A/N: An apology. I know its been a while, but everything I had written got eaten by the infernal computer. I mourned for a while, but then decided to get with the program and go back to doing what I do best— making things up. So, here it is. And if you want to review sympathetically, that wouldn't go amiss either.
Chapter Fourteen: The Vicomte's Wife
Christine sat curled up in the large, overstuffed armchair, her feet tucked underneath her. Alone for the day— the Tristese family, her hosts, were gone for the day, visiting various families about town. She had stayed behind, pleading tiredness— an acceptable euphemism for stomach ache.
John Tristese had chuckled wisely and patted her on the head with his huge hand. The servants were gone, and she was settled into her chair.
"Rest up, child. Enjoy the silence."
"Indeed I will," Christine had answered, a half smile on her face. "You needn't worry about me—"
They wouldn't, of course. Though Maria would say she worried, Christine would be out of her head in no time; practically as soon as Maria stepped out the door. What use was it, worrying over Vicomte's wives, when there was visiting to be done, people to pander to, men to flirt with behind her husband's back? Life abounded with entertainments during the Season— a woman would be a fool not to take advantage of them.
Christine was content to stay home and be a fool, for the day. She'd had quite a few opportunities of taking advantage of the various entertainments, though she hadn't quite realized them at the time. It wasn't until that middle-aged Monsieur Trapp had actually said, "I've got a flat, incidentally, on the far side of the city. As your husband is out of town, perhaps you'd like to come and see it?" that she realized what he was attempting to do.
She was quite aware of the fact that she could easily take a lover— more than one, if it came to that. Raoul was often from her side, leaving her to her own devices, leaving her to find her way in a society that she, by rights, did not belong to. However, she was content as she was, for the moment. Her heart was held by two men, and that was enough for anybody.
She still considered herself in love with two men—
But she only dreamed about one of them.
She frowned in concentration at the sewing in her hand. It had taken her slow, gradual years to learn how, from one of the Opera House's seamstresses— she hadn't had much time, when she was younger, but now that she was married, she resurrected the art and attempted to perfect her use of it. While still a long way from perfect, she was getting better.
She worked the piece over in her hand, admiring the tiny stitching, the rich beauty of the cloth. Halfway through with it— and it would be lovely when finished. By the time she was done it would be ready for use—
She stabbed her finger with the needle on the next time through.
With a small cry, more of surprise than pain, she dropped the cloth hurriedly, in order to avoid bleeding on it. She stared at her pricked finger for a moment. The blood welled up incredibly fast, a bead of bright red on the pad of her finger.
Red—
She shook herself out of the reverie, though she trembled from the effort. It took more and more strength of will these days, to keep herself in the present, to prevent herself from being dragged back into that whirlwind— that fog— the tempest that characterized her life, two years ago.
Only two years?
It seemed an eternity.
She pushed herself out of the chair and rushed for the bathroom, bending over the basin. She thought she would be sick— she was sure she would be— but the feeling passed, leaving her breathless and oddly disappointed. Sometimes it seemed as if purging would be a blessed relief, ridding her of all bodily ills, of which there were many. She remained bent over the basin, and tipped water over her finger, watching the blood stain the liquid with bright clouds.
She stayed like that, bent and hunched, her eyes wide, mesmerized by the color.
Then she breathed out, long, expelling all the air in her lungs till she felt like she would collapse, and stood up, glancing at herself in the mirror.
He stood behind her.
For a long moment, their eyes met.
Understanding, threatening, anger, and love on the one side.
Understanding, sorrowing, fear, and love on the other.
Then Christine fainted, falling full length on the floor, and hitting her head with a sickening crack on the flagstones.
She lay there for she knew not how long— surely only a few moments— and when her eyelids fluttered and she came back to her senses she continued to lie there, stretched out on the floor, the cool of the flagstones welcome against her cheek. Somewhat dreamily, she wished for him to come to her— to take some definite action, so that all responsibility might be lifted from her shoulders.
If he touched her, would she die?
And if so, of happiness? Or was his touch fatal, poison to the one who had betrayed him, the one whom he loved the most?
She couldn't wait any longer to find out. Be Erik a pathway to bliss or a shortcut to hell, she had to know.
But when she looked for him, he was not there.
She raced through the house, from room to room, calling his name— no, screaming his name, screaming wild like a banshee, screaming like a lost child, screaming like a doomed soul. It seemed that he was everywhere and nowhere, perched on the chair just to her left, up there in the corner of the ceiling, his teeth white as he grinned like a skull, laughed at her infantile efforts to track him down.
"You ineffective, inadequate woman— you child."
She stood in the hallway, her hands balled in fists at her sides, her face red with exertion, and wailed, keening, a woman utterly lost.
Before the Tristese family returned, she had come back to herself— cleaned up the blood from her fall, arranged her hair to cover the ugly brown crusting on her skull, changed her dress and put things back to rights and recovered her smile and her gentle, laughing ways. She sat down to dinner with them, her nerves singing shrilly, and they put all her indiscretions of manner down to her indisposition earlier that day. John Tristese merely tried to cheer her up.
"It is a pity you cannot convince your gadabout husband to be in town tomorrow night."
She looked at him, her laughing eyes quite as normal. "Why is that, if I may ask?"
"Why, we were intending to keep it a secret— as, I suppose, we have, till now— the first ball in this house in five years shall be given in your honor."
Christine laughed a little, surprise evident in her voice and eyes. "In my honor?"
"And that of your husband— but seeing as he is still away, I suppose you will have to fill the need," said Maria, winking a little and turning her attention back to the soup.
"Yes," said John Tristese, nodding, "and you must dance with all of the men. It will be required, for every man there will want to be honored with the hand of one such as Christine de Chagny."
Christine blushed, slightly, and rubbed at the scab on the back of her head absentmindedly.
"And," John Tristese went on, as Maria seemed preoccupied with the food, "it will be up to you to guess who each one is. It is a Masque, you see. I wager you will never guess each one!"
Christine continued to laugh, though her throat was suddenly dry.
"Although, for some, the ones you have met at least, it will be easier," confided John Tristese, as though he was telling her a secret. "For all you must do is listen to them when they speak— the voice never lies, eh, my dear?" He got no reaction from Maria, who was engrossed now in the chicken, and turned a fond smile on Christine. "Eh?"
"Indeed," said Christine, the smile still in place.
"And suppose a stranger's voice comes— why, you will know immediately to stay away from that one, then. The voice never lies."
"No," said Christine, "I should not be taken in by a stranger's voice."
John Tristese shrugged his shoulders a few times beneath his voluminous dress coat, pleased with himself.
"The voice never lies," he repeated. "No indeed! How true. The voice never lies."
Afterwards, Christine fled to her room, falling to her knees before the bed. She clasped her hands and closed her eyes— feeling the need for someone definite to ask help of, she prayed.
"Raoul— come back— "
She took a deep, shuddering breath.
"He is here."