Of course. St. Joe is a nice town, but not exactly steeped in excitement. My family voraciously reads the serials in the Gazette, and a few years ago the paper had one on spies during the war. They used anagrams in their secret codes. It was wonderful!" Quickly, she went back to her next question. "Is Archer your real name? You never seemed comfortable with my calling you that."
He said nothing for a moment; looking thoughtfully at her, then shook his head. "I am afraid you caught the Persian unawares that morning. He said the first name that came to mind."
She leaned forward, enjoying the feeling of sharing secrets with him. "Then what is your name?"
He shrugged with an elegant lift of thin shoulders. "Erik. An old woman dropped me off at an orphanage in St. Louis. They said when I arrived there, I had no identification other than what she told them. There was no surname."
She looked at him horrified. "But everyone needs a name! How have you managed without one?"
He made a noise she thought was a chuckle. "Actually, very well. I used the pen name, Poman for the Phantom serial and on occasion for other things when there was a need, but other than that, the absence of a last name hasn't been a hardship for me."
"The old woman. What happened to her?"
"No one knows. She delivered me to the orphanage and disappeared."
She nodded, and played with a loose thread on her dress, not meeting his eyes. "Have you met him? The Phantom?" She finally looked up at her teacher. "Hannah...well, she said he is a figment of the author's over-active imagination. I-Is he real, Erik?"
He saw the hope flare in her blue eyes, and felt a hard knot loosen in his chest. "Yes, Christine. He is very much a real man."
"I knew it!" she crowed triumphantly. "I just knew he was, but might I ever meet h-him, do you think?"
"Perhaps."
She caught the slight uplifting of his lips, and knew he was amused by something. He was laughing at her. She just knew he was, and she was clueless as to why. More of his odd behavior. "What is he like?" she asked, her manner a trifle stiff.
Erik turned from her and started playing softly. He looked out the window as his fingers fiddled with the melody, adding notes and increasing the tempo- embellishing the tune until it little resembled the original piece. She could pause in these revelations from the past hour and admire his skill all over again.
"What is he like?" he repeated, and continued playing pianissimo while he considered her question. "Mm, he's a very private individual for one thing." He leaned forward, head canted to the side, listening closely to the melody beneath his agile fingers. "Much like myself, I suppose- shuns society for the most part. He would only agree to meet me after dark, so I would be a poor judge of his physical appearance. He spoke in a rough whisper, and even then he didn't say much. He gives me the handwritten chapters in a very simple draft form... I clean them up, make final copies and present them to the newspapers."
"Why did he come to you in the first place?"
He closed his eyes as he started another measure, his quick mind already playing back the new melody he had composed while sitting there.
"He realized that a lot of people had an interest in lurid tales of the very men he was hunting. He witnessed countless times the cheerful crowds at the public hangings; not just men- oh no, but women and children as well, wanting to watch a man's final moments on this earth, kicking and dancing at the end of a rope."
She blanched when he said it, but he was still playing softly with eyes shut. "He made money kill...uh, bringing them in to the hangman, and again from the circulation of the stories in the papers. I mail him a check once a month. The arrangement has been lucrative for us both." He remained silent until the end of the piece. "And finally- well, let's just say a mutual friend arranged a meeting between us and leave it at that, shall we? Come now, we have time for a run-through of your aria, Christine."
"All right." She got to her feet and walked slowly over to the piano and took up her position. "Erik?" She looked at him expectantly. "Is he anything like I pictured him?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her the truth about her hero; after all, that was his original intent. To lay to rest her childish fantasy about a man with feet of clay, a killer no different than the men he hunted down and dispatched without mercy. One glance at her hopeful face stopped him.
That the Phantom had the visage of a dead man, never concerned him. She would never know the true face of her so-called hero. The unvarnished truth? It was not a factor.
Therefore, he had little compunction telling her, "Well, he may not be quite as bad as I made him out to be. Now then, may we proceed?"
She nodded her head and said with a grin, "I knew it! I'm so excited about the next chapter. When will it be out?"
He held in his impatience as best as he could with her, something he had been trying to do for months now, and he had to admit ruefully- he needed more work.
