Sincere apologies for the four-month wait for this chapter. My poor muse stood no chance against the combined evils of first semester of college and Facebook, along with the many other dramas that accompany real life. But I am back in business, and that means more regular updates.
A huge thank you to all the readers and reviewers that have stuck with me so far, especially those who made sure to bug me occasionally about an update; this one's for you.
disclaimer: Characters belong to Leroux and Webber, respectively; "The Raven" is Poe's, as I have not the genius to write something so hauntingly beautiful as that poem.
chapter 10
November 5, 1872
"It's interesting…"
I looked up from my feeble attempts at mending one of my stockings to glance over at Erik where he sat across the room at the little writing desk, a stack of paper before him. "What's interesting?"
"Hmm? Oh, nothing, I was merely thinking aloud," he said, turning away from me.
"Nonsense. You were trying to speak with me," I said, flicking my eyes down to my hands for a moment to sew another stitch.
"Really, Meg, you shouldn't act so knowledgeable about things you are uncertain of. And make sure you don't stain that stocking; blood is quite impossible to eradicate."
"What? What are you talking—ouch!" I dropped my sewing into my lap and glared at the pinprick of blood pooling on the skin on my index finger.
Erik chuckled softly. "Here, let me help," he said, coming over to me.
I put my finger in my mouth and sucked away the blood while Erik took my sewing from my lap, stitching up the hole quickly before returning needle, thread, and stocking to me. "There," he announced, and strode back to the desk.
I pulled my finger out of my mouth, examining the pad before wiping the digit absentmindedly on my skirt. "You always make me feel so ridiculous."
He actually laughed!
"I apologize, Meg," he replied, shaking his head, still chuckling softly while I scowled at him. "Besides, it's not entirely your fault; you didn't get enough practice at that when you were younger, that's all."
"That's true," I conceded. "Dancing was my life." Before you came along…
"Is," he said curtly.
"I'm sorry?"
"You said dancing was your life. I'm correcting you."
"Again," I replied tartly.
"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him.' Proverbs twenty-two, fifteen."
"Don't you start quoting the Bible at me; for God's sake, Erik, you sound just like my mother." Little did he know that I'd heard that very verse from her millions of times.
"All that aside," he said quickly, "I want you to dance again."
I crossed my arms in front of my chest defensively, looking at him suspiciously. "Why?"
"Because it's good for you." He paused, his eyes growing angry, though it seemed more self-inflicted than anything else. "And we need the income."
I paled. "What?"
"Come here."
A little wary, I got up from my seat and approached him.
He glanced up at me before returning his attention to the stack of papers. "There's no need to look so curious; I'm not writing." He sounded amused.
His statement only served to puzzle me further (as he knew it would, I have no doubt), so I stepped around the desk in order that I might stand behind him, lean in, and look.
Hundreds of little numbers scratched in varying shades of red accompanied by sparse notes in his all-too-familiar childish hand littered the pages. I squinted my eyes and leaned in closer.
"My financial record. I made a habit of it years ago; I was reluctant to trust anyone, especially when it came to money…"
I smiled smugly at his choice of words as I looked over his shoulder at the documents; the past tense made me feel like I'd accomplished something substantial in gaining his trust as I had. "May I see them?"
"Of course," he replied, and handed them to me.
Intrigued, I flipped through the manuscript—for it was loosely bound with a strap of sturdy leather weaving in and out of the papers on the left hand margin, significantly aged. The papers on top were yellowing, the writing less precise; I looked at the date in the upper right corner.
"October 4, 1853," I breathed, my eyes widening. "Christ, Erik, this was before I was born."
He chuckled. "Well, that puts things in perspective, now, doesn't it…"
"It does," I said. I flipped through the manuscript more, watching the writing transform, the entries become more organized, some even detailing individual purchases; my eye caught one reading "wedding gown" marked for the 7th of May, 1869, and I had to work hard to suppress the sudden, instinctual flood of jealousy, electing to pretend as if I had never spotted it.
Erik must have sensed my tension, for he made to take the documents back. "Here, look," he said, flipping to the very last section, past the page with the wedding gown and countless other purchases he must have made in those last days at the Opera. My eyes followed to where his finger pointed at one of the columns, noticing that the value of the numbers were, indeed, decreasing. I scanned the rest of the page. Monthly rent had steadily taken its toll, along with the price of the various sea passages and—
"Oh, Erik, I can't believe you paid that much for those papers!" I exclaimed, looking at him.
He looked embarrassed for a moment. "Well, it's worth it, isn't it? We might still be stuck in Canada."
"There was nothing wrong with Quebec; at least they spoke French there."
"In any case, we're here now, so there's no use in fretting." He looked at me slyly. "Though I know that's what you do best…"
"Is it? I'll keep that in mind," I replied, my temper not improving. "For instance, when we're out on the street and starving."
