AN: I really want to apologise for the temporary hiatus of this story – it was not intentional! My life has been topsy-turvy and inside out recently, and finding time to write has been really difficult. But I am actively working on this again now and the next chapter should be up within a week or so! If you are still reading, please continue to let me know what you think!
I would like to thank my wonderful beta, Goth Angel UK, for all of the help with this story!
Now she has gone away;
Unwillingly perhaps.
The parting will eat them up,
Misery will gnaw at them, bones and all.
Boris Pasternak – Doctor Zhivago.
oOo
Before We Fall…
oOo
The smell of fresh coffee cleansed Christine's sleepy mind. She wandered into the small kitchen feeling drained and ill at ease; the clock had just chimed seven, and she did not have much time to spare before she had to leave for work. But on this morning there was another reason for her confusion. She had expected to be the first one to arise this day, but, strangely, Meg was in the kitchen, busily preparing coffee and arranging fresh pastries onto two plates.
She and Meg were alone for two weeks. Madame Giry had been called to the aid of an ailing cousin, and had departed the pervious day. The older woman had been loath to leave the girls and her new post as Ballet Mistress at the Theatre Lyrique – but she had had very little choice. Her cousin had asked for her, and family duty was very important to Madame Giry.
So, she had reluctantly left the ballet in the hands of another senior member, and Christine and Meg with clear and strict guidelines to follow in her absence. Christine had seen the fear in Madame Giry's eyes before she had left, silently begging her to stay away from the man they were both afraid to name. Neither had spoken of him since Christine's confession two months ago; he had become an elusive and forbidden entity, a fledgling truth they were at risk of turning into a fantasy once again.
"Good morning!" Meg chirped when she saw Christine appear in the doorway.
"Morning," Christine replied drowsily. She looked at her friend for a moment; Meg was fully dressed with her hair styled. Christine was perplexed – this was the girl who did not normally rise until just before noon.
"Meg – how long have you been awake?" Christine asked, her voice still laced with sleep.
"Oh, about an hour or so – I wanted to get to the bakers before the rush, these pastries are to die for!"
"You've already been out?" Christine said, unable to hide her astonishment.
"Yes," Meg said with a slight giggle. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"It's just, well – you have never been very fond of the mornings..."
Meg smiled and brought the pastries to where Christine was sitting at the table. Christine took a sip of her coffee and tore off a small piece of pastry, revelling in the way the soft texture seemed to melt in her mouth. She glanced across the table and noticed that Meg was staring at her with wild, exited eyes.
"Are you all right?"
"If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone – not even mamman?"
"Of course."
"We have finally set the date!" Meg said, looking as though she was about to burst.
"Date?" Christine asked, bemused. It was strange to be talking with Meg so early in the morning, and it took her mind a moment to take in what her exited friend was saying.
"For the wedding? Meg, that is wonderful!"
"Three months, can you believe it? I'm so happy, Christine! Three months and I'll be Madame Lockhart, no longer plain little Meg Giry!"
Christine frowned. "You have never been plain."
Meg smiled, taking the complement gratefully. "It is going to be a very small ceremony… we don't want a fuss."
This baffled Christine even more. "I always imagined you would have a large, lavish wedding… like the one you used to talk about when we were little..."
"Yes, I know, that's what I did want – before. But now I do not want any of that nonsense, I just want to marry Peter…"
Christine felt a warm smile spread on her face; she had never seen Meg like this. "Well, I am very happy for you – and I cannot wait for the wedding. Heaven knows I need something to look forward to!"
