Chapter 14: Decision

The last time Christine saw Raoul, he had given her a bag of coin after their dinner as though paying for the pleasure of her company. Since then, she had lost her father at the hands of one of his men, heard how he had lied about being her fiancée, and wondered what she would say if she ever saw him again.

And there he sat across the wide expanse of the orchestra pit, and all she could do was remain motionless in her chair as though she had grown roots.

She remembered the way Erik had reacted when she had mentioned her connection to Raoul. The night her father died, she had admitted that Raoul had been the one she had seen the night she returned so upset. Immediately, Erik had made her promise to leave Paris. In fact, she had been on her way to urge her father to pack when Raoul's men had shown up at their doorstep.

Since then, Christine had feared what Erik knew about the Vicomte that she did not.

She sat, stunned, though she should not have been so surprised. Of course, she should have suspected Raoul might come here. She should have known this was a possibility.

"Christine?"

Erik's voice in her ear made her suck in a breath as though she had been struggling to draw air into her lungs. However, she could not take her eyes off the blonde man animatedly gesturing at the stage. Even among all of these well-dressed nobles, he stood out.

But Erik – he should not see the Vicomte lest he react badly. She tried to make herself jerk away, to wrench her eyes to the shadows behind her. However, it was too late. At her back, Erik had followed her line of sight.

"The Vicomte," he hissed.

So, Erik did know who Raoul was. She did not know how, but her suspicion was confirmed. Aware that her eyes must be huge, Christine finally swung around in her seat. Erik stood a few paces behind her, hanging back from the glow of the house lights, his eyes ablaze with naked rage.

"I only just saw him," she said softly.

"He is here… in my theatre."

"Yes." She glanced back at Raoul, then made herself look away, the sight and the memories too painful. "Do you want to go?" Perhaps it would be best if they simply left. She did not know what she would say to her old friend – not now.

Erik fished a length of catgut from his pocket and held it affixed tightly between his fists. "I want to kill him."

"Erik!" She had to keep her voice down so no one would hear them. The other patrons were busy with their own conversations, but soon, the preview would be starting below on the stage.

The urge to simply flee from the sight of Raoul rose within her. She scooted out of her chair in such a way as to avoid stepping into view of the auditorium. Erik did not look at her as she approached, eyes still fixated upon the unaware man.

"That would not be wise, would it?" she said, trying to place herself in a position to distract him. "Not here at least, right? The Garnier does not need that kind of publicity." If she appealed to his sense of music, then perhaps she could persuade him to let this go. Truthfully, Erik's quick and visceral reaction had frightened her – and she did not understand the root of it.

Sucking in a steadying breath, she put her hand atop one of his fists. "Please, may we leave? You can take me to one of the practices later to see the production, right?"

He only nodded, but at least it was a response. The bit of cord was tucked back into his pocket, and then he turned on his heel and swung open the panel for them to exit. Once they were both back within the walls of the opera house, he latched onto their lantern and made his way upon swift feet, leaving Christine scrambling to pick up her skirts and follow.

Something was wrong. She could see his jaw clenched alongside the bottom of his mask. He kept the tall line of his back to her as they made their way down the tunnels. Finally, after they had stepped from the fifth cellar and into the cavern itself, she could stand the silence no longer.

"Erik? Are you angry with me?"

He swung around on her, causing her to lurch a step backward. The lantern's flame cast his yellow eyes into hooded shadow. "Did you know?"

She did not want her lip to tremble! "Did I know what?"

"That he would be there?" he clarified, swinging a fuming arm, cape snapping out like the wing of a bat.

"How could I have known that? I have had no contact with him since before Papa died!" When he only stared at her, she folded her arms, hugging herself. "Perhaps I should have known he might come here tonight for the preview. He became patron of the opera not long ago."

"Patron!" Erik snarled the word. "Perhaps this is something you should have told me, yes?"

She glared up at him. "Why? Because I need to tell you every detail about every life experience I have ever had? How could I have known the importance of such information?"