"Next week, same time. I have been busier than usual lately, but the delayed chapter has already been sent in; it will be in the Gazette on Friday." As he spoke, an idea had taken root, and try though he might, he couldn't dislodge it.
He took his hands off the keys and turned to her. "How would you like to work for me?"
Surprised, Christine took a step toward the grand. "Work for you?"
He got up from the piano and took a turn around the room, thinking. "Yes. I normally clean up the Phantom's scribblings and put the story in a more readable form, then I have to re-copy my scribblings to give to the newspapers. You could save me some time if you consent to doing the final copy. I would pay you of course."
Christine began to shake her head, and he hastened to say, "It was just a thought. Pay it no mind. I seem to be over-stepping myself. Again." He started back to the piano. "We will begin with some..."
"Erik! I''ll do it!" she said laughing, feeling very much in accord with him again. "But I want no payment for it. I'm making a fair wage with the opera." She hesitantly approached him until she was close enough to reach out and touch his arm if she dared. "Besides, I-I can never repay you for all you've done for me. I'll work for you- gladly. And as an added bonus, I get to read the chapters before anyone else!"
She smiled up at him, her blue eyes beautiful in the waning light, and he had to swallow hard and shove his hands behind his back before they reached for her. They stared at one another for a long moment, before Christine dropped her eyes and walked over to the grand, taking her position for scales.
"Maestro? Warm-ups?" she said a touch impatiently.
He took a deep breath and went slowly back to the piano. "It would seem the student has trumped the teacher," he muttered.
"Tell me again why I should be excited about tonight?"
She turned to Christine who was fussing with her hair in front of the giltwood pier glass in her bedchamber. Her friend as usual looked exceptionally pretty wearing a light blue silk dress, her blonde hair piled on top of her head, tendrils of it framing her face.
"You're supposed to be looking forward to your first dance. It's mine too, and I wouldn't have any fun tonight knowing you were sitting at home. We're going to have a wonderful time, Meggie, so cheer up!"
Meg gave her friend a sour look as they heard voices in the downstairs hall. "What is Raoul going to say about me tagging along? He won't like it, you know."
Christine grabbed a fringed shawl the color of champagne, and opened her door. "Leave that to me. Give me five minutes then you come down, all right?"
She swept down the stairs, hoping she didn't trip; she was aiming for adult and dignified. This was, after all, her first dance. She took in the sight of Raoul wearing a dark blue suit, his stubborn hair brushed neatly into submission and smiled. His face lit up with admiration when she joined him in the front hall, and with a little flourish, he handed her a nosegay of pink carnations.
Edna stood in the doorway of the parlor observing the young couple, remembering her first dance with a beau, who just happened to be a young and handsome Matthew Stone. She would do all she could to see that Christine made a good marriage; she owed it to her sister to make sure her daughter was well taken care of- that, and her own love for the young woman. Raoul de Chagny seemed a likely candidate. Good family and college bound soon. Yes, he would make her niece an excellent husband. She shook off a moment of unease, remembering what Martha Drake told her. It was quite possible that there was some truth to what she said. Perhaps Christine's teacher did have designs on her. She spent an inordinate amount of time in his presence, and now she was doing some copy work for him. Her niece was young and innocent. Perhaps too innocent. It might be a good idea to have a talk with her, and soon, but not until after her debut onstage which was only a week away now.
Raoul thought Christine was the best looking girl in St. Joe. Hell, the world. "You look..." His face reddened, and he searched for the perfect compliment. "Pretty." he finally managed.
Christine held the flowers up to her nose and sighed dramatically. "Thank you. I just wish I could be more excited about tonight." She sighed again, and waited for his reaction.
The smile left his face quickly. "What's wrong? D-Don't you want to go with me?"
She looked down at the nosegay and shook her head. "It's not that. Of course I want to go with you! It's just...well." She gazed at him with beseeching eyes. "Poor Meg. She wanted so badly to go to this dance and she has no way to get there."
Raoul's starched collar was feeling a tad too snug at that moment, and he just managed to stop his fingers from traveling to his neck. "It's tradition for the fella who asked her, to see that she makes it to the dance. Surely..."