She tried to ignore the look of pity in Meg's blue eyes. They both returned to their breakfast, sipping coffee and nibbling on bread and almonds. Christine was truly happy for her best friend. Meg had always been a beacon of light in her life – one constant ray in the darkness. She was glad that Meg was the first one to marry. In Peter, it seemed she had found her soul mate… her perfect match…
The foggy haze in Christine's mind began to swirl, shining a painful light into the dusty crevices in her memory. Shadowy vaults were awakening in candlelight. This was happening more and more often - one small word causing a stampede of memories to charge furiously back. Words of long ago echoed into her head; in the Opera, in a dressing room… there had been a sweet scent – the scent of roses, strings of a corset were being pulled tight. A night when wise words had been spoken…
Before the hysteria of Don Juan, Christine had found the tumult inside her own head louder than the humming anticipation of the impatient crowd. Her heart had been weary, aching and confused.
She had known she could not deny her feelings, wrong as they were. She had always known. But it had all been wrong, so, so wrong.
Madame Giry would often talk to her whilst helping her to dress, and on that night, on that awful, painful night, Christine had asked about love…
"It is never simple, that is the first thing you should know," the older woman had said with a smile. "Sometimes it seems perfect, but never simple. Sometimes two people meet who are equal in every way, and when they fall in love it is the most natural thing in the world – like le Vicomte and yourself. But the world is cruel, child, and love chooses us, we do not choose love. We cannot judge others for the choices they make. Sometimes it is not easy, and it may even seem wrong – but it is still love… It will come in many forms. And you may find that there will be more than one man that will capture your heart… but the important thing is to be happy with the path you choose."
Madame Giry had tugged the corset strings, and she had felt like her ribs would snap. Christine remembered looking down at her hands, clasped together tightly, her fingers turning white where she squeezed her anxiety into her hands. Madame Giry had made it all seem easy… Follow your heart and it will be all right. It was fine to harbour tempestuous desires for a murderer, to see beyond the deception and the lies, to bleed with compassion and ache for him. Yes, it was all so simple… label it love and it would turn out all right.
But she had not known if it was love. Perhaps it was hate; perhaps it was remorse, pity or even desire. But love? She had not known. Every label had caused the same unconditional ache to throb inside her body and she had felt so many things; it was more than love – much more. And she had known, in that moment, that she would never be entirely free.
Some chains are not made from cold iron… the shackles we choose to wear ourselves can be made from silk.
"…but, the most important question to ask yourself when you are faced with a dilemma about love is: which is the only love you cannot live without? Once you know this, my dear, it should all fall into place," Madame Giry had added, then she had pulled the final strings of the corset and stood back to check her work.
Christine had looked the older woman in the eyes then, and could not face the truth she had seen shining back at her.
Then she had been called to the stage…
She blinked, and took a sip of her coffee – the world was real again. But that memory lodged itself in her heart, chilling her blood with melancholy.
"Meg, how do you feel – when you're with Peter?"
"In what way?"
"How does he make you feel?"
"Warm, safe, loved… and light – so light that I feel like I might fly!"
Christine nodded, but this was not the response she had hoped for.
"Does it ever… hurt?" she ventured, timidly.
Meg knew what Christine wanted her to say – but she could not lie. "No, not with Peter… But there was someone else, once. Please don't look at me like that, I cannot tell you who. But the love I had for him was very different – painful, even."
"What happened?" Christine said, almost in a whisper.
"He did not love me, and that was that," Meg said, shrugging absently, then her face transformed into a grin. "But it wasn't long after that that I met Peter, so now I am glad he did not love me – fate triumphed!"
Christine smiled too; Meg's euphoria seemed to be contagious.
"Have you seen anything of – um, him," Meg asked, suddenly serious.
Christine saw that Meg was struggling, and supplied the name for her. "Erik?"
Meg nodded.
"No – and I do not expect to. He gave me his word, and I believe him. I am free now." She looked down. "I'd be surprised if he is even still in Paris." Her voice was low and strange, something akin to misery tinting it.
"He is," Meg confirmed, adding some more sugar to her coffee – oblivious to the red heat that flared over Christine's cheeks and neck. "It seems he is quite good friends with Monsieur Edgar. I have not told Peter who he really is, mamman was right – it would not be fair. Everyone deserves another chance."
