A/N: Some of the dialogue from LND has been included in the final scene of this chapter. As usual, I own nothing! Thank you for reading!
Chapter 11 - Things Have Changed
Christine woke in a sweat, her hair covering her face. She tried to brush her curls aside, but they clung to her damp cheeks and neck like strangling vines. Slowly, she pushed herself to a sitting position on the bed. A block of sunlight spilled through the curtains, casting a pale halo of light over her, reflecting off the gold of the clock on the dresser and drawing her attention to it. The night had come and gone, and it was morning again—another morning without Erik at her side.
Disoriented from her dream, which was quickly fading to dust, she took a few deep breaths before spying Erik's mask lying just out of her reach. She had held it in her sleep, she was certain, but now it rested on the pillow where Erik had slept, as though he had left it there for her to find in his stead. She slid her hand along the cloudy blue coverlet for it, the tips of her fingers grazing lovingly over its smooth surface before she picked it up, her hand trembling.
Her actions felt familiar. She had once grasped his mask in a similar way, the first time she had torn it from his face, and he had raged at her. In pity and compassion, she had handed it back to him, and he had looked at her with such adoration. He had flung hurtful words at her, cursed at her, yet he had pleaded with her to see the beauty underneath. He had loved her even then. Why had she not seen it? How had she been so blind?
She hugged the mask, holding it desperately to her heart, wishing it was Erik. If she could magically make him appear, she would; but she was not capable of such power. Only Erik possessed the ability to conjure himself from thin air; and sadly, she had never learned his trick. Now, she feared she never would. Like everything else, the magic and mystery had disappeared with him. After the death of her father, she had been an empty shell, going through the motions of her daily life with little care for herself or anything in it. Erik had brought music and wonder into her world, awakening her senses in ways she was sure would never be repeated in her lifetime. Without him, she would be an empty shell once more.
She heard a light knock on the door. She did not respond. She did not want to see anyone. But when the knock persisted, a little louder than before, a fleeting voice in her head said it could be Erik. She knew she was wrong; yet there was still that small vestige of hope that had yet to be extinguished.
She squeaked out, "Come in."
It was not Erik, of course. She had thought, just through her sheer will of wanting it, she could make it happen; but of course, she was wrong. She remembered Nadir saying Erik did not knock so politely on a door, and her head knew this to be true. Still, her heart had hoped for him. She wondered if that feeling would ever go away; or if she was forever destined to be disappointed by her foolish imaginings.
Monsieur Garnier entered the room, and Christine sat straighter, brushing her curls and tears away from her face. She rubbed her sleeve against her cheeks with one arm, not caring for her lack of social grace. Let Garnier see her cry! Her other hand still clutched the mask.
Garnier stood by the bed when she did not rise any further. Eventually, he pulled the chair away from the desk nearby and sat, staring at her in pity and sadness. He had something tucked underneath his arm, and when Christine realized what it was, she gasped.
A newspaper!
"No!" she cried. She did not want to see that newspaper!
Garnier was silent, unmoving for so long he was like a statue. The cold rays of the sun shining down on him through the window were unflattering; every line on his weary face was visible. For a moment, she felt a stab of pity herself! This man was upset. He was grieving himself! She could see it by the way his eyes crinkled in regret and misery for what he must tell her.
After a long while, Garnier pulled the paper from under his arm, unfolded it and held it out to her. He did not move from the chair; thus, he was forcing her to retrieve it herself, if she wanted it. She did not want it.
Christine hesitated.
With shaking hands, she reached for the paper, its black and white print a stark contrast to the blue of the bedspread as she set it down before her. She hovered over it, unable and unwilling to read the words on the page. Her vision blurred; she knew what it said without having to see it:
"Erik is dead!"
The words swam on the page before her as she opened and closed her eyes through her tears.
"I'm sorry," said Garnier, his strong voice from the day before gone. His words were a gasping breath. "He was my friend, though you may not believe it. I'm sure he would not have thought it, but I always considered him so. He was a brilliant man, and I am very sorry for your loss."
He rose from the chair and went over to the clock. He stared at it a second, then heaved a sound somewhere between a garbled sigh and a groan.