Erik gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not going to come to that, Meg. I won't let it come to that."
"I appreciate the gesture, but how do you propose to get more money?" I asked. "Dancing only pays so much… honestly, Erik, it's not like you have anymore Opera managers to swindle."
He winced at my words.
"Well?" I continued, really and truly panicked now, though trying to hide it, to control it. "What is your plan, Monsieur?
He hesitated, shooting an almost guilty glance in my direction before staring at the surface of the writing desk. "I don't have one," he murmured, looking distinctly defeated and helpless for a moment.
That frightened me, the way he looked, more than what came out of his mouth. I trembled where I stood, shock and despair gripping me. "What?" I whispered, my mouth dry, my head spinning.
Before I knew quite what was happening, I found myself in Erik's arms. He held me tightly, standing close to me, so close I could hear the rapid thump of his heart. "Easy, Meg," he murmured. "Steady, steady, I'm here…"
I felt faint. "What happened?"
"You were going to fall," he informed me, and I blushed, pulling away from him, too embarrassed to enjoy the result of his uncharacteristic response to my weakness.
He let me go, taking a small step back against the desk. "Are you all right? Perhaps you should go lie down… Do you need anything, a glass of water—?"
"I'm fine, Erik. I'll live, I promise." I smiled up at him, hoping to put him at ease; though I still felt a bit lightheaded, at least the room was no longer spinning, and I could see the unveiled concern in his eyes. "Though I suppose a glass of water couldn't hurt."
He nodded, heading off into the pantry to get the water, and I sank into the chair by the desk to wait for him, examining again with anxious eyes the decreasing nature of the numbers detailed in Erik's record.
He returned, placing the glass before me, snatching away the manuscript hastily, much to my annoyance. Muttering something about "knew I shouldn't have shown her", off he went back into the furthest recesses of the apartment to stow the offending papers where he had gotten them from, leaving me alone with the glass of tap water.
I gulped the liquid down, trying not to think of the strange aftertaste I still wasn't used to, and, once done, sighed grumpily. Erik had, for once, entrusted me with information about our security and welfare instead of electing to simply ensure me that he "would take care of it" and I had ruined it with my little faint. I felt my cheeks burn in shame at my overreaction; I should have known better, that he wouldn't allow us to be put out on the street, that there was still quite a substantial sum left. Afterwards, I would wonder (and pester Erik about) how he had managed to secure a bank account in the States as well as transferring all of his funds into it, but for the moment I was too sulky.
It was no wonder why Erik treated me like such a child sometimes, I reflected with a dissatisfied frown.
When he returned from the back room, I was ready for him. "My apologies, Meg," he began, but I shook my head.
"No need," I said, going for nonchalance, but my voice was too tight, the reply too curt, too cold as I overcompensated around the lump in my throat, all too aware that my cheeks were still rather pink. I looked at him.
His eyes grew wary and confused, an expression to match stealing over his face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Erik, nothing's 'wrong'. Why must you always assume that something is 'wrong'?" I snapped, then turned away, letting the first of my irrational, angry tears fall.
He made to approach me, but soon stopped dead in his cat-quiet tracks. I could hear the overwhelming incredulity in his voice as he asked, "Meg, are you…crying?"
"Leave me alone," I sniffed, wiping at my eyes angrily. Why was I always such a fool in front of him?
"Meg?"
His voice took on a new sort of tone, a plaintive one, and I glanced at him out of surprise, wiping away as much moisture from my eyes as I could. I gave a shaky breath out, trying to gain control of myself, watching as he took a few hesitant steps towards me, stopping, then closing the rest of the gap in four long strides after a moment. He grasped my chin, forcing my eyes to his. He opened his mouth to speak, but then quickly shut it, electing instead to wipe away the rest of my tears in silence.
I took a shuddering breath before speaking. "I'm sorry, Erik."
"To be honest, I'm not quite sure what you did or what just transpired, and therefore have no idea who's to blame. Tears do make me anxious, though, so you are forgiven." He brought his other hand to my face, stroking my hair, tucking it back behind my ears.
"I feel like such a fool," I muttered, sniffing again.
His eyes laughed, but he held unyielding control over his facial expression, not even the corners of his mouth twitching. "You're not a fool," he assured me, gently holding my face between his hands. "Even the best slip up, it's only human, really." He paused, giving me a small, mischievous smirk. "Good thing I'm not human then, eh?"
I scowled at him, and he chuckled, removing his cool hands from my cheeks. "Only joking, my dear. Incidentally, it's nice to see you back to normal." Another scowl from me, then, "I would like to know what happened, however."
