A/N: Ah, what a pain this chapter was to write - which, is why it took so long to publish. Apologies for that. It's a dense one but I think the last half might make that worthwhile. I made a stupid error in making them arrive on Tortola on a Saturday night so I had to find a way around that, hopefully it is somewhat believable.
Also, not much heat in this chapter but there is a bit of a fluffy ending. And, speaking of heat... just wait until the chapter after next.
Many thanks to all my wonderful reviewers! Keep them coming, please!
Also, Child of Dreams, what's with you wanting Christine to be in constant danger? I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news but the threat level will be low for a while, at least until they arrive back in England - after that who knows... ;)
Now, without further delay...
11 May - Day 14
Christine awoke to an empty room, which, following last night's - argument? lapse of inhibition? - came as no surprise. The note awaiting her on the table alongside a plate of breakfast, however, was a first.
It was touching.
Ever since her secret had been laid bare Erik had made a habit of disappearing. Whenever an awkward situation reared its head or a charged moment passed between them his subsequent flight was all-but assured, the prior evening had qualified as both. Where he went, what refuge or distraction he sought, was a mystery of the highest order - she contemplated it but dared not inquire.
He would not have told her regardless.
In a bizarre twist he hadn't left the room, not technically, choosing to instead sequester himself in the bathroom. When the moody prince did at last emerge from his tiled sanctuary it was half-past eleven, in silent high dudgeon he took to the sofa Hugo in hand. Christine had seized her opportunity for a bath then, lest he choose to hole himself up for another inordinate stretch, and retired directly afterwards. Not a word was exchanged for the remainder of the night; he never came to bed.
—despite her shamelessly (or shamefully, depending) wishing he had.
Pensively nibbling on a piece of toast she studied the missive he left behind, losing herself in the neat, slanting script - so artful it appeared rendered by machine rather than human hand.
My dearest Christine,
Her heart beat an uneven tattoo to read the endearment preceding her name, even though it wasn't real.
Forgive and be not alarmed by my absence; it is business, not shame over my boorish words and behaviour (though I rue both keenly), that calls me away this morning. I've pressing matters to which I must attend despite it being that prescribed day of idleness, the Sabbath. Please do not worry yourself over divine retribution befalling me. I am sure the Almighty has no plans to smite me for the sin as given my transgressions, this is decidedly trivial.
Wrath of God notwithstanding you can expect me back this afternoon. In the meantime I have addressed the concern with which you approached me yesterday and taken the liberty of ordering you a new trousseau. I hope you do not think me forward in having done so, you were asleep and I did not wish to wake you. The dressmaker was rather opposed to persuasion but I prevailed as I am disposed to do. A seamstress will be by at nine o'clock and with her is to bring a variety of dresses in need of tailoring. However fashionable these are I do not pretend to know but we have not time for custom orders, a fact I lament greatly. Select whatever captures your fancy or the whole damn wardrobe for all I care, it has already been purchased.
Yours evermore,
Erik
His tone was civil, unexpectedly so. A surge of relief ran through her chest with the knowledge that they were again on good terms. They argued too often these days - but, then, hadn't theirs always been a tenuous balance of clashing tempers and tenderness? She did not exactly help matters by consistently antagonizing him, besides. Maybe in future she would try the slightest bit harder to be obliging (or at all).
Her grin widened when she came to the bit about his always getting his way, in her mind substituting the word 'persuasion' for bullying. She rolled her eyes. Only he could coax someone into working on a Sunday and only he would even dare. The memorandum was so quintessentially him, so very Erik, that it read in his voice. This reverie concluded when her gaze strayed to the mantel clock.
Damnation! It was almost nine.
Any moment the seamstress and her coterie would whirl into the room in a cloud of tulle and chiffon barking orders at whichever poor sap had the responsibility of carting in the goods. Would it be as it had the time Meg and Mrs Giry had dragged her into Worth's - all silk, satin, snobbery and tedium?
Lord, she hoped not.
Unlike Meg, and the vast majority of her sex, she detested the whole business of fashion regarding it as a chore not a treat. Nigh on a month had gone by since she had been sheathed and wreathed in dress and corset; she didn't miss either. There was much more freedom to be had in trousers, both for sake of movement and convenience. Oh, how she'd mourn the loss of each. She sighed, donning the dressing gown Erik had draped over the desk chair. Working her curls into a messy plait, Christine tried to project some air of noblesse as the clock hands lurched in a second-by-second countdown.
