Now entering her seventh week of veiled captivity, Josephine began to consider whether she might be going insane.
She was stir crazy at the very least. She missed daylight and fresh air, the ability to come and go as she pleased, her leisurely walks through the early spring growths at the Jardin des Tuileries.
And yet, there was a different kind of freedom in her living arrangement with Erik, one that she suspected would not have been present in her marriage: companionship without expectation. They argued, certainly, but only about things of substance and in ways that challenged her mindset, leaving her sharper and more discerning. And in other, more subtle moments, his company was as comfortingly familiar to her as sipping her morning coffee, rereading Jane Eyre, or taking a hot bath before bed: all regular, unremarkable activities in their own right, but she always looked forward to them, always finished them feeling content.
She could also feel the gravitational pull between herself and the masked man, and she knew that if he were to act on it, as he had come so close to doing the night she fell ill, then she would not stop him. It would take only the slightest nudge on his part for her to plummet from her safe orbit and crash into him with unprecedented speed and fire. She was certain that it was not a good idea for that to happen.
Now more than ever, her work had become a means of escape. Contrary to the traditional order of things, the farther Josephine got from the set design process, the more she labored. It was in part to distance herself from the angel of music and his dark underworld, but more than that, she craved it. As her imagined set pieces materialized on stage with her guidance and assistance, she experienced something of a natural high. She was also volunteering for tasks, becoming noticed, weaving herself into the tapestry of the Opera Populaire so that she might eventually become indispensable.
To be trusted to do what she did best, to have her ideas come to fruition: these were things, she thought, that had the most potential to sustain her in the long term. Perhaps those ideas could be the children that she carried within her, to later birth them and nurture them to maturity.
She tried not to think about how much Erik had so far been involved in their conception.
On this particular day, she was in the cavernous set workshop, crafting vines of green silk to wrap around the tall Greek columns featured in the Elysian Fields scene. Unfurled behind her was the massive backdrop that she had designed and assisted in painting: a magnificent cherry tree blossoming over a clear spring, the surrounding greenery dotted with wood violets, primrose, and forget-me-nots. Here, working contentedly amid her developing vision of paradise, she could almost forget that she was missing the arrival of spring in the city. Almost.
She worked well into the evening, determined to finish the last of the vines before she left in light of impending dress rehearsals. When at last she had finished, the evergreen leaves coiled around her like a low-lying jungle, the workshop and adjacent hallway were otherwise devoid of employees. She bundled the vines for the following day and walked to the atelier to return materials that she had borrowed.
She had expected wardrobe to be vacant as well and could not help but exclaim, "Oh!" at the sight of the Vicomtesse de Chagny rummaging through drawers of bobbins and thread. Equally startled, Christine let out a small gasp and slammed shut the drawer she had been investigating.
"My sincerest apologies, madame la vicomtesse," Josephine said quickly. "I had expected the room to be unoccupied." She turned to leave, but Christine stretched out a hand to stop her.
"No, no, I am the one intruding. Please, come in. Perhaps you know where I might find paper and pen? I was intending to leave a note for Mlle. Perotte."
"Certainly; I shall just put these things away first." Josephine rushed to return the materials to their rightful homes, sneaking quick glances at the other woman. Today the vicomtesse was attired in a frock of cornflower blue taffeta, the draped folds of the overskirt rippling down from her midsection as fluidly as a pond disturbed by an errant stone. She studied her fingernails idly, opening her mouth several times as if to speak, only to decide otherwise and close it again.
Finally, as Josephine raided the appropriate supply stores for pen and paper, Christine broke the silence. "Please forgive me. I recognize your face, but I am afraid I do not know your name."
"Josephine Arnaud, madame. I am currently in set design, and formerly from wardrobe."
The soprano's face brightened. "Oh, then perhaps you can offer advice! You see, I was to have my final fitting in the morning, but another engagement has come up. I had hoped Mlle. Perotte would still be here to do the fitting tonight. Do you think it will be a terrible inconvenience to postpone?"
"I could do it now," Josephine offered. "I would simply need to pin the garment and leave Mlle. Perrotte a note."
"I must confess, I had hoped you would say that."