Christine kept her eyes at the table, trying to remain nonchalant.
"Has Peter met him?"
"Yes – he finds him to be a very amiable gentleman," Meg gave a snort. "I can hardly believe it – The Phantom, friends with Edgar, living normally in the daylight… I'd never have thought it possible. It seems he really has changed."
"Yes," Christine said, "who would have guessed."
"Perhaps I should invite him to the wedding…"
Christine's mask slipped, and she looked at Meg with complete terror, her cheeks stinging with a scarlet blush. Meg was grinning wildly; it was clear from her playful smirk that she had been joking. Christine smiled too, pretending to be amused.
"I should go – I'll be late," she said, suddenly conscious of the time.
"I'll be late tonight," Meg said. "Peter is taking me out after the performance – will you be all right?"
"Yes, I'll be fine – good luck tonight!"
She gave Meg a small hug and ran to her room to prepare for work… her body still wild and burning.
oOo
It was raining. Erik stood at his window, watching the endless cycle with subdued fascination. The drops hit sporadically, biting at the glass like watery teeth, trying to gnaw at him, but stopping dead and falling before his eyes. They would drizzle down, leaving a serpentine smear in their wake – clear, pure and soft. For a moment Erik imagined the sky was raining blood, all of the windows drowning in red – crimson bullets pelting the earth. Murder dripping into the gutter.
He smirked; it was amazing how these dark thoughts still had the ability to creep into his mind, even when he was quite sure he had chased them all away…
Time had passed quickly. It had been two months since the painful meeting with Christine, and yet to Erik it seemed like only yesterday. That night he had left Edgar's house with a new purpose to his life – he had gone mad, clearing out all evidence that would associate him with Henry. The plans and papers had been ripped up, and then deposited on the fire of two very grateful beggars.
"Here, gentlemen, some kindling for you…" Erik had said, releasing the burden into the flames. The men had stared, fascinated by the mysterious stranger cloaked in darkness and firelight. They had thanked him profusely, rubbing their frozen hands against the blaze. Erik had watched the paper curl and smoulder with a grim smile, wishing he could burn his guilt in the same way. Then he had simply tipped his hat and left, leaving them to gape after him in amazement.
He had briefly wondered what would happen if he torched his soul – would he find goodness in the ashes?
Since that night his life had been in a painful limbo. He was only using Henry's rooms for the few hours that he required sleep; he did not want to use them any more than was necessary. The very thought of his previous intentions made his skin itch, he wanted to be somewhere that was untainted by corruption and deceit. The very air in this place was stagnant, it contaminated his mind – it was easy to remain a monster whist living in a hovel.
He knew why the poor sought crime as a career choice – revenge. Revenge against the spoilt and rich for their clean lives and golden homes, revenge against the world for making them live in the darkness. A person forced to live a life of filth and destitution, with their eyes covered in dirt, will inhabit the sewers like a germ. Ignorant to the chances life offered, ignorant to the light. Living in this grim corner of the city had made Erik see the stark difference between himself and these others, they were content in this grime, it was their world. Erik, on the other hand, had the means to save himself. And the dismal irony was that he had always had it, it was not circumstance that forced his face into the shadows – it was him. He had always had the power to escape, to rise up and save his own soul. It had been with him all along.
He did not want gold, silk or a shining mansion on a distant hill – just somewhere to call home. A home that was not a cellar…
The growth of this small conscience could not have come at a more inconvenient time. He desperately needed somewhere to hide away, for his desire to find Christine was like a poisonous ache, something he could not control. And now he knew her address! It was too difficult to ignore, it was irresistible. The sound of her sweet voice saying it echoed inside his mind – a dangerous, deadly temptation.