"She hasn't been asked by anyone, and she so wants to go." Before he could respond, she put her hand on his arm. "Please, Raoul. Can Meg come with us?"
His anger began to stir. Giry again. He was starting to feel like one of those Musketeer fellas Christine recently told him about. All for one and one for all. Then he looked into the deep blue pools of her eyes and said...
"Yes," and could have kicked himself. No sooner had the word left his mouth, Meg was making her way down the stairs, looking quite pretty herself in an emerald green dress with a flowing black sash, her dark glossy curls done up in a chignon.
Something wasn't adding up to him; it was almost as if the chit had been waiting at the top of the stairs...
But suspicion wasn't a part of his placid nature, and he pushed it resolutely away. Very well. He would view it as a plus then. He would no doubt be the only man present at the dance escorting two lovely ladies.
Meg glanced shyly at Raoul. "I hope you don't mind my coming with you. I promise once we get there, I'll leave you both alone."
With Christine watching, he gave in as gracefully as he could. "It's all right," he mumbled.
Hannah appeared at the end of the hallway, surprised to see Meg looking lovely in the dress she made for her just recently. She had felt bad for her daughter when no one asked her to the dance, but apparently that wasn't stopping her from going. She beckoned to Meg, and the girl reluctantly approached her mother. Hannah heard the warning bells going off, but before she could say anything, Meg beat her to it.
"I can explain, Mama, but not now, all right?" she softly pleaded. "Raoul is taking both of us to the dance, and we're leaving now."
Hannah stared nonplussed at her daughter. "Meg..." She stopped suddenly, exasperated with the two girls. Things of this nature just weren't done. Young women these days had no sense of decorum, but she realized this wasn't the time to point it out to them. Hannah smiled and gave her daughter a hug, whispering in her ear, "You look mighty pretty, Marguerite. Have a wonderful time."
She walked over to Christine and pulled her aside. Taking the girl's hands into hers, she looked fondly at her. "My daughter couldn't have a better friend than you. I hope she never forgets that."
She gave the housekeeper a hug. "She's like a sister to me, Hannah. Besides, she would do the same for me."
They said goodnight to both women, Christine giving her surprised aunt a hug as well, and the three young people walked out to the buggy in front of the house. Raoul handed them up and got in himself, still wondering how he had ended up with two girls for one dance.
Christine chanced a look at the tower and wasn't at all surprised to see a figure standing in the window. She felt a moment of unease, but it quickly passed. Surely he wouldn't begrudge her an evening of fun? The coming week would be busy with the preparations for Figaro; she still had last minute fittings for her costume, and rehearsals would be even more grueling.
Everyone had the jitters and she was no different, plus someone else had purportedly seen the so-called ghost. She snorted. Ghost indeed! It had been that empty-headed friend of Becky's. Estelle Wheeler. She claimed to have seen a dark form near the practice room floating toward her. She told everyone it had red eyes and growled at her, before disappearing through a wall, leaving her screaming and falling away in a dead faint. She may have been frightened at some point, but she told the story over and over again, exaggerating the tale until she barely got away with her life.
They left the curb and started for the school in the warmth of the spring evening. Meg was speaking shyly with Raoul, and Christine's mind went back to earlier that afternoon when she was in the Archer House library. Erik had given her a stack of the paper he used, and a pen filled with his red ink, then seated her at the refectory table. He handed her the rough chapter copy, and she got a good look at his ink stained hands. Helpless not to, she giggled when she saw his shirt cuffs usually so pristine, now dotted with red as well.
"I thought I was supposed to be the one covered in ink, not you!"
He quickly pulled his hand back. "It wasn't the serial I was working on," he responded coolly. "It was something I started last night. An allegro piece for piano."
She began writing in her neat hand. "Oh? Will you play it for me sometime? I've never known you to write anything so cheerful. I would love to hear it."
"Yes. Once it is finished, you may count on that." He turned to leave.