"Erik left something for you," he declared, as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser directly beneath where the clock and roses sat above it. He pulled out a portfolio of some kind, thick and leather-bound, the color of rust—or dried blood, Christine thought morbidly.
"He wanted you to have this," he said, as he handed the folder to her. It fell heavily into her lap as she grasped it.
Christine opened the flap and lifted out a few pages. The sheet music gleamed with ink the color of her red rose on the dresser. As she shuffled through the pages, to her consummate shock, she saw it was Don Juan Triumphant. This was not a copy, but the original libretto written in Erik's own hand. It was the entire manuscript intact, the complete work of Erik's lifetime. It had not been lost or destroyed in the bowels of the Opera House. Her fingers trembled as she held it in disbelief.
"You may stay as long as you like," said Garnier after what seemed like a very long while. "I know you need time to process this. I will call for a carriage when you are ready to leave."
Christine sighed, glancing around her. She did not belong in this house. Earlier, she had wanted nothing more than to flee from it, but her last lingering memory of Erik was in this room. She forced herself to say the words, but her body did not move from the bed. "No, I must go home," she murmured.
But where was home now? Without Erik, she had no home.
Garnier nodded and fell silent.
"There is one more thing before you go," he announced when she said no more. He moved over to the dresser and leaned against it, folding his hands and nodding as if concluding something important. "I always liked this clock. It sat in the draftsman's office at the Opera for ages until I took it home one day. Erik made other pieces for the building, so he didn't mind, and he knew of my fondness for it."
Feeling numb, her mind cloudy, Christine tried to comprehend his words. "If you like it so much, why is it up here where no one can see it?" she asked after a moment.
"No one but random houseguests?" he reminded her with a slight, ironic turn of his mouth. "I rather liked the idea of impressing my guests with it. Of course, I never thought Erik would see it here."
His mouth turned down.
Erik had said the room had not been dusted in years. Christine also recalled how the timid maid had shied away from the clock.
"How often do you have them? Guests, I mean?" she inquired.
"Not often," admitted Garnier. He swallowed, and she thought she saw tears coming to his eyes. "Before this was the guest room, it was my daughter's room. Sadly, we lost her a few years ago."
Christine had not expected him to say that. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.
Garnier sighed and gave a helpless gesture. "Louise was never the same after Anne died. She closed up this room, hardened her heart. She would have sold that clock if Anne hadn't loved it so much."
Though it did not entirely justify Madame Garnier's behavior to her earlier, Christine suddenly had a better understanding of why the woman had come across as cruel and heartless. Her heart had been broken by the death of her daughter. Christine understood how the death of a loved one could completely change a person. She had been lost after father had died and would have withdrawn from the world completely, if not for Erik.
"Anne loved the chimes, you see," said Garnier, motioning to the clock. "She was a musician and a gifted one at that. The piano downstairs in the parlor was hers."
Christine thought of the dead flowers strewn across the lonely piano, once loved but no longer being played.
"What is the story behind the clock?" asked Christine with curiosity. "Do you know? Who is the girl?"
"Erik didn't tell you?" he asked, surprised. "I thought he might, considering…"
Christine shook her head sadly. "He promised he would someday, but—" her words broke off. She could not finish her sentence. The tears threatened her eyes again.
Garnier gazed at her sympathetically. "Only Anne knew the full story. And perhaps Erik made it up for her. One can never tell with Erik," he added with a small shrug. "Anne was quite fond of Erik."
"Your daughter knew Erik?" asked Christine with surprise.
He nodded. "Weeks before her death, Anne's eyesight became impaired by her illness. She could see shapes and shadows, darkness and light, but all clarity was lost to her. Erik tried to help, but nothing could be done."
Garnier paused, and Christine could see the pain in his eyes as he remembered his past.
"Anne never saw his face," he continued with a frown. "In those days, it was hard to tear Erik away from the building of the Opera House. He practically lived there; and, of course, eventually he never left. I did not discover this until years later, when by chance I stumbled upon him in the catacombs. But that is a tale for another time. The week before Anne died, Erik sat with her every day. Anne was fond of books, but she could no longer read. So, Erik told her stories. One was the story of the clock."
"What was it?" asked Christine.