"Yes, how could you." He whirled away again, leading them further into the winding maze of paths and staircases.

Tears flushed hot behind her eyes, but she bit her lip, focusing on the sting to hold back her hurt. She had done nothing wrong, nothing to deserve such treatment from him. For a moment, she considered refusing to follow him to his home. What would he do if she said she was going to spend the night with the Girys instead?

But she remembered the feel of his lips against hers, the tender way he had traced the outer shape of her face. She swallowed down her pride and continued downward until they reached the front door of his underground home.

Erik swept right in. She saw immediately how this could unfold, how he could rush off to his bedroom and shut her out. He did so often try to run away when the situation grew too uncomfortable for him to tolerate.

"He is here… in my theatre," he had said, as though possessive of the entire building. Afterward, he had demanded to know if she known Raoul would be there that night, if she had been expecting him. He seemed more infuriated by the fact that she had possessed the knowledge of Raoul's patronage than of his actual presence.

No, Erik was not possessive of the Palais Garnier. He was possessive of her.

She unfastened her cloak and hung it adjacent to his. Then, to his retreating back, she said, "I should have told you he had become a patron."

He paused, head tilting every so slightly in her direction.

"I suppose," she continued, "I was worried about how you would react. And I did not trust that you would understand how I feel about him."

"How you feel about your Vicomte." His distaste was evident, but underneath that, she heard the thickness to his voice, the barely-restrained sorrow.

Christine frowned at his phrasing. "My Vicomte? He has not been my Vicomte since the night I came to you after going to his home." She rubbed her forearm, remembering the way Raoul had treated her, the way he had made her feel. After the years they had known each other, he had undone everything between them with that dinner. "I truly doubt he ever was."

Erik turned, hands balled into fists. "You dare tell me there was never anything between you? That you never- that you never pressed yourself against him-"

"He took advantage of my confidence in him!" she cried, those hated tears blurring her vision. "I thought there might be a future with him – yes, I did! Yet never did he give me a reason to believe such a thing was possible." She hated to say such things aloud, the truth that she had kept inside herself. "I was so naïve, so pitifully young, that I did not understand the signs that his intentions with me lay elsewhere."

On long, stiff legs, Erik crossed the distance between them, golden eyes staring down at her from his great height. She thought about what he had said only earlier that day, about how he knelt to avoid causing discomfort due to his height, and now he was clearly using it to his advantage. His sudden closeness caused the scent of him – herbs and cedar and something entirely Erik – to waft through the air toward her.

"Do you wish you were with him now?" he demanded to know, teeth grinding.

"No!"

"Do you love him?"

A dull ache in her gut, to be asked so bluntly. But her answer came without hesitation:

"I do not love him."

Still, he did not seem satisfied. He paced before her, then drew up close once again. "I will not be a mere replacement, Christine, for this idea you thought you had."

She hiccupped a sob. "I never intended for you to be! There was never anything between Raoul and I, never anything but the shadows of a life I thought I wanted. All of that has changed." She scrubbed angrily at her eyes, then tilted her chin up to return his fierce glare. "And if you would take off that stupid mask and kiss me, you would understand that!"

He seized her upper arms in his fists. "Kiss you!" His voice cracked on the first word and sounded suffocated on the second.

He advanced, causing her to stumble backward, held up only by his brutal hold on her. More than once, she stumbled upon the thick train of her black gown. She realized they were in her room when he shoved her through the doorway, the light of the sitting room casting their shadows long against the far wall.

She spun on him. "Release me at once."

He ignored her demand, slamming her bedroom door closed and throwing them into darkness. "Tell me what you want, little songbird," he rasped. "Tell me who you want."

"I do not want Raoul!" she cried, grabbing onto the linen folds of his jacket. "I want you!"

