AN: Sorry for the horrible delay, real life just loves getting in the way! I hope you like this chapter, and huge thanks to GothAngelUk for the help!
Thoughts are tyrants that return again and again to torment us.
Emily Bronte – Wuthering Heights.
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Treading Water
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Christine pulled Meg's sunny hair back into a chignon. The smooth tresses shone under the pressure of her small fingers - a pool of deep shine, surrounded by a ring of while gold. She slid the pins into place, admiring the way the hair held obediently. She would never be able to impose such an immaculate style on her own hair - her unruly curls would escape the pins and create a wild mess around her face. She looked at Meg in the mirror, and smiled at her friend's optimistic beauty. It warmed her heart to see Meg looking so happy. She slid one final decorative pin into place, and then stood back to admire her work.
"You look lovely," she said with a smile.
Meg turned her head slightly to look at the back of her hair in the mirror, making sure it was all secure beneath the pins. Then she looked Christine in the eyes and smiled.
"You are very talented, Christine! I could never manage such a style by myself."
"You have beautiful hair. It has nothing to do with my talent," said Christine, returning the unused pins to a small tin on Meg's vanity. Then she noticed Meg's twitching hands and stopped tidying up.
"Are you all right?"
"Oh, it's nothing," Meg said, fiddling with her gloves. "It's just that I haven't seen Peter in almost two weeks, what with his trip to Reims, and I feel a little nervous. It feels as if it's the first time I'm meeting with him." She shook her head apologetically. "I don't know, I'm probably being silly… just ignore me."
"You really love him, don't you?" Christine said with a knowing smile.
Meg's cheeks flashed with crimson and she rolled her eyes at her friend.
"Don't look at me like that, you're making it worse!" She swatted Christine on the arm with her gloves and then began to fan herself.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," said Christine trying to be serious. "There is nothing wrong with being in love; you deserve it more than anyone else I know."
Her complement only served to deepen Meg's blush. Christine grinned and began to gather up the ribbons they had discarded earlier.
"I suppose I'm just scared," admitted Meg, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. "I have a terribly irrational fear that something is going to go wrong."
Christine quirked a confused brow. "Why should anything go wrong?"
"Ugh, I don't know," said Meg with a sigh, "but when do any of these things ever turn out well? It's been so long since I heard a story with a happy ending. Why should mine be any different?"
Christine was arranging the ribbons in the drawer, her back turned to Meg. She knew that it was her life that had caused these doubts in her friend, and the thought made her feel ill. Meg seemed to sense her apprehension.
"Oh, Christine – I didn't mean... I'm sorry…"
"No, I know you didn't," Christine said, turning around and attempting a smile.
"I'm sorry, it was careless of me. I don't know why I said it!"
"It's fine, Meg - truly. I don't want to talk about me. All I seem to do is talk about myself! Both with you and with Mathieu… I'm sick of hearing my own name!" She walked over to sit beside Meg on the bed. "This isn't about me; this is about you and Peter. Meg, I've seen the way he looks at you. I've never seen such adoration before. I've no doubt that the two of you are going to be very happy!"
"I am happy," said Meg with a small smile. "I only wish you were too, and then everything would be perfect."
"This is your time to shine. With all the love in the world I don't think I could ever be as happy as you are. Let me be happy for you at the moment, that's enough for me. I have the rest of my life to find myself. And who knows, perhaps one day I'll find a man who loves me as much as Peter loves you!" she smiled again and went back over to the drawer.
Meg was silent for a few moments. She could feel her next words on her tongue, deadly words that would cut Christine's heart - but she could not seem to keep them inside her mouth.
"What if you've already found him?" she said, eyes glued to the floor.
Christine fumbled with the ribbon she was holding and dropped it, then she turned around slowly.
"What do you mean?"
Meg swallowed hard - she could feel the revelation rising in her throat. The words were ready; they were pinching the inside of her mouth, waiting to be released. She shaped her lips to say them…
"What if you've already found him," she repeated. "Someone who loves you beyond all reason, only you don't know it yet…"
Christine was very still. She put her hand on Meg's bureau to steady herself. She seemed to be swaying softly, like a cobweb in a draft.
"What do you mean?" she asked again in a pained voice.