Christine stopped writing and took a deep breath. "Erik? I can only stay until noon. I have errands to run, and an engagement tonight. I need time to get ready." She ducked her head down and continued writing.
He went still with one hand on the door knob. "Would de Chagny be a part of this engagement, Christine?" he asked quietly enough, but she stiffened at the tone. She was becoming adept at reading his moods through that beguiling voice so unlike any other.
"Yes," she said, just as softly, finally having the courage to look at him. He wore a gray paisley waistcoat and burgundy cravat, and she thought irrelevantly that at least he kept the ink splatters contained to his cuffs.
He turned to face her, and as usual, she looked upon the emotionless black mask. But his eyes were alight with fire, and for a moment she felt a tiny quiver of alarm. Relaxing a little, she realized it was only a trick of the morning light coming through the stained glass windows causing it to seem that way.
"Then I wish you an enjoyable evening," meaning anything but that. In the next instant he was gone, and Christine worked on through the morning, all the while feeling unsettled, and not knowing why.
"Christine! Did you hear me? I said, it's a beautiful night, isn't it?"
She looked at Meg. "I'm sorry. Yes, it is. I was thinking about something."
"Well then, it must have been an unpleasant something the way you looked just now."
She forced a smile. "It's nothing. Just getting a little nervous about opening night, that's all."
"You're going to be fine. And don't you worry about most of St. Joe being there to watch your big moment. You'll soon get over all of those eyes staring at you."
Christine laughed, her buoyant mood restored. "You certainly know how to make me feel better, Meggie. I suppose if I fall on my..." she coughed, "backside, you'll be the first one onstage to offer me a hand up?"
Meg looked at her, eyes shining in amusement. "Of course! After all, what are friends for?"
They both started to giggle, and only laughed harder when Raoul gave them his, I-don't-understand-women-at-all look. He smiled adoringly at Christine. "You're going to be wonderful. My entire family is coming to opening night," which started the two girls laughing all over again.
Meg wiped her eyes. "See? Most of St. Joe will be there."
Humboldt School was brightly lit, with carriages coming and going at the front of the wide building as the ladies were dropped off near the entrance. The two young women stood to one side and waited while Raoul found a place to leave the buggy. Christine clutched her carnations tighter and waved to old school chums she hadn't seen in a while, as well as a few members of the opera company. She grinned when she saw Carlotta approaching on the arm of Max Fontaine, their curly haired tenor.
They stopped for a moment, and Carlotta leaned in toward her. "Just a warning, Christine- Becky should be along any minute now. We passed them on the road. They were pulled over to the side, and when we came up beside them, they sprang apart..." The dark haired woman colored slightly, lowering her voice. "I don't think the gentleman with her was removing something from her eye either. She's a real piece of work, that one."
Saying her goodbyes, Christine thanked her and turned to Meg. "I wonder what's keeping Raoul?"
The younger woman shrugged and looked toward the road. "I don't know, but look out, because here comes trouble, and what's more, it looks just like Becky Drake."
They both watched as a gorgeously gowned Becky walked up the sidewalk on the arm of a well dressed older man. She saw Meg and Christine right away and tugged on the arm of her escort, pulling him toward the two women. "Christine, may I present to you Mr. Walter Donleavy, a good friend of my father's? Walter, this is a fellow cast member from the opera house, Miss Christine Daae." She purposely ignored Meg, and Christine felt her anger start a slow simmer.
Walter nodded to Christine, eying her with interest. Becky leaned in close and said in a low voice filled with smug satisfaction, "I have a patron also, Christine, only mine isn't ugly as sin." She tugged on her escort's arm once again and went inside.
Christine made a move to go after her, but Meg put a hand on her arm. "Let her go. Someday she'll get exactly what's coming to her." She shook her head as she released her friend. "There's definitely somethng wrong with Becky," and looked at Christine in puzzlement. "What was she blathering about? You don't have a patron. Do you?"
Christine shook her head, "She meant Erik, Meg. Becky saw us together, and she thinks he's my rich patron."
"Oh." She glanced apologetically at her. "H-He's not, is he?"
Christine frowned in annoyance. "Well, of course not! How can you even think that way?"