"I do not know the entire tale. I wish I did…" his voice trailed off, before he continued, "But my daughter told me Erik had envisioned a beautiful maiden in white, lost amidst a garden of discarded letters, weeping over the loss of a loved one. He carved the maiden lovingly from that vision."
He paused, then added, "Sadly, the clock has not chimed since Anne's death. I'm sure years of neglect have ruined the timepiece."
Christine looked at him in surprise. "You're wrong. I heard the chimes myself, the last two nights and yesterday morning."
Funny, she thought, she had not heard the clock chime this morning.
Garnier frowned. "That is odd," he said. "Are you quite sure?"
She nodded.
"Then it makes my gift all the more appropriate," said Garnier, and he nodded again with decision.
"You want me to have the clock?" she guessed.
"Yes, I believe it should be with someone who will appreciate it. And I believe Erik would have wished it as well," he replied. "It's the least I can do."
She gave him a small smile, suddenly grateful that she had met him. "Thank you, monsieur."
He nodded slightly. "I will have my man box up the clock and accompany you home when you are ready."
Before he left the room, Christine called out to him quietly, and he paused. "I think Erik was lucky to have you as a friend, monsieur."
He shook his head to deny it, but something in his eyes said he appreciated her words. "On the contrary, I was lucky to have known him. The Opera House, as we know it, would not exist without him. I may have been the architect in plan and design, but the creation was all Erik's. It saddens me that Paris will never know what he truly contributed with his genius."
"You and I know," said Christine, and he agreed with a small acknowledgement.
"But is that enough?" he countered. "Is it enough for a man who could have had the applause of so many to have only known it from a few? It pains me to think on it; he who could have been emperor reduced to such anonymity. When he could have been emperor! Ah, Erik! You deserved more, my friend, so much more!"
And with a little nod of reverence heavenward and a slight bow to Christine, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
Christine stood aimlessly in the middle of her little apartment. It had been only two days since she had last been there, but it felt like she had lived a lifetime in those two days. She had loved and lost Erik in those two days. A part of her had lived and died in two days. She didn't know who she was anymore.
Garnier's servant had set the box of Erik's belongings on the bureau. She lifted it, its heavy contents weighing her down, yet it could not match the heaviness in her soul. If she stood still long enough, holding that box of memories, she was afraid she would sink down, right through the levels of the building into the ground below. A part of her wanted to bury herself, mourn the piece of her that had died with Erik.
Silently, she forced herself to move into the bedroom. Her mother's trunk sat at the end of the bed. Kneeling, she opened it and surveyed its contents. It did not hold much: a few treasures from her childhood, her mother's shawl of lavender silk, her father's violin. It was mostly empty. She had never earned or inherited enough for a proper trousseau.
Carefully, she pulled the gold clock from the box. She gently wrapped her mother's shawl around it and placed in the corner. Next to her father's violin case, she set the manuscript of Don Juan Triumphant, along with Erik's mask. She slipped Erik's note with his words of love, stained with her blood, into a childhood book of fairytales. She would dry out the roses and add them to the trunk later. The only item left was the newspaper.
She hesitated, clutching the newspaper in her hands. She could not put those hateful words in a trunk filled with precious memories. Her heart would not allow it. If she did so, it would mean he was truly gone, a cold and final reminder of all she had lost.
Christine was suddenly afraid of Erik fading from her life, just as others had gone before him: her mother, Professor Valerius and his wife, and her father. Oh, her father! Her father's loss had been her deepest grief until now. There was no one left. One by one, they had all disappeared, and she was alone—truly alone.
But no! One person remained, as she spied her old red scarf hanging on a peg near the door. There was Raoul. Sighing deeply, Christine realized she still had Raoul. She closed her eyes as tears began to form. As numb as she felt, she was standing on the edge of an abyss. She could either plunge headlong into the treacherous waves and drown herself, taking her memories of Erik and everyone else with her, or she could attempt to save herself, pull herself back from the crumbling cliff which was rapidly falling away at her feet.
Opening her eyes with sad resolve, Christine knew what she must do.