Each day that passed made the image of her face sharper in his mind; he could see the curve of her neck, the small dimples on her cheeks when she smiled, her warm eyes... But he did not want a memory – he had loved a memory for too long! He wanted her as she was now, he wanted the real, breathing Christine – alive, warm and in his arms. Walking the streets seemed to only make his desire more potent. The light, the beauty of Paris, and the smell of the air – everything made him think of her! It was futile, he knew, to think of her as often as he did… to hope. But he could not help it, to not think of her would be to cease living.
But he could not find her or follow her. He had made a promise – the fool that he was! He had given freedom to the only thing he wanted, and he loved her too much to go back on his word.
And so, he forced himself to wander the boulevards, trying in vain to feel comfortable in the daylight. He tried to sleep when the rest of the world was asleep, and wake to the sound of twittering birds. It was not easy; his mind seemed to come to life at night, it would take more than two months to change the behaviour learned over a lifetime. And, after a while, he found walking the streets to be a rather tedious exercise. The cold wind chilled his bones, the faces were endless, and he felt as though he had committed every corner of the damned city to memory.
He needed an occupation, this much was clear. But he did not know what…
More and more he had found himself drawn to Edgar's door. He enjoyed the short, but interesting conversations he shared with his strange friend. There was something oddly refreshing about the Edgar's eccentricity. It was unusual, yes, but it was honest. The man seemed to wear countless costumes and disguises, but never a mask to hide who he really was. And the more time he spent with him, the more Erik was growing to respect the old man. On several occasions Erik heard himself ask after Peter and his fiancée. Hoping Edgar would mention Meg and her family… and the name he so longed to hear.
The sale of his new home was nearly complete. Much of the transaction had been handled by Edgar. Erik, in spite of himself, had been content to let the old man help. On the occasions he did have to meet with the solicitor alone he had been surprised by how little interest the man had taken in his face. The old man had grumbled something about the 'bloodbath of 1870' and had given Erik a sympathetic, almost admiring glance – as though he was looking at a brave soldier who had taken a mortal wound for the love of France. Erik had no intention of correcting this misunderstanding, and had played along demurely.
Larsson, his adopted surname, also seemed to be working in his favour. It seemed that it was quite common, and in fact, the old solicitor was sure he had once known an Umberto Larsson – a meat-trader from the Rue Richelieu. Who apparently bore a striking resemblance to Erik – a distant relative, perhaps? The solicitor had wondered. Erik had smiled pleasantly and nodded, agreeing that, yes, perhaps it was.
The rain was still falling; the onslaught was unrelenting. And although it was only afternoon, the whole day seemed to have the dreary aura of dusk. There was something soothing about this day, Erik thought, it was lost in the transition of morning and night – black and white clashing, leaving a smog of grey melancholy to fester in the air. Something about it made him feel at home. He strode over to the coat-stand and retrieved his cloak and umbrella; he wanted to smell the damp aroma of the streets and clear his head with the moisture-laced air.
The streets seemed to be in a strange reverie. The amber hues of the gas-lit lamps shimmered up into the dull sky and down into the mirrored world beneath. Their glow of gold and ochre was the only warmth in a world of silver echoes. The people, too, were wraith-like – heads veiled and bowed, clinging to each other, walking next to the damp walls to avoid the rain.
This was nothing like the usual afternoons on the boulevards of Paris. The people were avoiding contact and idle conversation, they were scurrying home, or into shops and cafés. There was something rodent-like about their movements, and it reminded Erik of the rats beneath the Opera, scampering around in the cold. It suddenly dawned on him that he had not thought about his old home for a considerable amount of time – the sudden memory of that place caused an unguarded shiver to convulse through his body.
He strode along the boulevard with an unusual lightness to his step, head raised and proud, in harsh opposition to the other figures in the street. If every day in Paris was like this one, he mused, he was sure he would feel very comfortable indeed.
oOo
It was turning out to be a very bad day. Christine charged along the boulevard, caught somewhere between misery and anger. It had been a long, exhausting day. Beneath her gloves her skin tingled where her delicate fingers had been pricked and stabbed by the needle. She hated the work; she hated it with every fibre in her soul. She was not popular with the other women. They studied her with cautious, envious eyes, and would not speak to her. So her days were spent in silent reflection, talking to nobody and humming as she worked. The humming was a new thing, it seemed that every day there would be a new melody inside her mind – waiting for her to shape it with her voice and release it out into the air.
