Chapter nine

Erik cursed and became angry at himself. How foolish he had been! When she was there, right there, with her hand on his shoulder and happiness in her eyes he had gone and ruined everything. He also considered that his actions were perfectly justified, was he not allowed to take offence at such comments? He paced the room in frustration and almost went to Christine's room but cut himself off before he could do something foolish. Eventually he dropped into a chair at the table, bottling up his frustration inside his already troubled mind, the roar that had been building in his throat since his anger started was held in a tight lump in his throat. It throbbed painfully every time he tried to swallow. He dragged his up from his arms and looked at the chess pieces that were half-set on the board, Christine had yet to place her white pieces in the correct positions.

"How appropriate," Erik laughed silently to himself, "That she should be white and I should be black. I'll always be black." He leant over the board and picked up the black king, he studied it's wooden features for a moment and then swiftly cast it in the fire. He did not even turn around to see the wooden face disfigure itself with hideous burns until its features were no longer recognisable. Erik then took the white queen and, before he could dwell on the symbolism any longer, slipped her into his pocket.

- - - -

Christine sat on her beautiful bed with her head bowed with a heavy sadness. Erik had called out, about an hour ago, that he was going to watch the opera even she was not to accompany him. She had listened to his heavy footsteps failing out gradually from behind the door and her tearful eyes had danced between resuming her sobs or ceasing out of relief. Now she had no grudge to hold or anybody to talk to and all she did was pine silently for the world she had left behind. The emptiness of the house was like the lake, yawning out as far as the eye could see but with no company on a distant bank, Christine felt a need to occupy herself.

She opened the door from her room to the corridor and stood there, looking through the various passages, deciding where to explore first. The door to Erik's room would be locked, obviously, because of the passage that led back to Christine's dressing room. As she rattled the handles of various doors, Christine soon discovered that pretty much every single door was locked, excluding her room, the drawing room and the lake room. She chose to explore the lake room, she admired the silent darkness of the glassy expanse and admired the way her breath echoed off the towering stone walls so it build up until it was a chorus of hundreds of people, breathing in a steady unison. Christine padded nervously up some steps until she reached a little alcove, this housed a desk that was laden with various things. She sat timidly in the desk chair and ran her curious fingers over Erik's lonely belongings. A peacock feather quill brushed up against her skin, various papers where pushed aside in her hurried searching, she wasn't quite sure if she was looking for something in particular. But Christine knew that she had an hour or so to read every paper and examine every sketch. There were sketches, plastered to the wall, littering the desk like autumn leaves and acting like mirrors to Christine's face. Every where she looked her own face stared back at her, her skin pencilled in the detail that her face owned, her eyes moving and hands reaching though she sat stiff as the stone walls. She did not think to dwell on how wonderfully detailed the pictures were, or how skilled that artist was at taking her emotions and burying them deep into her eyes, her only thought was that the artist must have spent hours and hours watching her. There were pictures of the chapel, and Christine bowed at candles deep in thought. That had been three days ago! That exact moment was as clear on the paper as it had been in her memory. Who was the artist that observed her so carefully without her even knowing? For months and months she had been the perfect model without knowing…

Suddenly another of the pictures caught Christine's eye. It was her sitting at the desk in her dressing room. So he had seen her in her dressing room as well, he had watched her so closely had sketched in every thread of her dress, every one of her thick brown curls, her reflection shimmering in the mirror at her desk. Christine gently pulled the picture from the wall and put it to one side, she continued to search through the variety of papers. She squinted to make sense of some scribbled notes, dictating to herself,

"Wait…no, waist…waist is twenty five." The meanings of those scribbled words were lost on Christine at that moment. But it became horribly clear as she read:

Waist 25 inches

Leg 34 inches

Height 66 inches

Bust – not applicable

Christine gave a shriek and dropped the paper as if it had burst into flame. Those were HER measurements, she was all around. Her face was plastered on paper, her room was drawn out, and he knew everything!

Her mind burned with horrible knowledge, Christine leapt away from the desk and crashed backwards into some curtains, she ripped then away as they had draped themselves over her shoulder. To her dismay, the whole curtain came away and revealed something that did not settle Christine's troubled mind. Her twin stared back at her, a perfect replica. Its brown eyes glared dully back at Christine and its features remained stiff as it continued to stare with her face. Christine staggered backwards as if wounded, and only then she take in what this mannequin was wearing. A pristine wedding dress clung to the doll, the veil cloaking the strangely familiar features. Darkness smothered Christine and with a gasp she fainted away on to the floor.

- - - -

Raoul tossed a stone carelessly in the glossy waters of the underground lake. A glum realisation hit him, he was going to have to swim. He had completely forgotten the other way in the phantom's home and the only other way he could recall was crossing the lake. He pulled off his jacket and waistcoat and plunged into the icy waters, he gave a breathless gasp as the cold stabbed through his shirt and through to him bones, shortly accompanied by the damp. Breaths came jagged and they tore at the inside of his chest as he dragged them in. The ebony waters seemed intent of sucking him under, they weighed his clothes down like lead and lapped at his chin, occasionally he would take a gasp of water instead of air and would be left sputtering for breath and surface.

His last pulse of energy was just fading when his wading arms met the cold iron bars of the portcullis, he clung to it like his life and slowly took controlled and no longer laboured breaths. Raoul found the only way to reach the other side was to swim under the gate, he was worried than if he let go of the portcullis he would sink like a stone and never break the surface again, but it was a risk he had to take.

Raoul took one deep breath and succumbed to the waters, his ears roared as the water entered them, he dipped deeper and deeper into the waters, following the gate with his fingertips. Finally he reached the gap between the gate and the lake floor and he slid through it, letting his body rush to the surface as soon as he reached the other side. The banks drew nearer and he felt soft ground under foot and finally he was able to collapse on the steps the led to the house.

Raoul eventually gathered the energy to rise to his feet shakily and look around. The room was gloomy as only a couple of candles were lit, and darkness dominated most of the room. Raoul suddenly laid eyes on Christine, sprawled across the floor as if she had dropped dead only a minute ago. Suddenly he was granted a burst of energy that allowed him to rush over to Christine's limp figure.