Raoul forgave her in the end. He didn't have to, but he did. When she had shown up on his doorstep, her hands fisted around the newspaper, white as a sheet, he had pulled her into his house and into a comforting embrace.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he had murmured, cradling her in his arms. He had kissed her gently and whispered against her hair, repeating his words in a soothing tone until she had stopped trembling. "It will be all right. I promise. It will all be all right. You'll see."
She wanted to believe him, but she knew he was wrong, as large tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew nothing would ever be right again!
As the heavy door of the manor clanged shut with finality, Christine never saw the tall, thin shadow standing near the wrought iron gates outside, watching her and weeping with infinite sorrow.
"We had a chance, you and I," Christine's wistful voice carried on the wind as she gazed at the lights of Coney Island, bringing herself back to the present as Erik hovered uncertainly nearby. Her anger was fading away with the night. She felt as lost and lonely as Erik looked as he gazed at her in despair. "You chose to turn the page, to close the book on us."
He had dismissed and forgotten her as easily as if he had shut a novel. He had put her on a shelf and left her there.
"No!" He shook his head in dismay to deny it, his voice vehement. "You could not go where I was going, and it was not safe. It would have been no life for you!"
"You didn't even give me a choice!" she accused. He had always given her choices before—crazy, impossible choices, yes—but choices all the same; yet not when it had mattered most. No, he had made that decision for her. He had stolen her choice, like a thief in the night, never to return what was most precious to her.
"You chose to marry Raoul," he reminded her bitterly, countering her thoughts and smashing them like glass. His tone was equally accusatory.
She glanced at him sadly, sighing, "What else could I have done? You were gone."
He turned away, his long coat swirling around his legs. She thought he was going to argue with her, but when he turned back, his eyes were pleading. "If I could go back and change things, I would. I'd make time itself somehow bend to my will. But I cannot. If only I had such powers. There would be nothing to forgive, and nothing for me to beg from you now."
Christine shrugged slightly, hearing him but denying his words. "Even you cannot change the past. And over the years, I have learned a few things. We can only do what we can do. We live our lives to the best of our ability. We try to love others as best as we can. That's all we can do, Erik."
He moved closer to her, and she felt as though she was being pulled to him by some unknown force beyond her understanding. She wanted to lean into him, but just as his hand came up to cup her cheek, she caught herself and stepped away. She closed her eyes, the anger returning. Erik was angry as well, frustrated at her denial of him.
"I have done nothing but pine for you, yearn for you, for ten years!" he spat. "I've dreamt of this moment. You will not deny me now!"
She backed away from him, closer to the balustrade. She was suddenly afraid—not of Erik, but of what it meant to have him back in her life.
"You will sing for me," he commanded in a low tone. It had a dangerous edge to it. "That peerless instrument will play for me again! And when you sing, you will lay to rest this ghost which has tortured me, tormented me for ten long years."
He advanced on her slowly, his movements seductive, as his emotions caught on a breathy sob. She shook her head, her curls flying as the railing dug into her back. She was cornered. He was begging her, demanding from her, and she had nowhere to run.
"Ah, Christine…" Erik must have realized his advantage for he stood straighter, rolling his shoulders back, his elegant coat swinging as he did so. She knew she was not going to like whatever he had to say next. "I spoke with Hammerstein. He and I are… business acquaintances, you might say. I'm aware of your arrangement with him. I'm prepared to double the amount he has offered you for just one night's work here in my Concert Hall."
"You spoke to him?" she asked, startled. "You had no right!"
She didn't care what sum he offered! If she sang for him again, it was over. She would lose herself to him again.
He ignored her outburst, continuing, "I know of your financial situation." He stepped closer, leaning over her. He was so enticing. She wanted to grab the beautiful, black embroidered lapels of his jacket and fall into him.
"One night, Christine! One song! That is all I ask of you!"
Oh, those words!
His heart was at her feet once more. It hurt as much now as it had then, on stage during Don Juan Triumphant all those years ago. She regretted what she must do in order to keep her sanity. She knew she still loved him; that truth could not be denied. But she also knew the damage one night could do. She could not allow it.
"No!" She ducked under his arm, scurrying over to the other side of the balcony. She turned and looked at him defiantly. "Why should I? I mourned your loss for ten years! You deceived me, lied to me! I believed you were dead! And for ten years, you weren't there. You never tried to contact us! And now you lure us here and expect me to do your bidding. Submit to you again."