Ten, nine, eight—
There was a faint commotion down the hall.
Seven, six, five, four—
The noise grew louder, closer with each tick, boisterous and busy.
Three, two—
A deep breath and she steeled herself for the inevitable. Well, here went nothing...
One.
And, there it was: a knock right on cue.
No sooner had she opened the door than she was quite nearly bowled over by the sheer volume of boxes and trunks.
"Watch it there! Make way please, miss!"
Christine retreated to a corner to avoid being crushed, happily overseeing the procession from a safer distance. Things flowed into the room in an endless parade. She watched the spectacle intently, curious if everything would fit and amazed when it did; her eyes narrowed with the last of it - had he thought sending an entire dress shop would be funny? It certainly matched Erik's sadistic brand of humor.
Small wonder they two were ever at odds! Not even his gestures of kindness were removed from being infuriating in some way.
"'Scuse me— Pardon, Mrs Stoke, ma'am?" The mouse-squeak of a voice came from a slight thing, no older than herself and barely tall enough to be picked out from amidst the stacks of overflowing boxes. "The name's Letitia, ma'am. I've been sent by my mistress, Mrs Dove, at your husband's behest."
...her husband?
Oh, right: Erik, her 'husband'.
She adopted what she prayed passed for a welcoming grin, "Good morning, Letitia. Please, call me Christine; I insist."
"Very well, Mrs—Christine, if an' it please you."
"It would please me very much. I've not quite gotten used to being Mrs Stoke, you see." Well, it was the truth, the seamstress needn't know her difficulty adjusting to her new title was owing to its falsity. "Shall we get started then?"
The girl nodded and, like a child having memorized a bit of scripture, recited, "Mrs Stoke is to choose whichever garments she likes but is urged to keep in mind she'll be travelling First Class and must have at least three evening gowns and enough dresses for the journey home. Here's everything from the shop, I hope there's somethin' to your liking, Christine."
"Everything from the shop...?" she repeated in awe.
"Oh, yes, Captain Stoke wanted a 'wealth of choices' for you."
An amalgamation of guilt and appreciation arose within her stomach. She couldn't say which one she felt more acutely - or, indeed, which she should be feeling. For while she was grateful for Erik's thoughtfulness she pitied Letitia, forced to toil on what was likely her sole day off. Christine, like most, had heard of the miserable plight of seamstresses, young girls made to work their fingers to the bone, sewing night and day, barely earning enough to feed themselves.
"I'm indebted to you for forsaking your Sabbath, truly I am."
"No worries, the Captain paid my mistress a small fortune and me as well - near five months of wages." She hastily covered her mouth as if she had uttered a profane secret. "I wasn't supposed to make mention of that, sorry ma'am."
"Of course," Christine promised with a smile that did not reach her eyes, "I'll forget I heard."
Guilt outstripped appreciation. Here was exactly why she'd been hesitant to broach the topic with him in the first place! She cursed herself for not waking sooner, maybe she might have talked him out of such extravagance. Resentment over being put in this incommodious position came fast on the heels of annoyance, for his laying out an egregious sum and forcing her to accept.
Letitia's livelihood now in her hands she couldn't very well refuse - how could she? And, how could she ever repay him? Papa could provide reimbursement but owing to his modest beginning he had always erred on the side of frugal—this fact was of minimal consequence to her, she'd never been one for expensive trinkets or fine garments—he would balk when he received the bill and Christine would look every inch the sort of vapid chit she hated.
She could picture his frown, the pull of disappointment at the edges of his mouth. Christine, my dear child, he'd say, what has gotten into you? You've never been one for the frippery of Oriental silks or Italian lace... And she would have to sit there and hold her tongue, receiving criticism and discontent that were no real fault of hers.
No, every ounce of the blame was Erik's.
The nerve of that imperious scoundrel! Where had he found the capital anyway? She'd never seen him produce so much as a farthing in their time together - then again, given the man in question, he could have the Crown Jewels hidden on his person and nobody, including her, would be the wiser. God knows how much or what he had. That aside, she loathed being indebted to anyone, much less to him.