"Erik, you should know by now that I always get moody right before my monthly—"
"Ah, right you are, right you are, no need to continue," he said hurriedly, obviously uncomfortable with the topic. It was my turn to smirk.
"Well, you did say you wanted to know…"
"I realize that, Meg." He made a face.
I giggled, standing on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "Poor, unhappy Erik," I whispered.
"Indeed, I am," he replied, kissing the tip of my nose. "Though I would be considerably happier if you were like this more often."
"That would make things far too easy for you, Erik," I said with a smile, sniffing yet again.
He made to kiss me on the forehead as I said that, but pulled away at the last moment. "Bah."
"What are we going to do about the finances?" I asked him.
He seemed wary to return to the topic that had caused the both of us so much grief for the afternoon. "Well… in the long run, it wouldn't hurt for you to dance again. Besides," he said quickly when I opened my mouth to reply, "it will be good for you. I know how happy it makes you, and you shouldn't be sitting around here all day."
"But I can't audition if I don't speak English, Erik. I wouldn't be able to answer their questions."
"Then all the more reason for you to start learning, isn't it?"
I stuck my tongue out at him, lacking a retort. "What about you, what are you going to do?"
"I haven't decided yet," he said. "I'll let you know when I do, however."
I wrapped my arms around him, resting my chin on his chest and straining to look up at him. "Do you promise?"
He kissed me on the forehead. "I promise."
-----
November 16, 1872
"I've thought of it."
I looked at Erik quizzically, having just stepped through the front door, returning from my latest afternoon spent with Mama Valerius. After helping her do some preparation on some of the vegetables she would be cooking for supper that night, we went back to her flat (the general kitchen area was on the first floor, whereas ours was the third) for an English lesson. Even though I was still having difficulties, it helped that she was much more patient about it than Erik was.
I closed the door behind me, locked it, then made my way over to him where he sat in his now customary spot by the desk. "What did you say, Erik?"
He was engrossed in going over some music. "Oh," he said after a moment of silence. "You wanted me to tell you when I decided on what I was going to do."
It took me several seconds to understand what he was talking about, but once I did, my mouth formed into a little 'O' of realization.
I must have looked rather ludicrous, for he looked up at me then worked to bite back a smile. "Catching flies, Meg?"
I shut my mouth, giving him a sour look. "Well?" I asked. "What grand scheme have you happened upon? First of all, will I need to prepare a bag, just in case we get caught?"
"It won't be quite so drastic as that, I assure you," he said, his voice sounding a little disapproving, but one look into his eyes told me he was more amused than anything else. He chuckled. "No, not so drastic. I'm going to sell my music."
The breath whooshed out of my lungs as my mouth fell open. "What?"
"No need to look so shocked." He paused, his eyes scrutinizing my face. "You're not going to faint again, are you?"
I colored at that, his comment jolting me enough to continue. "What do you mean, you're going to sell your music? You can't do that!"
His eyes narrowed. "And why not?"
"Because! It's your music, Erik! Your music."
"I fail to see what you're getting at, Meg."
Why was it so hard for him to understand? I didn't need to put it into words, even if I knew how; separating Erik from his music was wrong, yet even the thought of selling it was unimaginable. "It's just—it's just… horrifying."
"You make it sound like I've just suggested prostituting myself," he said grumpily.
"Better that than what you first suggested," I replied, and he scowled. "Besides, that's what you would be doing if you were to sell your music, prostituting yourself. I've seen you when you're composing, Erik, you pour your soul into that."
He laughed, but it was cold, and it made me shudder. I didn't like this Erik, the cold, callous, calculating one; this Erik could be frightening. "Hardly, Meg. Even if I had a soul, it's gone now, destroyed along with the Opera."
His comment about him not having a soul annoyed me, but the rest of what he said intrigued me, and my curiosity won. "What? What do you mean?"
"The night I took Christine, the Opera that was being performed? That is where my soul went."
I struggled to remember; so much had happened that night. "You don't mean Don Juan Triumphant?" I was shocked; I had known he had written it, but for him to consider that his life's work…
"Yes, Meg, I do mean Don Juan Triumphant. You think it's bad now? There was a time when I went nearly two weeks without eating anything, I was working so hard."
"I…I didn't…"
"Besides," he continued, suddenly intent on returning to the topic we had previously been discussing. "Besides, I'm not stupid, Meg. What I'm considering putting for sale is hardly my best work."
"It… it's not?"
"No, my dear. The two operettas in question annoy me a great deal, actually. I'd be glad to be rid of them."
"Op—operettas?"
"Again, no need to look so shocked," he said, but this time with amusement at the fact that I was completely dumbfounded at the turn of events. "They didn't take me that long, really."
I sat on the surface of the desk, needing to be off my feet lest I suddenly decided to faint again. "Erik, that's… that's incredible."