She could feel the color rising in her cheeks at the thought of submitting to him and all that implied. It would be so easy to do—so very easy! His golden gaze darkened a shade at her words. She had to break eye contact with him, or she would lose her resolve.
Us! She had said us! In that moment, she thought of the one thing that could change everything. The one thing she had purposely kept out of her thoughts. The one thing she couldn't tell him.
Suddenly, she was fearful. Not just of submitting to Erik's will again or her long-suppressed feelings for him, but of the very fact she could not deny him if he were ever to ask her.
"I won't do it!" she said stubbornly, her fear and anger making her shake. "You cannot make me do this. And I owe you nothing!"
Erik eyed her steadily. She owed him everything, but she couldn't say that aloud! To do so, would break her.
As if on cue, her biggest fear came sprinting out onto the balcony in the flesh, flying into her arms with a tearful gasp.
"Mother, please—I'm scared!" cried Gustave, burying his head against her stomach and wrapping his thin arms around her.
She would never forget the shocked intensity in Erik's eyes at that moment. She clutched her son to her tightly, to protect them both from that penetrating gaze.
"What a terrible dream!" her son continued, sobbing. "But it was so real. Something—no, someone… Someone I've never met before, someone strange and mad, seized my arms and threw me into the ocean—and I was drowning… Oh, Mother—I was drowning! I couldn't breathe!"
Of all the nights for Gustave to have a nightmare, it had to be this one! He was prone to them from time to time, his vivid imagination feeding his thoughts, darkening them and making them real. He confessed them to her on occasion, like now; but other times, he kept them to himself. His haunted eyes occasionally met her at the breakfast table, and she would swear she was gazing into Erik's soul.
"Shh… Gustave, it's all right, darling," she soothed. She stroked his dark hair reassuringly.
When she glanced up at Erik, he still held that intense gaze. Did he not know she was a mother? Or had he forgotten? He had apparently orchestrated their meeting, so of course, he must have known. He had given Gustave the music box—had likely made it for him, and for her. So why would the shocked expression not leave his eyes?
She straightened up, smiling at Gustave. "I wish for you to meet someone, a friend of mine," she told him as sweetly as she could muster, emphasizing the word "friend."
Erik's demeanor changed entirely when Gustave disentangled himself from her and turned to look up at him with wide eyes.
"Hello, sir," said Gustave politely, holding out his hand and nodding like a gentleman. Erik eyed him for a moment but did not take his hand in return. He appeared to be assessing the boy for his sincerity.
"Welcome, young master, to my world" he said with a courtly flourish. He bowed slightly, though a little stiffly.
"Gustave, this is… Mr. Y," she settled on, struggling to keep her tone polite and normal.
How was this situation anything but normal? She was introducing the boy to his father—his real father—for the first time. She felt like she was in a dream. Would they both sense it? Would they know it, simply by staring at one another? She held her breath.
"Your world? This place… is yours?" asked Gustave curiously, his mouth forming a little "o."
Erik nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he had been searching for in Gustave's eyes. One hand swept out gracefully, pointing to a place far below them.
"See those gates with the bright lights burning around the perimeter… just there? Every inch of space from here to those gates, leading up to the ocean, is mine," said Erik proudly.
Gustave gazed out wonderingly over the balcony railing at the lights beyond. "Where are we exactly?"
Erik chuckled. "We're in Phantasma, little vicomte. On Coney Island!"
Christine felt a stab of annoyance at Erik's pet name for Gustave. Little vicomte, indeed! If only he knew!
"This is a world of fantasy, where illusion is emperor!" continued Erik dramatically. It sounded like a tag line for the park. He grabbed the boy and placed his little feet on the balcony railing. Christine gasped in alarm, clutching at Gustave's arm for balance.
"Where would you like to go?" asked Erik, leaning closer to Gustave and whispering conspiratorially in his ear. "Tell me, what would you like to see? I can grant any wish."
Gustave was delighted, but Christine was distressed. Erik, however, was insistent, holding out a hand to show the boy was fine perched on the edge of the railing. Erik's eyes were sincere, though intense when he glanced at her. A voice in her ear whispered a reassurance. To have his voice inside her head again was startling. Despite this, she did not let go of Gustave's arm. She hooked her fingers around the sleeve of his blue-striped pajamas.