Oh, they'd be having a talk about this, they most assuredly would, or her name wasn't Christine Agnes Daaé!
Though, it wasn't so far as the rest of the world was concerned... Christine put that niggling detail from mind.
"My, what a lot of fine fabrics you have, Letitia." She said travelling the room in survey and dragging a bolt of satin between her fingers.
"Yes, ma'am. Mrs Dove, she says that we may have been forced to cover our shame since our exile from Eden but it might as well be in finery so short is our time on this Earth."
"And so I shall!" she replied on a laugh, selecting a few simple yet elegant pieces to start: befitting a lady of breeding without ostentatiousness, precisely her style. This was true of many of the garments she had seen in her seconds-earlier tour. Christine mulled over how much of a hand Erik had in that, her head swimming before she recollected that he'd ordered the shop entire. She exhaled, let down by the realization, bracing herself for the task ahead.
If she had thought the appointment would be all aloofness and glances with pins she was mistaken. There was an air of relaxation about the whole thing, novel and refreshing. Soon she and Letitia had cultivated an easy camaraderie between them and were talking like intimates, no stuffiness or class divisions to be felt.
This lack of austere formality took the edge off her new role. Yes, Mrs Stoke was a married woman with a past divergent from her own, however at the core they were synonymous, she was still the same Christine. That soothed her more than anything, the knowledge that she was merely representing more than she was rather than portraying something she was not.
She could do this.
She could play the blushing bride ... and do a damn fine job too.
Morning quickly went by and she lost count of the bodices, skirts and petticoats. Throughout it all she learnt a whole host of information about the seamstress, the girl quite willing to talk - Christine gladly encouraged this, grateful the conversation hadn't turned to a past she had yet to invent.
Letitia hailed from a poor family in Manchester, one of many children; to ease the burden on her parents she and her elder sister accompanied their grandparents to Tortola. Soon after both sister and grandfather had departed—the former to America with her new husband, a naval lieutenant, and the latter into the hereafter—leaving only the seamstress and her grandmother to manage the family business. In the three years since the shop had been sold and she had become an aunt twice-over to a niece and nephew she had never seen and wasn't likely to for some time. There was no one to accompany her, she explained, her grandmother having sworn off long sea voyages at her age and the children being too young to travel.
"Beth'll bring 'em to visit when they're old enough, I'm sure of it; granny keeps writing to ask."
Christine's heart lurched at the conviction with which the statement was delivered. The girl's predicament was one all too familiar to her. She had cheated, overcome the obstacle with a clever disguise, but privilege and luck had a large hand in that - she had the benefit of a private cabin with facilities and she had Raoul; Letitia would have neither. What, then (if anything) could be done to aid her? Furthermore, what was she, another helpless, vulnerable girl, to do?
Vulnerable, maybe; helpless, not at all.
It hit her suddenly, brilliant and mutually beneficial.
They were travelling First Class, she was expected to dress the part so why not act it as well? Didn't ladies of stature have personal maids to dress them and preen their pretty feathers?
As a seamstress she was stuck on the island cut-off from her beloved sister but as a maid... Well, Letitia would have protection and friendship; and, as a bonus, she and Erik would be that much more inconspicuous amongst their peers. Besides, it was clear that in all his meticulous haste he had overlooked this particular area - so, really, she was doing him a favor. A smile played across her lips to have out-thought the brilliant Erik Grey.
Who was the witless one now?
"How would you like a temporary position, Letitia?"
"A position?!" Her question was reiterated with a touch of confused panic. "I don't take your meaning, ma'am."
"I meant no harm by it, please don't think my intent malicious. Only, I believe that you and I could help each other. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak... You see, my maid fell sick just before the journey, I've had to do without and though he does try Captain Stoke makes a poor substitute." Christine added a light giggle for effect, the lies readily slipping from lips that had not two days earlier been swift in their condemnation of dishonesty.
Worse still she was without remorse for the prevarications - even Erik had felt regret. Did that not make her actions more deplorable than his? Alas, no, she decided, the two were not equal, his fib had served no purpose and moreover had been used to deceive her. They were in this together, them against the world, to mislead others was to survive but to mislead one another...
