Spring 1845
Erik sneered at one of the nurses, as she passed him in the hall. She averted her eyes and swallowed visibly. It irked him how the others behaved around him. They scurried away when he entered a room… that is, if they could not manage to avoid him completely.
They were jealous, all of them. He could tell by their disgusted glances and whispers. A few even looked as if they might vomit, though he knew that, if they did, or if they dared speak a word against him, Gagnier would have them sacked immediately.
It must be a bitter pill to swallow that he, a so-called lunatic, was more trusted and more useful than any of the paid employees. He was… the second in command, a king's advisor amongst blustering syncophants. He could tell it chafed from the way they refused to even look his direction when he spoke to them.
It mattered not, though. He strolled through the corridors, head held high and unmasked face staring straight ahead. No more hiding in shadows or breaking locks. He carried himself as if he belonged… because he did.
At long last, there was nothing holding him back from achieving his dreams. Dr. Gagnier had repaired his deformed face, and he grew more handsome with every surgery he endured.
He knew this to be true, because the doctor had declared it so, and Erik trusted the man with every fiber of his being. Let the others look away, for he knew now that, if they should tremble, it was only because they feared his genius.
He heard a clink on the floor, in the direction of the fleeing nurse. Curious, he followed to see what had fallen.
Erik almost laughed when he recognized the shiny object. It was a mirror… but tiny. Small enough to fit in her pocket. He marveled at the sheer vanity a person, to possess such an expensive piece and carry it around with her, all day!
He picked up the little mirror, undecided over whether he would return it to her. And that… that was when he caught glimpse of something he had not seen since his fifth birthday. The 'monster in the mirror'. His own reflection.
Only this time it was much, much worse.
-0-0-
Spring 1864
Christine began to feel Erik's absence more keenly as each day pressed on. It was not that she missed her captor. No, never that. There was something else weighing down on her… something that was hard to describe. The prickling feeling of being watched grew stronger every day. At night - the only time she allowed herself to be truly alone - the sensation only magnified until she woke up in cold sweats, oppressed by the feeling of being hunted.
She hadn't felt this way when she met regularly with Erik. Had he been the one to chase the shadows away? If there was any truth to the rumored ghosts that roamed these halls, she had no doubt that Erik had something to do with it. But, didn't Rose claim to see spirits before she ever met Erik?
Perhaps they were real, then. In which case, it must have been her angel that kept her safe.
But, no, she refused to think about him. To be angry with her angel was to be angry with God, and she could not fathom such a thing. But… that meant she had no explanation for the growing bitterness that had lodged so firmly in her spirit.
She refused to sing at night, refused to call out for him. She ignored the pleading voices in her head because they were not his. He would have to be the one to call out to her. Until her angel sang, she would… she would… simply have to stop thinking about him! Yes! That's right!
On her way to supper, Christine was stopped by a large hand, pressing gently on her elbow. She whirled around, surprised to see Jacques, who was crooking his finger and beckoning her to follow him. With a curious frown, she allowed him to take her arm and change direction.
"How is Jean-Pierre?" she asked, wondering where he was taking her. Jacques shrugged and smiled, quickening their speed. Christine wondered if that was all the information she would be getting out of him.
Since their walk was silent, Christine took her time examining the young man. He was less visibly damaged than his twin, with only a few, symmetrical scars down his brow and nose. It certainly gave him a severe look, but not altogether hideous. He was a great deal quieter than his brother, though, as all of Christine's attempts at conversation had fallen flat. He seemed… sadder, too. It struck her as odd, given Jean-Pierre's enthusiastic temperament.
They reached the staircase and Christine came to an abrupt halt as she realized where he was taking her.
"You're taking me to him?" she asked. "No! I don't want… he said he did not want…" Jacques gave no response other than to tighten his hand on Christine's elbow. It seemed he would be taking her downstairs, whether she approved or not.
She wriggled in his unrelenting grasp, hysteria creeping up on her. The further down they went, the more she fought. As they reached the final flight of stairs, the cold air of the cellar hit her face and, with one last desperate tug, she pulled her arm loose. She enjoyed a single breath of relief before the horrifying realization that her harsh jerk had knocked them both off balance.
And she was falling…
Jacques grabbed her and turned, taking the brunt of the impact on himself, but not before her arm and shoulder smacked hard against the stairs. On the cellar floor, she lay panting atop her abductor-protector until he scrambled to his feet, pulling her up with him. With wide eyes, he jumped away from her. His eyes darted to her arm and he went impossibly pale. Only then did she feel the sting and see the ever-brightening red spot where she had scraped her elbow. Jacques took a step back, staring at her as if she was poisonous. Then he glanced around the cellar like a trapped animal.