Meg tried to speak, but found herself mute. Why had she done this? Where would she begin to tell her friend the story of the obsessive love that had nearly taken all of their lives? How could she speak of the man who had tormented her every living moment? She felt as though she was made of glass, and Christine's hurt eyes would shatter her into a million pieces.
"Peter is here, my dear," said Madame Giry, knocking on the door softly, before poking her head into the room. Meg's eyes snapped to her, but Christine kept her gaze fixed at her friend.
"I'll be down in a moment," said Meg, giving her mother a warm smile. Madame Giry nodded and left the room again.
There was a tense moment. And the silence seemed to stretch into eternity.
"You mean Raoul, don't you? You think I made a mistake."
"No, Christine. That was your choice. I'm sorry if I upset you, I wasn't thinking…"
"Who did you mean then if not Raoul?" Christine could feel anger shaking her to the core.
"Nobody, I'm so sorry… I don't know why I said it. Are you angry with me?"
Christine shook her head, but her eyes did not soften. A sharp pain cut through her head and suddenly it was hard to breathe. "No, of course not. You should go, Peter is waiting… I'll see you tomorrow."
Meg gave her a wry half-smile. "Are you going to Monsieur Edgar's with mamman?"
"I don't know, I don't think so. I'm tired - I think I'll just have an early night."
"It might do you some good to get out," Meg said, trying to find the happy peace they had been sharing moments before. Christine felt herself soften slightly. She knew Meg did not mean any harm.
"I'll think about it... Now you really should go and save Peter from your mother's scrutiny… I'm sure he's missed you terribly!"
"All right, but I am sorry…are you sure you're not upset with me? I really didn't mean to -"
Christine held up her hand to interrupt her. "Please, let's just forget it! Have a lovely evening."
Meg smiled and gave Christine a small hug, and then she turned and left the room.
Christine sank down onto the small chair in front of Meg's vanity. Who was it that Meg meant? It was not Raoul; Meg knew her pain too well to disturb that grave. No, this was something else – someone else…
Mathieu! Of course, Christine thought. Meg thought she was falling in love with Mathieu? The notion was absurd! She wanted to laugh, but her lungs were clogged with disbelief. She did not love Mathieu - she was only just beginning to like him. At best she found him amiable and interesting to be with, and at worst she found him haughty and clinically minded. He was a man of science and she was a girl of dreams. And there was no part of her heart that could force an attachment to him.
She found herself yearning to be somewhere else entirely whenever she was in his company. Her lonely heart was calling for something she did not recognise. The more time she spent with him, the more confused she became, and the more she talked, the more she wanted to conceal.
And there was something else building inside of her, inside the darkest crevices of her soul. A dark ache was gaining strength. Talking with Mathieu about the past was not killing the pain. It was feeding it, and the more she remembered, the more it hurt.
This pain was at the back of everything. It had outgrown her heart and was now forcing its way outwards, filling her soul. It was an unwanted parasite, feasting on her blood and her mind. It had been slowly pushing everything else out of the way - her love for Raoul, her freedom… her sanity. It pushed incessantly, claiming her unwilling heart, claiming her! It had made a comfortable nest inside of her, and nothing could make it move. And what horrified her was that she did not want it to. It was part of her now - her insides. And she would not be able to breathe if it was not there.
Her discussions with Mathieu were leading her towards a precipice. And she knew the time would come when she would have to make the ultimate decision - run or jump.
She left Meg's room and made her way to find Madame Giry. The house was small, with three bedrooms upstairs, and a sitting room and kitchen downstairs. The furniture was a strange mix of memorabilia that had been recovered from the Opera, and worn and tatty second hand goods - the exquisite mixed with the mundane. Strangely, Christine found that she preferred the pieces from the Opera in this domestic setting - they were beautiful, but also comforting. They reminded her of the three inhabitants of the house, theatrical relics trying to stay in tune with the lungs of a real, breathing world.
Madame Giry was in the sitting room, pinning up her plait with expert precision. Her long, delicate fingers worked the pins with a grace the like of which Christine had never seen before. And she found herself mesmerized by the older woman's dancing hands.
"Are you all right, my dear?" Madame Giry asked, taking the final pin from between her teeth and fixing it to her plait.
"Hmm? Oh, sorry," Christine said, blinking back into reality. "I'm just feeling a little tired... I think I'll stay at home tonight, if that's all right with you."