That was unforgivable.
"You would receive wages for your work and we would see you safely back to your family in England. Do you have a relative who can escort you to America?"
"Yes, ma'am, my brother, Will. But..." Gaity transitioned into a frown making Christine nervous; she swallowed it back. Her plan had to work, she was so very desperate to help. This was the only way. It would be difficult enough to convince Erik to take the girl on as a maid, forget as a companion or in any other capacity. "How can I do a job I've not been trained for?"
"It will be simple work, assisting me dressing and arranging my hair; I can tell from your own that you've skill with the latter."
"I had three younger sisters to practice on," Letitia admitted sheepishly.
"You'd like to see them again as well, I trust? Your grandmother will not mind, will she?"
"Yes, ma'am, very much. And, no, ma'am, she won't mind, she's been hoping I'll make more of myself than a seamstress."
"Will you accept my offer, then? Oh, please say you will!"
"I'll accept, ma'am."
"Excellent! I'm sure you'll be a wonderful lady's maid, Letitia."
"Are you sure Captain Stoke'll approve, ma'am?"
"Of course, my dear husband can refuse me nothing." she lied, well-aware of how ridiculous she sounded. Erik would delight in refusing her, few things would probably lend him more pleasure. Nonetheless she would succeed in bringing the seamstress along come hell or high water. He would see, she could be just as stubborn as the pig-headed mule himself.
They made it through two additional fittings before the clock struck noon. Perhaps more could have been accomplished had they cut back on idle chatter but Christine had missed having company of her own sex - it made her long for Meg more keenly than ever. By half past an evening gown joined the pile and lunch was ordered.
The day was running efficiently even so, minutes measured out in pinned hems and bites of food. It worked with the efficacy of a well-oiled theatre production, every actor playing their respective part including those absent. Like clockwork the door flew open at exactly one o'clock. She knew it was him even with her back turned, knew it from the dynamic buzz in the air.
All players now on stage it was time for the show to begin. Christine inhaled, setting her jaw in determination. She could do this; she would get her way.
"What, is the seamstress still here?"
"I'm near-finished, sir."
"I do hope you've allotted yourself enough time to complete the order, girl."
"Oh, yes, sir! I'm a good worker... and quick too, sir!" she babbled anxiously, fluttering about like a hummingbird as she added a skirt and bodice to the stack, "But mistress says my stitches are none the worse for it."
"Carry on, then. Logic dictates you'll work faster if you limit your prattling."
Unfortunately, it was at this moment, as Letitia was reaching for an evening gown, that Christine's poorly-pinned hair finally came tumbling down. Although the girl had it rectified within seconds, her nimble fingers securing the plait, she wasn't fast enough to escape the eagle-eyed notice of their disgruntled overseer.
"I seem to recall hiring you to fit my wife for dresses not toy with her hair. For the love of God, cease with the diversions and do your damn job, girl!"
"It isn't her fault, dearest," Christine chimed in rising to the seamstress' defense, "after that incident last week with the hair iron I thought you would have learnt that I am a danger to myself."
Not the best segué but it would have to serve.
"Of course, darling, how could I have forgotten the cause of your newly-shorn locks?" Erik replied through grit teeth piggybacking off her fabrication.
Really, they did make a laudable team.
That was, when he was not acting like an unmitigated arse... which, admittedly, was the case more often than not.
"You know, Letitia has a talent for hair and given that my poor maid took ill—"
"Why the devil should either of those things matter to me?"
"Well, I am in need of a new maid and Letitia wishes to see her niece and nephew in America; I thought it the perfect arrangement." She worried her lip, held her breath and prayed this farce wouldn't come crashing down around her ears. An eternity shuffled by before he spoke.
"You are asking me to hire the seamstress so that she may enjoy a free holiday..."
"A free holiday? That's quite an exaggeration, dear, she would be working as my lady's maid."
"Wait outside, girl," His tone was gruff, clipped. "I need to discuss this with my wife." Not needing to be told twice the girl scurried from the room leaving her the sole focus of Erik's ire.
"Explain. Now." he demanded in the same furious, barely-restrained whisper he'd employed the previous night. Christine closed her eyes and exhaled hard through her nostrils, vibrant memories of their spat and what followed flashing through her head; a wave of dizziness rushed over her.
