The moment Erik heard his and Meg's assumed names, he froze and considered leaving the theater. Before he could move, however, Meg laced her fingers with his and pulled him from his seat.
"Your hand is like ice," she commented under her breath.
With his head down, he walked to the orchestra pit, nodded a greeting to the maestro, and took his seat at the piano while Meg walked up the stairs and gracefully stood on the stage. Her gaze swept over the theater seats, then she looked at him. There was terror in her gaze, her hands balled tightly into fists as she stood rigid. No one could see him in the orchestra pit, but everyone stared at Meg—and she knew it. He cleared his throat, garnering her attention if only briefly.
He pulled back his hood just enough for her to see him looking up at her and offered a closed-lipped smile.
"Sing," he said simply.
"I will." She looked from Erik to the maestro and took a deep breath. "I'm ready."
The maestro, however, pinned his gaze on Erik's bandaged hands and frowned. "Sir?" he questioned. "Are you able to play?"
Erik's shoulders dropped. He kept his eyes focused on the ivory keys and solemnly nodded. "An accident," he stated. "I was burned quite badly in a fire."
Meg bent at the waist. "He doesn't wish to speak of the incident," she whispered apologetically. "Too many harsh memories, I'm afraid."
"Oh, my," the maestro said. "Are you sure you are able to play?"
"Quite sure," Erik insisted.
The maestro turned, seeming flustered by this new information, and relayed the message to the three men taking notes in one of the first few rows. Once he received approval from the critics, he turned to Meg and Erik and told them they could begin.
Erik looked up at Meg. "Ready when you are, Mademoiselle." he said.
Meg nodded. "Ready."
His nerves steadied as he started to play and Meg began to sing. At first she looked terrified in the spotlight, but when she relaxed after the first few bars, her voice became stronger and her movements more natural. He could see her looking into the orchestra pit, awaiting his approval and he nodded, guiding her along.
Even though the theater was half empty, Erik imagined playing before a full house. He wanted to spend his time composing, but he found he enjoyed playing just as much and felt at ease within the orchestra pit. There he was just out of sight, yet still very much involved in the theater production.
The song ended all too soon, the crowd waiting for their turn applauded and Meg took her bow. She stood at the very edge of the stage and smiled when she looked at him.
When she reached out to him, he stood and leaned forward, briefly touching her fingers. Tears glistened in her eyes before she turned and walked off the stage, leaving him to watch her exit. Music in hand, he joined her a moment later on the side of the stage.
"How was it?" she questioned frantically. "Did we sound good? Did I sing well?"
"Calm down," he said, amused by her excited state. "You did fine. A little nervous at first, but you did just fine."
She threw her arms around him in a moment of exhilaration and bliss, which made him pause and draw back. Her excitement could not be denied and at last he embraced her back, sharing in her moment of happiness.
"Oh, I hope they liked us," she said as she jumped up and down.
"You did very well," he praised, attempting to even his tone. As much as he wanted to have his music accepted and Meg hired into the company, he had never been an optimist.
"We did well," she corrected. "You played beautifully. The whole song just…calmed me when I stood there."
"Monsieur Purcell!" one of the judges called. "A word, please."
His heart stuttered and he looked over toward the center of the theater fully expecting an entire line of gendarmes waiting for him. The man stood alone, his colleagues still furiously writing their notes.
"Go on," Meg prompted.
He turned and looked at her one last time. He gently squeezed her arm and excused himself, hoping the men were interested in hearing more of his work.
"Monsieur Norsett," the man introduced himself. He was round and bald with spectacles perched at the very tip of his thin nose. "Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Purcell, and even more pleased to hear your music."
He held out his hand and Erik frowned. "Forgive me," he said quietly as he displayed his bandaged hands. "I suffered a horrible accident only a few weeks ago. My hands are quite tender still." He pulled back his hood and watched Norsett grimace once he saw the bandages.
"My apologies," Norsett said with a great deal of sincerity. "I would like to discuss your work with you if you have a moment."
Erik felt his breath catch. "Yes," he said. "Yes, of course, Monsieur, whatever you would like."
Norsett nodded in approval. "Did you happen to bring any of your other compositions with you today?"
"Unfortunately, I did not, however, I have memorized most of my own work and would be quite honored to play for you," Erik answered. He clenched and relaxed his fists, unsure of whether his words made him sound like a pompous ass or a skilled musician.
Norsett's eyes widened. "What about your hands?"
"For my music, I would suffer any pain," Erik replied.
"That will not be necessary as I would hate to see such talent distressed."
"As you wish, Monsieur," Erik said politely.
Norsett seemed pleased with their exchange and smiled. "I believe we will be asking for more of your music at a later time, if not later today. If you would be so kind as to forward some of your original compositions to theater, we would be more than happy to review."
"I would rather play my own music rather than suffer the possibility of my work being misinterpreted," he answered. Or stolen, he thought.
"Yes, of course. I trust you will be staying, Monsieur, for the next two hours?"
Erik hadn't planned anything as Meg had taken care of the details. He had come only to play for her and now he had other reasons to stay—and hope for the best.
"Of course," he answered. Over the years, he'd come to enjoy the auditions for new productions almost as much as he enjoyed watching the manager gasp and mutter as he read Erik's notes regarding which performers needed to find a new occupation. "Watching the other auditions would be my sincere pleasure."