"You do not wish to be entertained by Edgar's charming business associates?" Madame Giry asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile. "Of course I understand, my dear, these meetings with Monsieur la Claire are taking their toll."
"They certainly are," said Christine, slumping down onto the divan.
"Are they helping you? If you don't mind my asking..."
"I think so," Christine said with a frown. "But I feel like the clouds are getting thicker, and not clearing. But Mathieu said that it will get worse before it gets better. I suppose I shall have to trust him."
"Do you feel any different?" Madame Giry asked, coming to sit beside Christine on the divan.
"Yes, actually," said Christine thoughtfully. "I feel clearer about a few things. Mathieu has taught me to try and accept what happened with Raoul. I've come to realise that there are certain things you cannot change, no matter how much you might wish it."
"He is right, we all have regrets. But it does no good to wallow in them. Life continues, and we must move with it!"
"I'm thinking about writing to him, to Raoul, I mean. Do you think that it's wise?"
Madame Giry was stunned. "If you think it will help you to move on. What would you say to him?"
"That I'm sorry," Christine gave her a sad smile. "And that I hope that he is happy. I don't think I can move on until I have attempted to make amends for what I did to him."
Christine could see Madame Giry's brow crease in apprehension. The older woman seemed disturbed by what she heard.
"You were not the only one at fault, my dear. Raoul is a grown man, and I hope he still counts you as a friend. He will understand that you were not yourself back then."
"I wish I could remember who I was. Then maybe all of this would make more sense."
"Perhaps you should leave the letter to le Vicomte until that knowledge has returned to you, hmm? Until then everything you say to him will only be a half truth. Amends should only ever be made with a whole heart."
Christine nodded slowly. "Yes, perhaps you're right."
"What do you think of Monsieur la Claire? Do you like him?" asked Madame Giry, desperate to steer the subject in a different direction.
Christine thought about this for a long moment. Everywhere she turned people seemed to want her to define her feelings for Mathieu. She did not know how she felt. Her feelings for him were not of the romantic kind – she was certain of this. But he was not a friend either, not like Meg or Raoul. Yet she was becoming dependent on him; he was quickly becoming an important figure in her life.
It was all too easy, she thought. It was as though he was stepping into a mould that had already been carved. He was strong and dependant and she knew she could tell him anything without judgment or regret. He was a small part of her life away from the madness of the past, which in itself was strange, because they spent all of their time trying to make her remember who she had been before. But in these two weeks she felt stronger than she had done in months!
She sighed. None of it made sense, and she did not want to share her crazed thoughts with Madame Giry. So she simply smiled and said:
"Yes, I like him very much."
Madame Giry accepted this with a nod and a smile. "I'm glad. You certainly seem happier."
And then Christine surprised herself by saying: "I feel it."
She looked up at the woman who had been the only mother she had ever known and smiled.
"You look lovely," she said.
A corner of Madame Giry's mouth curled down into a displeased frown. And Christine knew that it was hard for her to accept the compliment. The older woman glanced at the mantelpiece clock.
"And it is time for me to leave," she stood up and began to brush down her skirts. "I have left a copy of the address on the table, along with carriage fare, should you change your mind."
"Thank you, but I think I'm just going to have an early night."
"Very well," said Madame Giry, fixing her bonnet into place. "But it is there, should you need it."
They shared a warm farewell and then Madame Giry left the room.
When the front door had clicked shut, Christine let her body fall back against the divan and let out an exhausted sigh. In truth, she wasn't tired at all - her mind was alive. More alive than it had been in months, the colonies of shadows in her head were moving again, scratching at the dark corners of her memory, undoing some of the iron bolts encasing her mind. They were clanking and creaking, making her eyes swell against her closed lids. It was all too much, and it was all so loud! She squeezed her eyes against the pain, biting the inside of her mouth until she could taste blood.
There was a knock at the door.
She rose slowly and approached the hallway, holding onto the wall to try and support her shaking ankles.
The early evening sun shone against the window, blurring her already painful vision.
The silhouette of a man stood outlined against the glass.
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Erik lay in bed, watching the minutes tick by. This was the first time in his entire life that he had stayed in bed until late afternoon. He rubbed a frustrated hand over his face, and felt the skin of his palm chafe against his unshaven cheek.