She could do this.
"We are attempting to draw as little attention as possible whilst travelling, are we not?"
So far, so good...
"And, what of it?"
"And, Letitia cannot travel from the Caribbean to New York by herself."
"I fail to see what bearing that has on me..."
"Do you not think our being the only First Class passengers without servants will arouse suspicion, or come off as odd at the very least?"
Erik scowled. The infuriating wretch had a valid point. He couldn't tell which annoyed him more, this or the fact he had disregarded such an important detail. Damn her persistence and damn her sensibility! There was no denying she was correct in her assessment. Still he couldn't yet own to his mistake, pride wouldn't allow for it.
"We are destined for England not America, how would that be of any help to the girl?"
"She has family in Manchester, brothers and sisters. Once there she can stay with them and they can make the voyage across the Atlantic together. Her guardian will approve as the position is a step up from her current one." Erik shook his head to clear the incredulity from it, he could not believe he was actually deigning to consider her proposal, foolish as it was outlandish. Lord, what had become of him?
Perhaps it was because he was weary of their bickering or that she was right. Or, perhaps it was the way the dressing robe, his dressing robe, adhered to her figure and brought every curve into sharp focus. Whatever the reason the battle was lost.
"Fine," he huffed in vexed resignation scribbling something to paper, "but there will be conditions." Christine didn't know if he was talking to her or reassuring himself. Regardless, he summoned the shaking seamstress back into the room shortly thereafter.
"I have chosen to take you on as my wife's lady's maid at her behest. Mind you, this is not a permanent position, you will be dismissed the moment we disembark in England. I trust you have family there to claim you?" Letitia nodded, saucer-eyed, resembling a rabbit before a hungry snake. "If it is later revealed that you've not been truthful on this front you will be on your own, do I make myself clear? I will not be held responsible for your well-being or what becomes of you." Another trembling nod. "In lieu of references I ask you to prove yourself this afternoon. As it happens I have a list of items that must be procured before departing, feminine items that I feel are not a man's place to collect; you are to return tomorrow with the aforementioned things and I shall have a contract of employment awaiting your signature if you are still interested. In the event of your agreement you will be expected to be back here with my complete order and all of the necessary travel documents at noon. I do not tolerate tardiness, girl, consider yourself forewarned. These are my terms. Do you accept?"
"Y-Yes, sir." Letitia squeaked, her face paper-white.
"I will provide the money, I'm sure the both of you can spend it admirably."
The sardonic bite of his declaration lingered in the room even after he had departed but it was no matter... She had done it, she had succeeded in reuniting Letitia with her family. And, that, was worth every bit of Erik's irritation.
"Don't worry," she consoled the shaken girl, "He comes off as frightening but Captain Stoke is a good and fair man underneath the bluster." This time Christine meant every word she said.
o o o
Erik grew increasingly impatient as afternoon slipped into evening, a fact reflected in the music filling the claustrophobic space. Things kept on in this manner until every strain became restless and ornery. It was the first time he had played since that night and though his left hand was resistant, the fingers rigid, painful and clumsy, they had lost none of their skill. Despite the pain he would not have forsaken this opportunity for the world, to him music was as essential as respiration.
The inn had two parlors: one large, bedecked with windows and comfortable furniture and one small, threadbare and sparsely furnished aside from the large piano occupying half the room. The sight of the instrument proved impossible to resist - hadn't he begrudged himself enough over the past fortnight, besides? Self-denial only extended so far, a reality that, day-by-day, was also coming true with regards to Christine.
He thought back to last evening, to yet another foiled kiss...
—to those scant moments in the bath that began with thoughts of her and ended within her.
In fantasy he took her as he had in dreams: on the rug, the table, the desk, in the bed, against the wall and windowsill. No place was excluded from the domain of lust nor could he hide from it, his only option was to fight it head-on. Maybe then he'd stand a chance. He imagined it was the smooth caress of Christine's hand rather than his own calloused one.
Relief was transitory, a splint on a broken limb, the remedy for the physical ache temporary. It did nothing to assuage the longing, if anything it heightened it, cleared his mind to make way for additional visions. He was a mess; he was coming apart at the seams. His control was waning, it would be a miracle if he survived the remainder of this trip.