Erik pushed her up against the wood with a thud. Then his lips were upon hers, the edge of his mask scraping her nose, but she did not care. He kissed her with firm lips, the first pass nearly drawing blood as teeth scraped tender skin until he adjusted his angle, bringing their mouths together in a deep, soul-wrenching kiss. His lips plundered hers again and again until he had to break way for air, leaving them both gasping.

Christine sucked in several deep breaths, then yanked him back to her. She threw her arms around his chest and held him close as their mouths connected again. The wood of the door dug into her upper back, but she clung to him, reveling in the feeling of the sharp points of his body digging into hers. His arms crushed around her, embracing, possessive. Then his fingers dug into the sides of her waist, pulling her hips toward his, which rolled against her.

She broke away to gasp a cry – not of pain, but a sound foreign to her own ears, a cry of desire that seemed to startle them both. Erik stepped back, removing himself entirely of her in the encompassing darkness.

"No, come back," she pleaded.

He did, first with trembling hands that settled upon her waist, this time not so insistent. She smoothed her palms down the rumbled front of his shirt. When she allowed her hands to travel up his neck, she found he had pulled his mask back to cover his mouth. She let out a whimper of displeasure at the barrier.

"Kiss me again," she said.

"You… want this between us?" he asked. He took one of her hands and slid it between mask and skin, his lips heated by their earlier embrace.

"I do, Erik."

She lifted her hand, her knuckles pushing up his mask just enough so she could press a kiss to his lips. This time, when he responded, their mouths caressed in gentle glides across each other, soothing the assault of earlier. Christine had little experience in this matter, and she doubted Erik did either, and so she took her time exploring how to press and move her lips, how to tilt her face to drive them closer.

They parted again. His thumbs smoothed away the tears coursing down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around him and everything eased from her when he hugged her in turn. Her cheek against his sternum, they stayed that way until both of their heartbeats had slowed, until she grew steadier on her feet.

She had to ask. "You want this too, right?"

He chuffed somewhere above her head. "Since the moment you climbed through my window."

Two days later, Christine sat in Madame Giry's small office. She squirmed under the older woman's assessing gaze and nibbled on a bit of bread from their luncheon.

"You have a flush about your cheeks that was not there before," Madame Giry said, giving the papers on her desk a sharp tap as she straightened them. "I suspect things have been going well between you and the maestro?"

"Y-yes," Christine stammered. "I… oh, sometimes I am not certain what to think! But yes, I believe they are. We exchanged our feelings for one another, at least somewhat. And we, ah, kissed." And here she blushed even harder.

Giry gave her a sharp look. "Then you have seen under the mask?"

Christine looked down at her folded hands. "Not exactly. But I am confident that he will trust me with that given more time." A thought occurred to her. "Have you seen?"

"Heavens no, though I know the Persian has. I would never press him to reveal such a thing, in any case. Sometimes that which is hidden is best left untouched. I am not as curious as you, my dear."

"I am only a little curious," Christine admitted. "I simply want us to become more comfortable with each other. It has been a few days, and he still jumps whenever I put my hand on his arm." She hesitated, not wanting to speak so flippantly about such personal matters. However, she had no one else to discuss these things with.

"You have only begun," Madame Giry said. "Even among those with typical lives, matters of the heart take their time."

A knock upon the door, and it swung open quickly without waiting for a reply. Nadir Khan stepped inside the office, sweat upon his brow, carrying a stack of papers under his arm.

Madame Giry looked at him coolly. "Are you in the habit of barging in uninvited, Monsieur Khan?"

At least he had the sense to look abashed. "I am afraid so, madame. A bad habit I have picked up from our mutual friend." He looked over at Christine. "I have already been to your home, but I saw that no one was there." He meant he had found the dingy on the opposite end of the shore, indicating that Erik, at least, had left the underground abode.

Christine shook her head. "You will not find Erik here. He is composing most of today, and I decided to give him time without me hovering over his shoulder. I am spending the day with Madame Giry."