But still she loathed the work, it was beneath her – he was right. Madame Giry had suggested that she join the ballet at the theatre. It seemed she was keen for Christine to undertake a role more suited to her talents, and after today Christine was giving the idea some very serious thought.
With Madame Giry away, however, it would be another two weeks before she would have the chance to audition.
In her hasty departure, Madame Giry had also left several errands for Christine and Meg. And it was one of these errands that Christine found herself tasked with on this cold, miserable afternoon.
Her only defence against the drizzle was Madame Giry's rickety, tired black umbrella. It rattled like a serpent as the wind blew, wailing and hissing with each icy gust. It was taking most of Christine's strength to keep it from blowing inside out, and inevitably the wind's mischief prevailed and the umbrella eventually tossed and rattled out of control. A group of smartly dressed women sitting inside a café sniggered – grinning smugly from behind the safety of the glass. Christine fumbled with the wily umbrella, willing it to close, her cheeks red and hot with mortification. In her mind she spat curses at those women – words she did not realise she knew.
When she had regained her composure, as well as her control over the umbrella, she set off again, harassed and tired. She wanted to be at home, curled in front of the fire with a steaming cup of tea to melt her weariness, to let the warm sensations surge languidly through her body… or perhaps to be comforted in a warm embrace, lost in a soaring passion that could drive the chill from her bones. In this freezing state it was very hard to keep her mind away from that forbidden warmth, the tender, dangerous heat she had found in the eyes of a man two months ago. The knowledge that his arms were real, that his blood ran beneath, that his hand would hold an umbrella over her head while she held onto his arm tightly – these were things she could not think about, but her body and her heart were stirred by the thought of him, much to her alarm.
Every now and again she would look over her shoulder, just for a second. She did this every time she walked down the street – she had done it for as long as she could remember, always glancing back… always wondering where that other path might lead.
She turned left onto the Rue d'Antin, finally reaching her destination. She climbed the steps slowly and rang the door bell, hoping there would be a warm fire inside. She stood there for a while, listening to the fat drips of rain that splattered onto the stone steps, until the door finally opened and she was admitted into the house.
The housekeeper, a small, stocky woman, gave a silent gasp when she saw Christine's wet attire, then promptly ushered her inside and took her cloak and umbrella from her, fussing about anxiously.
"You look chilled to the bone, Mademoiselle!" she exclaimed with horror. "You poor dear, and such a little thing too, it's a wonder you weren't blown away!"
"Oh, no I'm fine, really," Christine said, trying to avoid the fussing hands. "It is not nearly as bad as it looks…"
The older woman raised a doubtful brow and gave a snort.
"I called by to deliver this letter to Monsieur Lockhart," Christine said. "Is he at home?"
"Oh, yes," the housekeeper beamed. "The master never goes out in weather like this. He's in the sitting-room, I'll tell him you're here." With that she trundled off down the hall and into the sitting-room. There had been no indication that Christine should follow, so she waited in the hallway with her hands clasped in front of her. Every now and then she would shiver slightly from the draughty air. From the corner of her eye she noticed a drop of rain slide down one of her curls, it trembled at the tip briefly, and then dropped to the floor.
She shivered again.
The housekeeper appeared again a few moments later, shaking her head. Christine walked towards her.
"He is upstairs," she said, pointing to the ceiling. "Apparently trying to find an old book or some such nonsense – I'll go and find him. Come and warm yourself in here, my dear." Christine followed her into the sitting-room. "I gather you are acquainted with Monsieur Larsson?"