"What way?" the other girl asked innocently.
"Really, Meg! Don't you know anything? Gentlemen give their protection and support to ladies of the theatre in return for...for um... certain favors."
Meg put her hands on her hips. "Christine, you're not making any sense! What do you mean by favors?"
Christine glared at her friend, not exactly sure how to answer that. Becky made the word patron sound vulgar, but she wasn't entirely certain herself what the other girl meant by it. Instead, she dodged the question. "Must I explain everything to you? Becky wasn't being kind at all, Meg, so let's just leave it there, all right?"
Meg weakly nodded, having the grace to look ashamed, and the two girls stood in an uneasy silence while they waited for Raoul. Christine wanted nothing more than to walk up to Becky, and rip handfuls of her carefully arranged hair from her head. St. Joe wasn't big enough for the both of them anymore, and she felt a sudden urge to leave here for a fresh new place with a whole different perspective. Her breath hissed out in a sigh of resignation, no longer interested in the dance.
Raoul came up the sidewalk practically at a run, looking anxiously for the two girls. Spying them side by side, arms crossed and studiously ignoring each other, he skidded to a halt, eying them warily. "I had to leave the buggy quite a ways down the street." He stared nervously at Christine who appeared angry and upset, then glanced at a red-faced Meg. "I'm sorry I took so long, but it couldn't be helped," he said defensively.
Christine gave him a faint smile, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "It wasn't you, Raoul. It was Becky Drake. She enjoys baiting me."
He grunted and ran a hand through his blonde hair standing it on end. "Wendell's the same sometimes. Don't let her get to you." Satisfied that Christine wasn't mad at him, and not even curious as to what Becky had said to her, he put an arm out to each of his ladies. "Come on. Let's go and have a good time. I know I will- I'm with the prettiest girls at the dance!"
They proceeded to go inside, Christine thinking furiously about Becky's harsh words. She had never considered Erik as the object of anyone's contempt before. Granted, Erik would never br considered a 'catch' by anyone's definition, and to Becky Drake, looks were everything. Christine saw him differently than that; he was an extraordinary musician, and when he was being nice, he could be an interesting companion. She thought little of his mask anymore and never noticed his thin build and towering height the way she used to, but regardless of his appearance, a man like her teacher commanded respect. It was an intrinsic part of him, just like the mask. To foolishly think otherwise, was risking harm to one's health, both mental and physical. She saw this as a fundamental truth, for she had glimpsed a little of his ruthlessness herself. She had little doubt that Erik could be vicious if he chose.
But Becky's cruel words gave her food for thought. Erik was a recluse, and given the fact that he refused to show his face to anyone, he probably spent most of his time alone. Except for Nadir, there wasn't anyone else- not even a lady friend as far as she knew. Maybe he preferred it that way, and sometimes, especially after her run-ins with Becky, she could understand why.
Raoul asked her to dance, and smiling sweetly at him, she shoved Erik resolutely into the far corner of her mind, resolved to enjoy herself tonight.
And Christine did, her unpleasantness with Meg blowing over as quickly as all of their squabbles did; what's more, she made certain not to cross paths with Becky again for the rest of the evening. She had many dance partners, but as the night wound down, Raoul got them each a glass of punch and a small square of cake. The room had become warm, and unfortunately, her pretty nosegay was looking tired and wilted. The room had thinned a little as some of the couples had already left for home.
Finishing her punch, Raoul took their cups to the table and returned to her. "We have time for one more dance, Christine."
She nodded and joined him on the floor.
Meg was with a man named John Tanner, but her evening had been made when Raoul had asked her to dance. Surprised and delighted, she felt hope stirring once more- maybe he would notice her a little more often from now on.
At last their first dance ended, and the three of them drove home under a night sky peppered with glittering stars. A happy Christine began humming Oh, Shenandoah!, but before long, the lyrics invariably followed, and in the spirit of fun, the other two joined in. The drive home was filled with laughter and slightly off-key singing, until Raoul stopped the buggy in front of their house.