"Not especially," he said, standing and offering me his chair. I declined, but he remained standing, rifling through the stack of music sheets before him. "I wrote them on a whim, the ideas were trite, the score rather boring… Ah, but here's a good one." He pulled two sheets away from the stack, handing them to me. "Have a look."
I did oblige him for a moment, looking at the notes that graced the page in the red ink he was so attached to, but I gave them back to him soon after. "Erik, I can't—"
"Read music, yes, I keep forgetting…" he finished, taking the sheets back, looking distinctly disappointed.
"I'm sorry," I said softly.
"No matter." He looked over the music again, his expression one of peace and contentment—something I'd rarely seen aside from when he slept. "But this one I am rather fond of… if only I could play it for you…"
"What is it called?" I asked, realizing suddenly that I hadn't thought to look at the title once he had handed them to me the first time.
"'The Raven'," he said. "I composed it for the violin."
"'The Raven'?"
"Inspired by Poe," he explained, but I was still confused, and I told him. He looked at me incredulously. "You don't know who Poe is?" he breathed.
I shook my head no.
"Poe? Edgar Allen Poe? One of the greatest writers this century has seen?"
By now, I was thoroughly embarrassed by my ignorance. "I've never heard of him," I admitted quietly.
He continued to look at me as if I had sprouted a second head for another several moments before plunging his hand into his jacket, withdrawing a worn piece of paper, yellowed with age, from some pocket within. He unfolded it, then began to read.
I closed my eyes soon after he began, swaying slightly to the cadence of his voice. He spoke in English, and some of the words were difficult for me to understand, but I listened to him as if he were singing. He might as well have been, his voice so musical, so melodic, so utterly captivating it was hard to deny.
"'And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting on the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; and his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming and the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor; and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted--nevermore!'" His voice had reduced to the merest shadow of a whisper, the last syllables fading away into silence as he reached the end of the poem. He cleared his throat then, folding the paper up and tucking it back into his pocket. "And that, Meg, was 'The Raven'."
"It's beautiful," I breathed. In all honesty, I had never heard anything like it. That, and the way Erik delivered it, the rhythm of the lines and the way his voice seemed practically meant to say those lines, those rhythms aloud… it was a formidable, spell-binding force to be reckoned with.
He smiled at me. "That's the first thing I said after reading it for the first time." He paused, his expression hardening again, more fierce after the sudden light of his smile. "And what did you think of the subject matter?"
"The whole thing was distinctly…" I struggled to find the right word. "…Dark. Depressing."
"You expected differently? Honestly, Meg, I'm shocked."
I gave an overly-dramatic, longsuffering sigh, rolling my eyes at him. "But it still was beautiful, in its own way."
"Yes, it is," he agreed, then sighed as well. "One of these days I'll find a violin, and I'll play that for you," he said, gesturing at the sheets of music lying on the desk.
"I would love to hear it. If it's anything like what you just read to me…"
"It's not that good, but it is decent, and I'm rather proud of it."
"It's always nice for an artist to have some sort of pride in their work."
"Indeed, it is." He paused, picking up a thin portfolio and tucking it under his right arm. "Which is exactly why I intend on selling these things off as soon as possible, and anonymously."
"Oh, Erik, must you? Couldn't you, perhaps, keep them and rework them?"
He shook his head no. "They're too far gone for any sort of rescue. And I'd rather have them turn some sort of profit than to have me get frustrated and merely tear them up…. Meg, why are you so averse to this idea?" He seemed exasperated.
"It's just… Oh, I have no way to explain it, Erik! I just don't like it, that's all." I crossed my arms in front of my chest.
"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way," he replied, though I could tell he really wasn't. "But this needs to be done."
I turned my back to him, taking a few steps away from the desk. "Fine."
I heard him give another sigh, then walk towards the front door. "Oh, I'd almost forgotten. Meg, I found a dance studio about seven or eight blocks from here that works in conjunction with a few of the local theaters."
I spun around to look at him again. "Really?"
He nodded, pulling on his long overcoat he liked to wear during the day sometimes, when his cloak would have drawn too much attention. "They're looking for assistants to help teach the classes and supervise with productions."
I found I couldn't say anything, so excited was I. I could start dancing again…
"Did you want to come with me? We could go look at it," he said gently.
"What?" I made an effort to focus on him again. "Oh, no, Erik, that's quite all right… I—I think I'll just run over to Mama's again, help her with dinner… You'll be back in time for dinner, yes?"
"Of course. Don't forget to lock the door on your way out, Meg."
"I will."
He put on his hat and turned away, started to unlock the door.
"Erik?"
He looked at me, his expression one of mild interest.
"Be safe."
There was the slightest shadow of a smile on his face as he opened the door swiftly, disappearing down the corridor.