"I won't let him fall," said the voice in her head. "Do you not trust your old maestro?"
Did she trust him? She wasn't sure. She realized she was not certain of anything anymore. Erik's reappearance was incomprehensible; only Gustave's presence on the balcony made the scene feel real to her.
"Could—could you show me all of the mysteries of the island? All the mysteries of Phantasma?" asked Gustave politely, though hesitantly. Despite this, Christine could hear the excitement in his voice. Erik had sparked his insatiable curiosity. He stared at Erik shyly, but his next words were bold. "I want to see all the strange things, the wild and dark things I have read about, in the shadows of the park."
Erik chuckled again, surprised and pleased.
Goodness, they were so alike, side by side! It was a wonder Erik didn't guess the truth right then and there.
"Yes, indeed! I will show you everything, starting tomorrow," Erik told Gustave, pulling him safely from the railing and setting him firmly on his feet. "I promise you will see it all. But first, I must discuss the arrangements with your mother. You understand?"
Gustave nodded eagerly, and Christine gave Erik a stern look as he led the boy by the shoulders back into the hotel suite.
Surely, he wasn't serious? Erik give Gustave a tour of the island? How could she allow such a thing?
"Time to go to sleep now, Gustave," said Christine quietly, but firmly, guiding her son away from Erik as he shut one side of the balcony doors behind them. He left the other side open to the breeze.
"Why does he wear a mask, Mother?" came Gustave's innocent question. "Is he a magician?"
She hesitated, feeling Erik's eyes on her back. "Yes, dear, in a way."
Gustave seemed satisfied with that; in fact, he was a little too delighted. He kissed her goodnight and waved goodbye to Erik before heading to his bedroom. His nightmare had faded away to nothing after meeting Erik. However, as Christine watched him go, she decided she would check on him shortly, just to be sure there were no lingering effects from his dreams. But first, she had to deal with his father.
She could sense Erik's gaze on her as she slowly turned around to face him. They stared at each other for a long, lingering moment, the air charged with tangible electricity despite the distance between them. She wished she could read his mind.
"He favors you," said Erik, contemplatively. "He is more like you than like him, at least."
He started pacing. Christine could almost see the wheels of his incomparable mind turning. What had he seen in Gustave in those five minutes he wasn't telling her? He is like you, too, she thought. But she didn't say it aloud. A part of her wanted to tell him the truth, until he said his next words.
"Coney Island is a big place. A man can get lost in it, never mind a boy who is wrapped up in all its wonders," said Erik, almost absentmindedly. He paced a few more steps, stopped, and stared at her again. "You will help me through this sadness. Do this kindness for your mentor, Christine. And I will guide your son through the island, prevent him from falling into mishaps so common with curious young boys his age. He could get into trouble on his own, get lost, disappear—do you understand what I am saying? I will watch over him, protect him. You have my word on that, if I have yours."
His hands came up, palms out, fingers splayed wide, and he indeed looked like a magician, a man who had the power of making her son vanish into thin air.
"What are you saying?" she asked him warily.
His gaze was intense, but he said no more.
Surely, she was misunderstanding him! She felt a moment of pity that quickly turned to outrage.
Oh Erik! If only you knew you were threatening your own son!
Something in Erik's gaze shifted as he stared at her. He was suddenly just as angry in return, but before he could say a word, she shouted, "You have changed! I do not know you anymore! Who are you, that you would even suggest—"
Her words broke off, and she came at him with fury. Who did he think he was? She knew very well how dangerous he could be, but this! He was lucky the piano stood between them for she had never been so livid with him in her life.
"I am your Angel of Music!" he exploded, enraged. He came around the piano and grasped her upper arms, forcing her to meet his golden gaze which was blazing at her in hot fury. This was her Phantom in all his menacing glory. He shook her slightly, pulling her to him, his body pressed tightly against hers. For all his anger, she could feel his arousal. They were in a dangerous position, so close to one another. It would be easy to give in, melt into his arms and surrender to him.