Josephine closed the door to the workshop for privacy. She found Christine's Eurydice costume arranged on a dress form: a flowing Greek chiton of bone-white silk, with a gold belt and delicate grape-leaf shoulder clasps. With the garment draped over her arm, she led the singer to the three-panel screen that had been set up for the performers' final fittings, as was typical for this point in the production.
She assisted Christine in stripping off layers of taffeta and petticoats until all that remained were chemise, drawers, and corset. She was struck by the oddity of the corset, which had laces down either side of the front panel in addition to the usual ones down the back. She was still studying its construction, debating the impropriety of asking about it, when she noticed the small but unmistakable swell in Christine's abdomen.
The soprano followed her gaze downward and blushed. "Oh, dear, is it that obvious?" she fretted, her palms settling on the bump. "I had hoped that it would not be so noticeable yet."
Josephine averted her eyes and found her voice despite the familiar ache that seemed to hollow out her insides. "I beg your pardon," she apologized. "The corset took me by surprise, and I could not help but stare. I do not think it is outwardly apparent, though, at least not with the dress you have selected."
Christine's relief was palpable. "Thank heavens," she said on an exhalation of breath. "I just need to survive these last few weeks without incident. My returning to the stage a married woman was scandalous enough." Eyes pleading, she reached out to clasp Josephine's hands. "You will not tell anyone, will you? Mlle. Perrotte is the only other person in the company who knows."
"Of course not," Josephine assured her. She could only pray that Erik had the decency not to witness any of this.
The vicomtesse flashed her a small, grateful smile and squeezed her hands before pulling away. "I know how deceitful it must sound," she admitted. "I did not even share the news with the vicomte until a few weeks ago, after I had already committed to the opera—but I have been relying on this last performance to carry me through the changes that I face. It is selfish, I know."
"I understand," Josephine said, helping her into the costume. At least, she thought she understood, though she would have happily traded places with the other woman in that moment.
Christine held her arms perpendicular to her torso and examined the yards of fabric that hung from her shoulders. "Mlle. Perrotte assured me that there would be a lot of give in the midsection of the dress," she said, "but this seems excessive."
"Ah, but now we cinch it with the belt," Josephine replied, snatching up the gold rope that she had draped over the screen. "I think it will be perfect."
Once she had incorporated the belt and coordinating gold sandals, she had Christine stand on a platform in front of a full-length mirror while she began to tweak and pin the garment. The vicomtesse smiled at her own reflection initially, but each time Josephine glanced up, the woman's face had fallen more into something like wistfulness. Within minutes, she had burst into tears.
Josephine set down her pincushion. "Madame la vicomtesse?"
Christine held up a palm as if to say she was fine, but other other hand flew to her mouth to stifle her sobs, and then she was sinking into a sitting position on the platform. Unsure of the proper way to respond, Josephine opted to sit on the floor next to her, fishing a handkerchief out of her satchel.
Christine took the proffered handkerchief and used it to dab at her eyes and face. "I am so sorry," she said. "I am so easily affected these days. But, oh, I will miss all of this very much."
"You have spent quite a long time with the company; I imagine it feels like leaving home at this point."
"A long time, yes." The vicomtesse stared past her reflection at something unseen. "Only recently, though, had I begun to feel truly content. Do you know, Josephine, what it feels like to have influence? There is something almost intoxicating about it."
"Yes, I daresay I know what you mean." Josephine's eyes darted to Christine's midsection, now obscured by layers of fabric, and it suddenly struck her how quickly the beginning of one small life could induce the metaphorical end—or, perhaps more aptly, rebirth—of another.
Christine sighed, the tears subsiding, and shook her head. "There was a time, about a year ago, when I thought that I had lost and regained my freedom. Now I wonder whether I ever had it to begin with."
Josephine saw it now: prima donna and seamstress, two sides of the same coin, minted by society.
She considered how she had essentially let Erik carry on as though he owned her. She felt nearly as implicit in her own imprisonment as he was, and she vowed to change that. Tonight, she resolved.
"My apologies; I'm afraid I have been far too candid," the vicomtesse said, forcing a small smile. "Please, do not mistake me. I am very happy and grateful for this blessing. It is just that sometimes, I…" She trailed off, looking down at her hands, and the color suddenly drained from her face. "Where did you get this?" she whispered, her eyes growing wide.
Josephine followed Christine's gaze down to the handkerchief, which had a single red rose stitched into its corner. Her stomach flipped. "I can hardly remember," she lied. "I may have found it backstage."