Christine's heart jolted. Erik's eyes flicked to her immediately. She could only manage a brief nod in response to the housekeeper's question. A purple haze was enveloping her vision and her legs seemed to evaporate; the only thing she could focus on was his face. Everything else in the room was blurred and she was only vaguely aware of a fire, and warmth.
Her pulse was throbbing in her ears.
Erik stood up with a start and the sudden movement caused Christine to jump slightly.
"Mademoiselle," he said after a few tense seconds, bowing awkwardly to her as he said it.
"Monsieur," Christine smiled and dipped her head in a polite response, the cold air that had been swirling in her bones now turned into a deep heat; she could feel it stinging the insides of her cheeks. The sound of her voice increased Erik's breathing.
The housekeeper smiled and plodded back into the hallway, closing the door with a click.
Erik remained standing; his arms were now folded, his posture was stiff. He was wearing that mask again – the strange brown mask that was more human, but just as unnerving as the old one. Christine wanted to rip it from his face; skin was always more alive than a mask, scars or no scars – it didn't matter to her now. She wanted to see his skin.
She felt like the rain was now pouring inside her head, she felt drowned – weighed down. The sensations rippled through her, dripping into her soul and making her heart heavy.
"You're here…" she said, in a tone even she did not understand.
"Yes," Erik said, with one of his indifferent smiles.
There seemed to be a nauseating sensation inside Christine with every breath she took.
"Are you visiting socially?" she asked, smiling weakly.
He seemed annoyed by this question and his eyes deepened into a scowl.
"No, business."
"Oh..."
Business? Christine thought with horror. What possible business could Erik have with Edgar? An eccentric old man and an erstwhile Opera Ghost… suddenly her heart seemed to be racing for a different reason. She felt her eyebrow rise slightly. Erik seemed to notice her anxiety and his frown melted into a smirk.
"Are you investing in one of Edgar's enterprises?"
"No, unfortunately not," Erik said – his tone laced with acid. "It is a private matter, mademoiselle. But his counsel has been most rewarding."
It was a simple answer, innocent words – but his voice turned them into venom. Christine swallowed hard; it always seemed to be so difficult to talk to him. She knew what he was doing – intimidating her so she would continue to be afraid, hiding his discomfort behind malevolence.
She could not identify this burning – was she glad to see him? His eyes had not left hers and she could not fathom the emotion that seemed to be radiating from them. Light and shadow swirled in them eerily.
"You ran away," she said quietly.
"Excuse me?"
"You ran away," she repeated. "When I followed you..."
"Ah, yes," he said with a nasty smirk. "It was quite the role reversal, was it not?"
She chose to ignore his tone, trying to think of something else to say – unable to take her eyes from him, unable to look away. He seemed so cold, angry and defensive. A barricade manifested into the form of a man, ready to withstand any onslaught she tried to fire at him. But she could see it in his eyes, he was breaking – he was afraid of her. Her blood was throbbing, but she decided to speak through her fear.
"That day, Erik, I followed you for a reason." She noticed him flinch slightly at the sound of his name on her lips. "I had something to tell you –"
"There is no need," he interrupted, "I would rather we did not discuss it."
He smiled at her faintly then, making her heart stop – but she chose to ignore his false civility.
"I wanted to tell you that I was sorry too –"
"Please, Christine – not now!" he said in a harsh whisper, staring at the door with panic.
"I wanted to say that I am sorry about it all, all of it!" she whispered desperately, tears gathering in her eyes. Erik turned away sharply, facing the window.
"That's enough!" he snapped.
"I'm sorry, Erik... I'm so sorry," a tear rolled down Christine's cheek and fell into her hair.
For a moment there was only the sound of her sobs, mingling with the hiss and crack of the fire. Christine watched Erik's back contort heavily; she wanted to run to him – to break these strange barriers that seemed to condemn them both. Erik turned around and took a few swift paces towards her, hunger alight in his eyes. They merged with hers, blocking out the world around them.
Just then, Edgar burst into the room.