Helping both girls out, Meg then turned to him. "Thank you, Raoul for allowing me to come along. You were a good sport about it, and I... well I had a very nice evening," she said shyly. He murmured a reply, and Meg, with one last glance at him, went inside.
He stepped toward Christine and took her hand in his. "Did you enjoy yourself tonight?"
She looked at him smiling. "It was lovely, and I couldn't have asked for a better escort. Thank you for inviting me. And thank you for being so nice to Meg," she whispered.
He swallowed hard. "Your're welcome." He started to lean toward her, and she knew he was about to kiss her.
Unbidden, she glanced up at the dark tower window, feeling his eyes on her, and squeezing Raoul's hands, she said a hasty goodnight, leaving him standing on the front step. "Coward," she muttered under her breath.
That night getting ready for bed, she thought once more of Becky's callous words concerning Erik. It was bad enough that she had accused them of something vaguely clandestine, but to call attention to his appearance in the way she did was heartless. She went to the window just before she slipped into bed. The tower room remained in darkness. She resolved to go over there tomorrow and make up for the work she hadn't finished because of the dance. She just hoped that his mood had lightened. She yawned.
With Erik, one never knew.
After church, she made her way next door to do her copy work. Mrs. Cole let her in and Nadir met her in the hallway.
"There's no need to work on it today. Erik doesn't expect it of you, child."
"Oh, I know he doesn't, but I'll be so busy this week with the debut of Figaro, I need to get caught up."
He merely shook his head and led her to the library. She settled herself at the table and resumed where she left off.
"I'll have Mrs. Cole bring you some tea if you like."
She glanced at him briefly. "No thank you, Nadir. I'm fine for now."
He closed the library doors and Christine got to work. She read along as she copied, admiring how the Phantom had gone after a pair of killers wanted in most of Missouri and Kansas, and the desperate shoot-out that ensued. He really was a one-man posse, she thought appreciatively. And to think she was nearly getting it straight from the bounty hunter himself. She worked steadily, and after an hour and a half, she put down her pen and stretched. She jumped a little when one of the doors opened and Mrs. Cole entered with a tray.
"Erik insisted you stop for some tea, miss. There's a chicken sandwich as well." She set the tray on the table.
"Erik, Mrs. Cole? Where is he?" She looked hopefully toward the doors.
"Oh, I expect he's somewhere down below, dearie," and she looked at the floor beneath their feet, shaking her head sadly, as if instead of the cellar, he was entombed in the fiery pits of Hell. "He spends a lot of his time there, don't you know." She stepped back from the table. "Now then, eat the nice sandwich, child. You're quite thin as well, aren't you? Lord knows, he can't be bothered half the time to swallow some nourishment. Unlike Mr. Nadir, bless his heart." She chuckled. "That man loves to bend his elbow."
She bustled out the door in her black bombazine dress and white apron, and Christine poured herself a cup of tea. The sandwich did look good and she took a bite of it, wondering why Erik had known she was here, but hadn't come in to say hello. Not that he was one for idle chit chat all that much. She ate most of the excellent sandwich and drank a cup of tea, all the while studying the portrait of Adelaide Archer above the fireplace. She tilted her head to the side, a thought just out of her grasp as she observed Adelaide's dark eyes- eyes shadowed by a weary sadness. Something familiar about the woman drew her attention- quite possibly because she was similar to the marble lady on the landing. She finished her tea, putting her dirty dishes on the tray and returned to work.
Forty-five minutes later she was done. Excitement still shone from her eyes at the rousing ending of the installment. Hannah would love it. After stacking the pages neatly, she put them on Erik's desk; stretching and flexing her fingers, she walked over to the window looking out toward the back of the house. Pulling the draperies aside, Christine let in the welcome sunshine, but went still when she saw a familiar dark figure striding quickly on long legs into the woods at the back of the property, Lucifer trotting at his heels. But what gave her pause was the large cloth sack in his hand. Not trusting her eyes, she smashed her nose up against the pane of glass for a closer look. The sack was moving. With a tiny whimper of dismay, she saw what appeared to be a hatchet, tucked beneath Erik's other arm. She peered closer, turning this way and that, letting out another bleat of alarm. She was sure it was a hatchet, and grabbed her shawl and the tray, heading quickly for the kitchen.