"Sing for me!" he said, his lips close to hers. Despite his words of a moment ago, she wanted to rise on her toes and meet them. Just an imperceptible breath, she thought, as her heart pounded in her chest. She could see the veins throbbing in his neck. One slight move from her in his direction was all it would take to push them off the edge.
She must clear her head. He was threatening her. He was threatening their son. Her body hummed with a familiar, peculiar energy, but her heart wanted to cry. She broke away from him and sank onto the piano bench, her back to him as her body shook from a myriad of emotions ranging from desire and despair to defeat and desperation.
She heard a light sigh from behind her. It sounded almost sad.
"Well, Christine, what is your answer? Did you not expect this from me? Am I not a hideous monster who is capable of anything? Isn't that what you believe?"
When she didn't answer, he slammed his hand down hard on the piano. The instrument echoed dully from the force of his blow.
She did not dare to look at him, not when he was like this—so far into his self-loathing, he could not comprehend what he was doing! Or maybe he could. She didn't know which thought was scarier.
"One song?" she relented quietly after a long silence of nothing but their mutually heavy breathing. Her heart was threatening to leap out from under her breast.
She could feel his exhale of victory on the back of her neck as he pulled sheet music off the piano stand behind her. Chills ran down her back, thrilling her blood with a vibrating hum.
"One song," he agreed exultantly.
It was Don Juan Triumphant all over again. She sighed, fearing history was about to repeat itself.
"I will sing for you, and then… what? Then, we can leave?" she dared to ask him.
"Yes," he said, coming to stand in front of her. She didn't look up as he handed her a handsome brown, leather-bound folder. She avoided touching his long, beautiful fingers. "And you will, of course, be well paid for your efforts."
She shut her eyes tightly. Worse than singing the song was this—this stipulation hanging over her head she wished she could make disappear. He knew they were desperate, knew their weaknesses, and was willing to exploit them.
"Well, Christine? Will you stay and sing, or will you go?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
Ah, and here was her impossible choice, then! She wondered, if he had given her the choice to stay with him after that night all those years ago, if the choice would have felt just as impossible.
Erik did not wait for her answer. She could hear his footsteps retreating as she stared at the composition book in her hands. Slowly, she opened it. This was what Gustave had been playing earlier in the evening as the music sat innocently on the piano stand. Gustave had noticed it there, and she had stopped and listened to him intently, transfixed by the exquisite melody.
"Do you have to play that now?" Raoul had asked irritably.
"I think it's beautiful," Gustave had declared, his fingers playing the notes lightly with one hand.
"What is it? I've never heard it before," Raoul had barely glanced up from his drink.
"I don't know," Gustave had replied curiously. "It was just here on the piano."
"Well, it hurts my head!" Raoul had told him crossly.
Now, as Christine followed the notes on the page, she began to hum, reading along with the lyrics:
"Love never dies. Love never falters…"
Oh Erik! She scanned the rest of the song in wonder. Had he written this for her?
She stood up, planning to tell him how beautiful it was, but he was gone! He had not left through the main door of the suite. She would have seen him. She walked over to the edge of the balcony. It was empty! The curtain was blowing gently in the breeze. He had simply disappeared, almost as mysteriously as he had come. She nearly dropped the sheet music.
"The insolence of that man!" Raoul strode through the front door of the suite fuming.
Startled back to reality, Christine watched as he plopped down in a chair unceremoniously.
"Who?" she asked. She knew he was not talking about Erik! But her thoughts were still clouded by him.
"Hammerstein!" cried Raoul, looking at her as if she had grown two heads. "He wasn't at the hotel bar! He wasn't anywhere to be found, and hotel staff was no help at all. This place is insane!"
"Ah," she said, nodding absently. She was not ready to confess the entire truth of what had happened with Erik to him yet, but she had to tell him something. "Raoul, I…"
She had tried to keep her voice steady, but her words died with a tremble.
"Christine?" he asked, concerned, his eyes serious as they met hers. It felt like the first time he had even noticed her since they had arrived on the island.
And just like that, she was a girl again, back in her dressing room at the Opera, staring at her young suitor who had brought her a rose and come to take her to dinner. He had not listened then, when she had tried to tell him about the Angel of Music. Would he listen now?
"Things have changed, Raoul."