He looked around the room; it was a mess of sketches, plans and liquor bottles. In the previous days when he had not been following Edgar, he had been planning like a madman, finding out all he could about the old man's business accounts and deals. He had been trying to uncover any weaknesses, any previous deviant behavior. His life had been dedicated to planning another man's demise. It was a vicious, unprovoked attack on a man he did not know. Planning such things usually made him feel powerful, like a controlling force with a sense of purpose – seeking revenge on all of those who had shunned him!
But today Erik felt only exhausted – and annoyed.
He was infuriated with Edgar Lockhart - thanks to him there was no reason for him to arise this day. He did not need to follow the old man around the city; he did not need to draw up the plans to expose the truth about Peter's real parentage. There was no purpose to him, he could stay in this bed all day and it would not matter!
He was annoyed with the old man for showing him kindness, basic, simple human compassion that could not be shunned or laughed at. The most astonishing thing was that the old man did not want anything in return for his friendship. He did not want Erik to build a palace, stalk the streets or kill anyone. The only thing that had been requested of him was his company! Erik wanted to laugh; he could see the scene so clearly. Business men with pristine moustaches and groomed eyebrows sharing brandy and cigars with the Monsieur O.G! They would genially ask him his opinion on matters of business and politics, and then nod along in a hum of agreement.
Damn them all, the fools, they could keep their useless sympathy – he did not want it!
Erik's deepest fury was at himself. At that weak part of his heart that was so deeply touched by this gesture of kindness, at the part of him that treasured the small piece of paper which held the address. An invitation! The only invitation he had ever received, and he did not know if he was more disgusted with himself for his weak gratitude or for the deception that had brought the invitation in the first place.
Aggravated, he swung his legs out of bed and began to pace the room. There was some consolation to these feelings, he mused bitterly - at least they were a distraction from Christine. He knew he needed to stay away, he knew he would be utterly ruined if he so much as saw her face again. But the painful knowledge that she was out there, without the boy, was a temptation he could not seem to ignore.
He had promised himself that he would stay away, that he would move on and let her find peace. He was the darkness that dragged her down, and another encounter between them might well be the end of her. Would he be satisfied then? When he had ruined the only thing he could ever love? Could he really risk looking into her eyes again and seeing the hate that might be held there?
But all of these weak protests were no good – he wanted to see her again!
He could find out where she lived, it would be no effort at all! He had merely been restraining himself. He knew he could find it out whenever he wanted; it was a small spark of power he had allowed himself. But it was proving to be a dangerous temptation, whispering like a serpent in his ear every moment of the day.
He had chosen to stay away and let her be free, but he knew he could go back on his promise at any moment. One moment of weakness would be all it would take. It was upon his mercy that she had found her freedom! And it would only take a change of mind for him to break his unspoken pledge.
He stalked over to the wash stand and set about making himself look slightly more respectful. His hair was now so long, that it curled slightly beneath his chin. He smoothed the mass of dark brown away from his face and prepared to shave his unscarred cheek. He saw Christine's face staring back at him with each scratch of his razor blade - her beautiful, innocent eyes searching for her beloved Angel of Music…
…he splashed some water against the mirror and Christine dripped away.
He selected a suit of dark brown, with a matching cravat and a dark blue waistcoat. Every inch the polite city gentleman, he thought wretchedly.
He threw it back and selected the only black suit he had allowed himself. Putting it on gave him a wild flourish of nostalgia, and the man he had been trying to bury came back to life for a few agonising seconds. But this man was replaced by the empty guilt that had become a constant presence in his heart. It was only a black suit, not a mask, it could not change the bitter churning that made him feel weak and heavy inside. He finished dressing and turned sharply away from his reflection.
Erik tucked the small invitation into his pocket and glanced at the clock. It was approaching six; he had two long hours to fill before he was expected at dinner. He still had not completely decided whether or not he was going to attend - it was a game of roulette he was playing with himself. First he would find the place, and then he would decide.
He stood for a few moments by the door, breathing deeply. This visit was going to take all of his courage. He could walk down the street now without much trouble; he was becoming as anonymous in the masses as in his underground labyrinth. But spending an evening with the scrutinizing elite was something he could never prepare himself for. It was like walking to his own death, hearing a requiem with each beat of his heart.
He took one final breath and left the room.
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