She paused long enough to set the tray down and thank Mrs. Cole then she was out the door, nearly running to where she last saw her teacher. Erik had told her that he would kill the goose when it hit his last nerve. She picked up her skirts, and moved faster down the path, the bushes along the small trail pulling and tugging at her clothes. Apparently the silly goose had honked at him one too many times, and her volatile maestro had decided he would enjoy the bird much better on his plate smothered in gravy. Surely he didn't have to go very far into the woods to kill it, did he? She saw a clearing ahead, and nervous as to what she was about to see, slowed her steps. What would he say when she showed up pleading for the bird's life? Knowing Erik- nothing good.
She heard the excited honking and her teacher's annoyed voice, just as she reached the clearing and his back came into view. "Don't do it, Erik!"
He unhurriedly turned toward her, the empty bag and his violin and bow in one hand, the hatchet in the other, the goose pecking calmly at his feet.
"Well, it took you long enough to get here. Did you stop to rest?"
"Uh..." she looked dumbly at the goose, obviously enjoying a meal of parched corn. She joined her teacher near a cluster of large round boulders. "You knew I was following you? How?"
He pointed the bow at her. "You were anything but quiet, Christine. I knew it was you," and he leaned down and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "all those petticoats and such, make a quite charming bit of noise."
She colored up as she nearly always did around him. "I saw you from the library window and...and..."
"You saw the bag and thought I was on my way to an execution, didn't you?"
She nodded miserably, happy that the goose would live to honk another day, but embarrassed at being so wrong about her teacher. "I'm sorry."
He watched Christine as she hung her head, then he gently grasped her elbow and led her to a rock. "Here- sit, and I shall tell you what I am doing out here," he pointed the bow at the goose, "with that."
She spied the kitten sitting as still as a statue in a patch of weeds, no doubt watching some small animal. She perched on the rock, looking around the clearing and noticing for the first time the small stream that emptied into a little pond, and the crooked weeping willow leaning over the water. It would be a lovely spot for a picnic in the warm summer months.
Erik continued to watch her. "He will never fly again. His wing is as good as I can make it, and I couldn't keep him in the cellar indefinitely. I remembered this place from walking the property, and thought it would make an excellent home for him." He pointed to a small, nearly finished lean-to under a few cottonwood trees. "His new home once I complete it, using the hatchet. I brought him dinner and had every intention of serenading him with music."
He shrugged. "What more could he want, I ask you?"
"A name," she said softly.
"Ah yes, you do consider that important, don't you? Very well. What do you suggest?"
"Anthony," she said promptly.
"And why that one?"
She couldn't help a snicker. "You wouldn't ask that if you ever heard Mr. Reyer blowing his nose!"
There was a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turned two of the violin's pegs, before taking some rosin from his pocket and applying it to the bow. Playfully, he drew the bow across the G and D strings, making it sound suspiciously like a honk, drawing a delighted laugh from his audience of one. He had been in a good mood since last night, when the boy delivered her home and there had been no goodnight kiss. He was watching from the darkened tower, and saw her looking up at his window. Such were his small victories.
Pitiful, to be sure.
"Erik? I-I'm sorry I thought the worst. How could you have? You've cared for him all these months! I don't know what I was thinking!"
He looked at her briefly, knowing exactly where the thought had come from. "Oh, I know why. A monster does awful things, does he not?"
She leaned forward. "What? No! You're not any such thing! I..."
"Hush," he interrupted her. "No harm done. Now what would you and Anthony like me to play?"
She looked into his world weary eyes, and wondered what awful things in his life had made him so brittle.
"Spring, from Vivaldi's, The Four Seasons."
He nodded, turning the pegs once again, before tucking the violin beneath his bony chin. He regarded her steadily. "I'm glad you followed me, Christine."
She smiled gently. "I am too." She leaned forward on her rock, chin in hand and listened to the buttery strains of the violin, played as only her maestro could, and soon the clearing was filled with the rich, golden sound of Vivaldi...
...and the honking of a goose.