"I couldn't find it, Larsson. I'll have another look later… Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé! What a lovely surprise!"
Christine wiped her face and then turned to the old man with a warm smile. She felt as if she was back on stage.
"Did you walk in the rain, child?" Edgar said in alarm. "You look chilled to the bone!"
Christine felt Erik's eyes upon her too, as if he had only just realised how soaked she was. His gaze made her skin prickle.
"Oh, yes…" she said, looking down at her sopping dress. "I was caught in it on my walk here… I called to give you this," she took a letter out of the pocket of her dress, the edges were damp and curling. "It is from Madame Giry, about the wedding…"
"Ah, splendid. But you should not have come all of this way just to deliver this! I'm sure it could have waited," Edgar said, taking the letter and placing it in his pocket. Then he gestured towards Erik. "Do you remember Monsieur Larsson?"
"Yes," Christine said, smiling in Erik's direction… dying inside.
"I'm helping Larsson with some business, though why he seeks help from an old fool like me I'll never know!" Edgar chucked, looking at Erik.
"Your instruction has been most welcome," Erik said amiably.
Edgar laughed and turned back to Christine.
"Will you stay for some tea, Miss Daaé? Larsson was just about to leave, but we could have a nice chat by the fire!"
"I would love to, but perhaps another time? I should really go home and get into some dry clothes," Christine said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable in her wet attire.
"Of course," Edgar chuckled. "Forgive me, you really should get back. Have you a carriage waiting?"
"No, I was going to walk –"
"In this weather?" Edgar laughed. "Don't be absurd, allow me to give you carriage fare." He took some money from his pocket and forced it into her cold hand.
"No, please – I'll be fine –"
"Nonsense! I will not hear of you walking in this terrible weather; in fact, I really do not like the thought of you travelling alone!"
Edgar clicked his tongue in thought for a few seconds and then raised his eyebrows in triumph.
"Larsson, you're a trustworthy fellow –" Erik looked like he was about to choke "– will you see that Mademoiselle Daaé gets home safely?"
For a few moments Erik felt able to only stare at them, his countenance recoiling behind his mask – not knowing if he should laugh, cry or run. But then his eyes darkened, and his posture changed, reminding Christine of a man she had once seen inside a mirror. He placed his hat on his head and gave them a gracious smile.
"Of course, it would be my pleasure." His smile was reserved, but Christine could see the inferno in his eyes. She trembled.
"Splendid!" Edgar chirped. "I will see you in two days, for the final signing."
"Excellent. I shall look forward to it," Erik said. "Thank you for an interesting afternoon, Monsieur."
In the moments that passed Christine felt as though they were all involved in a bizarre parody sketch. The housekeeper fussed with her cloak, and put an extra shawl over her shoulders to keep her warm. She and Erik did not dare to look at one another, but both nodded and laughed politely at Edgar's quips and witticisms. The two men went outside to hail a hansom, and she stood in the doorway, her heart stinging with a numb discomfort, then Edgar helped her down the steps to the waiting carriage. Smiling brightly and saying he would see her again soon, and he then shook Erik's hand and hobbled back up into the house.
Erik gestured for Christine to tell the driver her address whilst holding an umbrella over her head. She could not find her voice and had to clear her throat, at the same time trying to hide her surprise; she had assumed he would remember…
"Did you expect me to have committed it to memory?" Erik asked coldly.
Christine glared at him, and then politely told the driver the address. She ignored Erik's offered hand and climbed into the carriage unaided. Erik climbed in after her and settled on the bench, resting his hands on his knees.
The carriage moved off with a jolt, and after a few moments the streets were rolling by, obscured by the onslaught of rain. The lamps became brighter as the curtain of darkness seemed to fall before them, trapping them in this strange melodrama they were both playing so well.
Christine felt sick. He was so close, she could hear him breathing – a small whistle escaped his nose with each breath. His familiar scent whirled through her body. The rocking of the carriage and the clack of horse hooves served only to increase her building frustration.