He's looking for him.
"It's alright. I am fine. You can go; I won't run. I'll go see Erik. It will be fine."
Jacques gave her a grateful nod before sprinting up the stairs, two at a time.
Christine tucked her handkerchief into her sleeve and wrapped her shawl around her, doing her best to look natural. She wasn't sure how long she could keep up any sort of ruse around Erik, but she felt she owed it to Jacques to at least make the attempt. It wasn't his fault he worked for an evil man. Christine did not him mangled on her account.
-0-0-
Erik narrowed his eyes when he opened the door to Christine. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong.
"Hello, Erik. You wanted to see me?"
"You have an abrasion on your right elbow and…" his eyes travelled up her arm, scrutinizing, "a likely contusion on your shoulder. Explain."
Christine grimaced. How does he know these things? "It is nothing, really. I tripped on my way down the stairs."
"Where was your escort?"
"I sent him away. I decided I'd rather come to you on my own."
Erik stared at her, trying to decide if he enjoyed hearing her say that she wanted to meet him alone enough to ignore the fact that she was deceiving him. In the end, he supposed it was not worthy of confrontation. She seemed to be in a compliant mood; he stood nothing to gain by provoking her before what he hoped would be their most exquisite lesson, yet.
"You wish me not to harm your escort. I will comply, this time. Do you require medical attention?"
"Ah… no. No, I am fine."
"We shall see. I am not pleased that you have been neglecting your voice. You should have come sooner."
She frowned. "But I-"
"Come along, Christine. I will hear you sing, now."
-0-0-
Their lesson was long, but surprisingly relaxed. Christine had assumed Erik would be harsher in his critiques, perhaps to punish her for their time apart… though she did not understand how she was to be blamed for that. But the man was uncharacteristically generous in his treatment of her. If she didn't know better, she could almost call him gentle, though his words were as abrupt and straightforward as ever.
What surprised her the most was that, for the first time, she believed Erik might actually be enjoying their lesson. Before, he'd always treated these sessions as some sort of frustrating duty, on his part. An annoyance, at best. But, today... something told Christine that, despite her many mistakes, Erik was pleased to have her there. She wasn't sure how she knew, but she felt it with absolute certainty.
It was several hours before Erik stopped, coming to his senses enough to provide Christine with a glass of water. "Your voice has not regressed as much as I'd expected," he said.
High praise, indeed, thought Christine, watching him over the rim of her glass.
"I have decided you are now ready for more something more complicated," he continued, handing her a neatly assembled stack of papers.
It was Otello… Act III… Christine looked it over, familiarizing herself with the music. "A duet?" she asked, surprised. We have never sung a duet before… I did not even know he sang!
Erik shrugged as if it was inconsequential… but, had Christine looked closely, she would have noticed the deep flush that covered his neck and disappeared under his mask. She would have noticed how his fingers tensed and relaxed over the fabric of his trousers. She would have noticed how very important this was to him.
But she did not.
"Is that a problem?" he asked neutrally.
"I suppose not," she responded, with a shrug of her own.
"Then let us begin."
She followed along as he played the introduction, adjusting her posture as she'd been taught and preparing herself mentally, to fall into the music. Everything was as it should be, and her entrance was flawless. She found herself inordinately pleased by his approving nod.
Erik closed his eyes and enjoyed her voice for a few moments. The intimacy inspired by singing with another person was thrilling to the solitary man. His eyes glowed; he was nervous, but pleasantly so.
When Christine finished her introductory phrase, Erik began his response. It was as he imagined it - a conversation between man and wife. If this went well, he'd ask her to sing a duet where both their voices could meld together, at once. That, he suspected, would be truly magical.
Christine was waiting, expectantly, when Erik began his line. She supposed she should be preparing her next phrase, but she was desperately curious to hear how a heartless man would sing such passionate words. When she finally heard him, though, she paused in dawning horror; Erik's singing voice left her stricken to the core.
"Angel?" she mouthed soundlessly.
That voice could belong to no other.
All this time, she thought. It was him all along!
Erik continued to sing, swept up in the music, as Christine's mind reeled and she felt her knees becoming weak.
All this time! He lied to me. He… Erik… they both lied to me! She realized the absurdity of that thought but decided she was too angry to care. Who are you? Who are you really?
Fury gripped her, confusion overriding her sense of judgment, and in one quick movement, Christine tore the black mask from her captor's face.
-0-0-
There it is... the "unmasking cliffhanger". Cliché, but necessary. My apologies. Tell you what - you guys review, and I'll get the next chapter done as quick as I can. Deal?