That was the gist of it. Erik had not exactly asked her to leave, but he had thrown himself into his music in such a way that she had not seen. While the sight thrilled her, she could tell that he would be bent over his piano and scribbling upon his parchment for hours. Madame Giry had the day free from rehearsal since the preview had aired, and her tasks mostly consisted of jotting down ideas for the ballet portions of the next opera.

Khan let out a frustrated sigh. "I should tell both of you this directly, but I do have news to share." He glanced at Madame Giry, clearly unsure if she should be included in this conversation.

"Go ahead," Christine said. "She knows about the key. And about my father's murder."

Whatever was causing Khan's nervousness also seemed to have made him paranoid. He angled back to look up and down the hallway, then ducked inside the room and shut the door behind him. Then he hefted his pile of papers onto Madame Giry's desk and sorted through them until he found the one he sought.

A bank's name was printed in fine script at the top. Christine glanced at it, saw the address, then looked questioningly up at Khan. "You… found the bank?"

"Indeed, I did." The Persian tapped a finger against the bottom portion of the document. "Your tip about Saint-Etienne proved fruitful after all. Monsieur Martel does indeed own an estate along the road to the town. I traveled toward his chateau, which lies on the northern border of the Forest of Fontainebleau. It took me most of the day, but I found that one of the largest Parisian banks has a branch there."

"And that bank has vaults with this key?"

"It does. I was able to see keys similar to yours, and the numbers stamped on the sides match."

Christine pressed a hand to her chest and felt the dig of warm metal that rested there. After all of this time, all of this wondering, she could finally discover what this key opened. Maybe she would finally understand why her father had given it to her to keep safe.

"When can we go?" she asked.

Khan's nervousness had not abated. He brought out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. "Perhaps it is best that Erik is not here right now."

Madame Giry snorted. "Out with it, monsieur. There is no need for such dramatics."

"I have not managed to live this long without a strong sense of caution, madame," Khan replied with some tartness. "When you have seen the things I have seen, you learn to analyze the signs of trouble whenever they arise." He cleared his throat. "Your father has been formally laid to rest at Montmartre Cemetery."

Christine heart had lifted at the news of the key, but certainly, she had only needed the Persian to investigate because of Papa's death. Even though almost two weeks had passed, she still felt echoes of her past life with him. Sometimes she woke in the morning forgetting that he was gone, spending the first hazy moments between awake and sleep thinking she would soon hear his voice calling out that he was headed to work.

Her newly-developed feelings for Erik had been a welcome distraction, but she could not forget the reason she was even here in this room, having this conversation with a ballet mistress and a Persian detective. Her father, Charles, had been murdered, and now his body resided in a tomb for which Erik had paid.

"Mademoiselle?"

Christine shook her head to clear it and looked at Khan. "I thought he had been buried last week?"

"He had, as soon as the gendarmerie released his body. But his memorial has only now been finished, his name engraved on the marble. A small ceremony was held for him yesterday."

"I wish I had been told," she said, throat closing. "I would have liked to have gone."

Khan gave her a sad sort of smile. "I know that, as did Erik. However, we both decided it was still too dangerous. Until we see what the key unlocks, until we know more about why your father was killed, we cannot have you recognized in public. Anyone wanting to find you undoubtedly might have gone to the ceremony to see if you were there."

Dangerous. Why he was killed. Was she to spend the rest of her life underground, afraid of what might happen were she found? She was not even sure why she was in danger herself!

"The ceremony, while small, was lovely. A Lutheran priest presided over reading his last rites." He hesitated. "A few people came to pay their respects. Among them was the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Raoul was there?"

Khan nodded. "He spoke with the priest and thanked him for coming. Truly, he stayed no more than ten minutes, but the fact that he came seemed notable."

Raoul had gone to Papa's grave! Had he been looking for her or simply saying goodbye to her father? Christine thought about seeing him at the opera two days ago, about how he had told the newspapers that she was his fiancée, about how he said she had been kidnapped. Was he so worried about her that he had not given up finding her?