She was very aware that they were not speaking, and it was clear that Erik had no intention of attempting any form of conversation. He seemed content to let this opportunity pass them by. They were alone, and so close – and he did not care.
Christine's anger stirred.
"Are we to be silent the entire way?" she asked petulantly.
Erik turned and gazed at her mildly, a long, cold look that made her hold her breath.
"I think silence is wise – given the circumstances."
His look was one of such arrogance that Christine had to clamp her teeth together. She could see her scowl reflected in his eyes. Erik smiled – it seemed to please him.
"…Unless there was something in particular you wanted to discuss?"
Christine turned away, silently seething.
She felt his eyes on her again, but did not turn to meet his gaze, afraid that if she did, she would be pulled in and not be able to come up for air. It was getting dark, but as she gazed up at the sky Christine could see the clouds parting, patches of dark blue appeared in the silent sky, sapphires buried within coal. The rain seemed to be stopping. The streets were more alive, young men and women were strolling along – carefree as a breeze. Perhaps they were on their way to the theatre, or to dinner, or perhaps they were walking home… they had the choice, they were free, they were alive.
Christine turned to the ghost next to her. He was still looking at her, but his eyes had calmed. Apparently her distress was no longer amusing. She heard a sigh escape from the back of his throat.
"What would you have me say?" he asked.
"Anything…" she said, looking down at her hands.
"Tedious conversation amuses you that much? Would you rather I comment on the weather, economy or current affairs?"
"Do not ridicule me, Erik," she frowned.
She could almost hear his shock; it slashed the air like a whip. Then he laughed slightly and turned back to his window. Christine felt a strange heat in her head and on her arms – anger trembled all the way to her core. When she spoke her voice was low and calm, but laced with tears and hurt, "I want to know who I am, why I am so unhappy, why I am unable to escape you, I want to understand why I cannot sing. I want to know why I feel all of the things I feel, why I am scared of you, why I am in awe of you. I want to know about your life and where you have been for the last two years, why you came back, and if you are planning to leave again! I want to know who you are! I want to understand you… and all you do is mock me!"
His eyes were wild, he looked as though he was about to explode – charge out of the carriage and topple it over in a murderous rage. Or open the door and throw her out into the street…
The shine of a gas lamp fell across the unmasked side of his face, illuminating it. His skin was tense, and his mouth was agape, and there were lines of frustration and sorrow on his furrowed brow. But in that instant his eyes were brilliant, they caught hers with a clash of swords in the sunlight – wild, passionate and deadly.
Christine sat up instantly and forced her mouth against his, needing that sensation again. Needing to feel him. She kissed him with all of her anger and desire. He was solid at first, frozen with shock, but slowly his mouth welcomed her and tasted her. Then his hands were at her waist, holding her tightly and saving them both from this treacherous tide. But Christine could not stop, even though it was wrong, even though there was so much she needed to know. The feel of him, the smell of him, and the taste of him – it was all like a bizarre homecoming. A home she had never inhabited but had known all her life.
"Here we are, Mam'zelle!"
The carriage had stopped and Christine jumped away from Erik, fear gathering at the back of her throat. She could not speak, or swallow, or make this moment real. She was horrified, horrified with how alive she felt. Then, with two cat-like movements, she was out of the carriage and running towards the house.
It was raining heavily again – the heavens had opened.
oOo
I want to know who you are!
Erik's hands were trembling; the smell of Christine was everywhere! Oh, God! What had she done? She should have left him! She should have let him let her go. But now, now she had given him the one thing the executioner should never give the condemned…
Hope.
Slowly he became aware that the carriage was moving away again, pulling him away from her.
"Stop!" he called to the driver. He threw open the door and charged down the steps, throwing some money at the man on his way.
Moments later, with the rain falling heavily onto his back, Erik found himself at Christine's door.
It was unlocked.
oOo