Christine stared at it for another few seconds. "It looks quite like one that I have seen before," she said slowly, "but I am likely mistaken." She began to pull herself to her feet, graciously accepting Josephine's outstretched hand for assistance. "Well! Shall we get back to the dress, then, Mlle. Arnaud?" Her smile was warm now, and Josephine was vaguely aware of something important having passed between them.
She made quick work of the fitting, pinned a note to the mannequin for Mlle. Perotte, and walked Christine to the managers' offices to find her husband, all the while wondering whether Erik would be cross with her for staying so late that evening. It would not be an issue if he did not supervise and escort you like an inmate, she reminded herself, and her resolve to confront him was renewed.
But he was not waiting for her when she arrived at their usual meeting spot in the cellars. She stayed in place for a good ten minutes, even called his name, but there was no evidence of his being there. It was an unprecedented absence. Her mind flashed back to her first staff meeting; she had never warned him that people of power knew of his possible return.
She hurried down to the lowest cellar and descended the ladder into the canal. The boat, which Erik had secured at the base of the ladder that morning, was gone. Without hesitation, she lowered herself into the water and splashed toward Erik's home as quickly as her legs would allow.
Her thighs were burning, her lungs screaming, by the time she reached the entrance. The boat was moored outside as though it had never left; her brain could not make sense of it. She lifted her waterlogged skirts to ascend the stairs and enter the sitting room, terrified of what she might find.
It was quiet. Erik sat at his desk, surrounded by books and documents, his pen scratching feverishly across a sheet of paper. Her legs nearly buckled beneath the weight of her relief, and she moved to grip the side of the pipe organ amid the jumble of emotions that now flooded her brain.
The movement caught his attention. "Josephine," he remarked, startled, and he pulled out his pocket watch to examine it. "My apologies. I was caught up in today's work and apparently lost track of the time." His eyes widened as he took in her wet attire. "Did you truly wade through the water to get here? Perhaps it is time for me to show you the other entrance."
She ignored the change of subject. "Today's work? Do you mean to say that you have done this on other days?"
He stood, palms upturned in deference. "What would you have me do, Josephine? Spend every minute tracking you through the opera house when I have my own interests to attend to?"
"Well, that is certainly what you made me believe that you were doing!" Fury and shame burned a hole into her chest. "I agreed to our truce, Erik. Do you really have so little faith in me after all this time?" His mouth opened and closed without reply, and the uncomfortable silence sufficiently answered her question.
Tears stung her eyes, but she somehow willed them not to fall. "I suppose that is fair," she said quietly. "I do not have the best record, even if I did try to save your life." She could not help the bitterness that laced her remark. "I just thought—I thought that we—" She was unable to put it into words, this thing between them, and she was unsettled into silence when he crossed over to stop only inches away. Even without his fedora, he had a significant height advantage over her. She recalled their first meeting, when she could not help but be awestruck by his physical prowess despite her fear.
"You thought that we what?" he murmured. He was too close, and he knew it. It was a strategic maneuver, employed with the ease of a superior mind; in that moment, the only thing that sounded more exhilarating to her than touching him was the sudden notion of beating him at his own game. But first, she decided, she would give him an easy out.
She made herself take a step back. "I am afraid that I deluded myself into thinking you considered me your equal, Erik." Oh, she had his attention now. "Alas, no one can ever truly be equal to those who define their boundaries."
"And how do you intend to address this inequality?" he asked. His eyes were hardening, losing some of their earlier sultriness.
"Trust me," she begged. "Return my freedom. Let me come and go as I choose, with no strings attached."
He lowered his head and set a hand on the organ console. She watched him repeatedly clench and release the hand, which gave way to a quick, methodical flexing of each digit, pinky to thumb, as though he were playing a rapid scale on the wood. She heard the measured intake and exhale of every breath, and it felt like a hundred of them before he finally spoke, never meeting her gaze. "I am sorry, Josephine, but I cannot." He offered no further explanation. For someone so hell-bent on self-expression, he could be terribly inscrutable.
She nodded and bit her lip. "I was afraid of that," she said. "I think, perhaps, that I have overestimated you, Opera Ghost. You ought to have learned your lesson a year ago."