They had parted on such terrible terms, but never had she told him that she did not want to see him again. She never had the opportunity to gather her courage and explain how uncomfortable he had made her, how cheap his money had caused her to feel.

There was so much that had been left unsaid between them.

"You find his actions suspicious," she said with sudden realization. "Is this why you are so nervous? Are you afraid of how Erik will act when he finds out Raoul was there?"

Madame Giry cleared her throat. "Erik came to me yesterday and asked if there was any way to terminate the Vicomte's patronage with the Palais Garnier. I told him he had to take up that issue with the managers." She gave Christine a sharp look. "Does this have anything to do with that day the Vicomte brought you here inquiring about you joining the ballet?"

"I have not told Erik about that," Christine admitted. "He already detests Raoul for his treatment of me. I did not want to give more reasons to hate him."

"Why?"

Her eyes widened, as startled as if Giry had pulled the chair out from under her. Such a simple question, and yet she found she could not justify her reasoning with an answer. Finally, she drew in a breath and said, "I have such a long history with Raoul. We were friends long before I came to Paris." She went from unsure to aggravated. "When Erik saw Raoul at the premier, he said he wanted to kill him. Erik does not need any more justification."

And neither did she for what she had decided to do.

"If you are so suspicious of Raoul," she told the Persian, "then go on and tell Erik. I will not stop you."

He sighed heavily. "Either the Vicomte went to your father's funeral for insidious reasons or he simply went due to his affection for you. No matter the reason, he still has you in his thoughts. And Erik said the Vicomte mentioned the key to you. Therefore, he is connected."

She waved a contemptuous hand. "Then go tell Erik." Christine folded her arms, done with this conversation.

Khan scooped up his papers and moved to the door. "I do not relish giving him this news. Be glad that you are here, mademoiselle! Afterward, I will head to arrange transport for us to go to the bank tomorrow morning."

As the Persian left the room, Christine's thoughts were spinning. She was well aware of Madame Giry's stare leveled upon her, but she pointedly kept her own eyes on the floor. There were so many questions to which she had no answers. If Monsieur Khan had said they would leave at that moment to go to the bank, perhaps Christine would have been able to hold onto her patience. If Madame Giry had asked her then what her mind was considering, saying the words aloud might have stopped her.

However, Christine was given too much time to think. In those few minutes that passed while Giry turned her attention back to her choreography notes, Christine was seized with a desperation to simply understand.

She stood, drawing the ballet mistress's attention back to her. "Madame, I need to write a letter."

Christine had been given little opportunity to wander the halls of the Palais Garnier on her own. She did so now on this late afternoon, the grounds empty due to the rare day of rest for the troupe. There was no guard to bother her yet, and Madame Giry had waved her off so she could focus upon her work blocking the upcoming production.

Christine's footsteps echoed upon the shining, smooth floors. She watched the way her black-encased figure cast long shadows upon the smooth white marble, the sun low on the horizon.

Soon, Erik would come for her.

She had to be gone before then.

When the sun dipped too low to beam crisp rays of light into the opera house's windows, Christine pulled her hood over her hair. She thrust out a stiff arm, placed her hand upon a door, and pushed her way outside.

Parisians meandered the streets around the Palais Garnier. Christine was able to dip into a place among them. Her mourning garb made her stand out more than she would like, but at least her short veil hid her face from all but the most prying eyes. She focused upon putting one foot in front of the other, and soon, she reached the small public garden with the high walls and gate that blocked the public's view.

Dusk was quickly bleeding into a chilly night. Christine entered the garden and found a clearing within to wait. The bare trees rose gnarled branches into the darkening sky. Her breath painted white wisps before her face. A streetlight just beyond the tiny park began to glow.

The gate creaked open. Turning, she saw the well-dressed figure walk toward her, the gloved fingers stabbing through blonde locks falling across his youthful face. Bright blue eyes alighted upon her. She saw the flash of white teeth as he grinned.

"I have found you at last, little Lotte."