"Have you ever written a full production?" Norsett asked.
"I have attempted, yes," he answered uncomfortably, hoping Norsett wouldn't ask him about his full production since he couldn't mention Don Juan.
"Very well. We are interested in original work by new composers, Monsieur Purcell. This is, after all, the New Parisian Theater. We are looking to entertain a younger audience, a more enthusiastic and open crowd. No more Mozart or Bizet filling the theaters with the same repetitive lineup. We want something all our own."
"You have innovative ideas," Erik answered.
"We want the girls on the stage to entertain, the music to leave people breathless, and performances to send all of France into an unstoppable frenzy. That will be the watermark of The New Parisian."
"Sounds like quite the endeavor. I trust you found my partner Madame Beaudeau sufficient as well?"
"I believe I did. We'll speak again before the end of the day," Norsett promised before he excused himself.
Erik awkwardly turned away once their conversation abruptly ended. He felt someone staring and watched a shadow walking down the aisle toward where he stood and expected it was Meg coming to ask what they had discussed.
The theater was too dark for him to make out her features and once he stared at the woman facing toward him, he wasn't so sure he was correct in thinking it was Meg. He turned from her, started down the aisle and toward the last place he'd seen Meg, intent on returning to their seats to wait until the end of auditions.
The next performer took the stage and he hurried along, unsure of which row they had sat in when they arrived. He surveyed the seats row by row, but Meg had disappeared.
There was no reason to panic, he told himself. He glanced around and discovered everyone had their eyes on the stage and not him, which allowed him a moment of solace. No one was looking for the Phantom. Erik was dead now, gone and forgotten. Purcell was within the theater and hopeful for a new opportunity. Purcell was no different from the rest, nothing more than a musician.
With a sigh he took a seat and sat back to watch the next performer. The theater could be his home again, a place where he could spend his evenings playing or watching performances before he retired to a real home. For the first time in his life he felt a sense of hope in thinking of a real home, a true home above ground, not beneath it like a tomb.
There would be no escaping down into a cellar and out of sight, no scurrying like a rat through the shadows to evade the rest of society. He would write within his own room, present his work, and listen to his songs or operas performed. He would be accepted and normal, a welcomed contributor to society, not a feared and hunted beast in the night.
He smiled to himself, surprised by the elation he suddenly felt. His heart belonged to music again and he would dedicate his life to the only thing he could love without hurting.
This would be enough for him, the missing piece that would feed his soul. He would have his passion again and now he would share his gift with others.
Meg returned to their seats and plopped down beside him. He could feel her staring at him and turned, wanting to tell her she had no reason to worry as Norsett had practically guaranteed they would be hired for the theater.
He turned to face her and found a different yet familiar woman staring back at him, her dark eyes wide, her face ghostly white. For a long moment he gawked at her, forgetting his disguise, forgetting his wits and his false identity. She was not supposed to be in Paris still. She was supposed to somewhere far away, out of his sight and out of his mind for good.
"Monsieur Purcell?" Christine said, turning her head to the side.
Erik turned his face from hers, the ache in his chest so painful he thought he would pass out from the turmoil. That life with her had vanished the night she had made her choice, when she'd pressed the engagement ring into the palm of his hand and ran off.
He swallowed hard and nodded slowly, afraid of what would happen if he risked a glance in her direction or acknowledged her with words.
"You are Monsieur Purcell, correct?" she asked.
"Yes, Mademoiselle," he said at last. "I apologize, but do I know you?"
Christine hesitated, her expression changing from curiosity to melancholy. "No, I don't believe so," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I thought…I thought you were someone else."
His heart ached. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and frowned. He had been someone else to her, but that person could no longer exist. "Someone you think of fondly, I hope."
She seemed nervous, which was fitting as she always seemed slightly anxious in his company. Sometimes she appeared excited in his presence, other times wary of his temper or his passion for song and creating the perfect melody.
"An old acquaintance," she answered.
Nothing more than an acquaintance, he wistfully thought. That's all he would be to her, nothing more than a memory.
"He was a very talented musician who passed away recently, I'm afraid."
He turned to face her and bowed his head, ashamed he was reduced to little more than a talented, yet nameless entity. "My condolences."
Christine stood abruptly and backed away. "Thank you, Monsieur. I apologize for disturbing you."
"Are you auditioning?" he asked, fearing she would leave, yet still afraid she would stay. He couldn't love her the way he had before, couldn't continue to cajole her into his life. She deserved something better, someone better.
Words wouldn't make her stay with him. She stood and looked around as though searching for someone else. "Not today, I don't think," she said absently. She took several steps and turned to face him once more. "Your music…it was beautiful."
"Thank you," he said, but his words were wasted. She scurried off just as she had done so many times before. Always running, he thought, always leaving in fear. She was always leaving him behind because he was not fit to be seen in public with her.
"Christine," he whispered as she disappeared into the crowd.
He still loved her deeply even if his affection wasn't returned. He realized he would never stop loving her. No matter how close or how far she was from him, Christine would always have his heart.
But he was no longer the Phantom or just Erik. He was Purcell now and he knew nothing of Christine, the opera house, or her fiancé. The young woman who had approached him was nothing more than another musician in search of employment.
Erik was dead to her and this would be for the best.