She did not need to see his face to know that her barb had wounded him, for the faintest tightening of his shoulders gave him away. She felt an immediate sting of regret; perhaps she had been too cold. But the hurt in her chest was still raw, and she did not retract her statement. "I am going to change out of these wet clothes," she said, and she slipped past him and out into the hallway toward her room.
Once inside, she stripped down to her chemise and then opened the wardrobe to extract the ethereal rose-and-gold silk peignoir that she had been taken with since day two. It slid over her bare arms like warm butter; she shivered at its exquisiteness. She belted the robe with the wide gold ribbon looped around its bodice, and then she took a moment to regard herself in the mirror: The nightdress was just narrow enough to caress the outline of her hips without being too snug, and the translucency of the fabric teased perfectly at her state of near undress.
Josephine padded back to the drawing room, the cold floor numbing her bare feet. Erik now sat at the organ, staring at the keys, and he looked so morose that she almost retreated back into the hallway. But he spotted her within seconds—roaming eyes taking in her figure from head to toe, lips parting wordlessly—and her counterattack was thus set into motion.
"What are you doing, Josephine?" The words came out as more of a warning than a question.
"As it stands," she informed him, "I now have sufficient funds to take my leave." That startled him. It was a lie, of course; she had grown so comfortable in her arrangements with Erik that she had been sending extra money to her parents. She was close to her goal, but she would have to spend some nights in the atelier again.
"Since you insist on remaining bound to the terms of our agreement," she continued, sidling over to his desk, "I am now offering myself to you. I know that you were to determine the time and place, but I think we can agree that our time is just about up. So tell me, where do you want to have me?"
She could see his fingers flexing again at his sides. "Josephine," he said, "This is hardly appropriate." Perhaps he had meant to scold her, but the way his voice faltered mid-sentence spoke volumes. She went in for the kill.
"Oh, don't tell me you have never thought about it. I was thinking like this." She swept the contents of the desk to the floor, bent over, and lay her chest on the surface, angling her backside toward him. He was gaping at her now. "This way," she explained over her shoulder, "you will not even have to look at my face. If you insist on remaining a brute, you might as well commit."
He snapped his mouth shut. "That is enough. Stand up."
She straightened and turned to face him. He was staring at her with an unreadable expression, running a hand over his chestnut hair. He removed his black tailcoat, draped it over the organ, and began to take slow, measured strides toward her. Her heart started hammering against her rib cage, and she wondered whether she ought to have mulled over this plan longer, considered all possible outcomes.
A few feet away, Erik stopped and exhaled his frustration through his nose. "You want to force my hand, Josephine? Fine. I release you from the damned agreement." He turned his back to her to gather the discarded desk items from the floor, and she let go of the breath she had not even realized she'd been holding.
"Thank you," she whispered, moving out of his way. But now what? Her hastily devised plan had not gone so far as to address what to do when she broke him. Now we can be equals, she thought, but he spoke first.
"You are free to go," he said tersely, still facing away from her as he returned the desk to its original state. "As it so happens, I have just secured an engagement elsewhere and plan to leave after opening night. I would be most grateful if you kept my existence and whereabouts to yourself until then." He sat down and returned to his writing as though the past fifteen minutes had not existed.
She stared at his back for a long moment. She was not used to seeing him without his tailcoat; the black silk waistcoat and pleated white shirt beneath it hugged his shoulders and torso, making him look more casual but very much emphasizing his masculine frame. She felt a stab of longing in the pit of her stomach.
"So that's it, then?" she asked. "Shall I see myself out, since you apparently have no other use for me?"
He froze but did not turn around. "Given that your expressed wish was not to be used, I fail to understand how that is a problem."
"I did not intend for us to part like this."
"Then what, pray tell, did you hope to accomplish by abasing me into surrender?"
And then the tears were back, a sob lurking at the base of her throat. "I...I really cannot say. I—"
He slammed his fist against the desk, making her flinch. "Stop hedging, Josephine!" he shouted. He stood and whirled around, striding over to her with his index finger extended accusingly. "This timid equivocation does not suit you. Just say what it is that you want."
"You," she whispered, surprising even herself. "I want you."
He stared at her, stunned, for what was possibly the longest moment of her life. Then he reached for the back of her head, and his lips were crushing hers as though he never wanted to breathe again.