Now nothing could dampen his agitation and he hoped Christine and that jittery little seamstress would arrive soon. They had better arrive soon. The pile of paper to his left caught his attention, he clenched his jaw as he pounded out savage chords. He had paid that fool solicitor a ludicrous amount to draft a contract on such short notice and on a Sunday too. It was money thrown away. As the document did not contain his real name it would mean nothing in a proper court; he could have easily forged such a thing for no cost but knew nothing of the girl or her connections and so decided to err on the side of caution.
Finally when he was like to combust into flames he heard movement overhead and the distinct trill of female voices. His angry fingers wove temperamental improvisation into a lively piece by Tausig. Lost in the complexity as he was Erik did not hear the door slide open nor the sound of footsteps. Only when the song ended on a sweet sigh did he register he was no longer alone.
Quite suddenly he could not remember how to breathe.
Never had he thought himself a fortunate man but at that instant even a cynic could not argue that luck had been on his side, for if he had seen her a second sooner he would have made a mockery of Tausig's music. Truth be told, Erik had fairly forgotten that he could play. Erroneously he had considered himself prepared to see her in a dress having pictured little else all day.
And, all he could think was that it had been worth every aggravation—the seamstress, the money, the contract, the inconvenience—and of how mistaken he was to believe imagination could have done her justice.
Hers was the beauty inspiring ballads and sonnets.
What a difference a proper fitting change of clothes could make, as if she had shed her filthy cloak of donkey skin and revealed the princess underneath.
Dear God, she was stunning, absolutely breathtaking.
Speech promptly deserted him.
Propelled by a latent sense of chivalry he leapt to his feet, his hand making contact with the keys in an ear-splitting assault. He couldn't recall ever feeling so foolish, not even in youth - Christ, how long had his mouth been hanging open? And, when had his collar grown so tight? What she must think of him stumbling and gaping slack-jawed like an imbecile!
"Well, how do I look?"
Had she not spoken Erik might have stared for an eon wasting away like Narcissus before the reflecting pool.
"You look... You are—" The words died on his lips, droplets of rain sucked up by thirsty soil; he cleared his throat.
"Is it that ghastly?" she asked, crestfallen.
"Not at all! Forgive me. You look... lovely." A choked, constricted, pathetic, wholly inadequate testament to her comeliness but it was all that emerged. Evidently it satisfied for she gifted him a radiant smile.
"Truly?"
"Yes, truly. Now, tell me, have you eaten?"
"I had a light luncheon after breakfast but that's all."
"I see, I shall order us some supper then; you must be hungry." Erik scarcely stayed long enough to see her nod before he quit the room, resolved not to make himself look more absurd than he already must.
o o o
He heard long before he saw anything, acute ears detecting the tinkle of piano keys. Erik paused in the hall - the uncertain plucking had shifted into Glinka's, Nocturne in F Minor, La Séparation. Unable to stop himself he entered the room, loathing this impetuous decision when the melody ended and she looked up at him.
"You play." he said reservedly, statement rather than query. Christine faltered, sable eyes growing big.
"Y-Yes. Well, that is, I do a little. I've nowhere near your proficiency."
"Few do," was the automatic reply, issued as a fact, "Nonetheless, continue, please."
She stared at him both floored and petrified. He wanted her to play? He, whose talent could rival Mozart, wished to witness her plodding, primitive proficiency on the piano - to what end? It had to be a joke at her expense, smacked of his typical sarcasm.
"You should not tease me."
"I am doing no such thing, I would simply like to hear you."
"And, should I agree will you return the favor?"
"If that would please you."
"Oh, but— Can you play with your hand as it is?" Christine inquired, dubiously eyeing the injured appendage. No longer a grotesquely swollen fright it stood out still, the lithe fingers puffy and the bruising stark - though it had begun to turn a sickly shade of yellow-green at the edges, a sign it was on the mend.
His eyes narrowed, "Was I not doing so earlier?"
"I am just worried, I don't want you crippling yourself for my sake." He scoffed; if only she knew that he'd cripple himself a thousand times over were she to will it.
"Your concern is mislaid, I'm fine. Now, you've stalled quite long enough, little princess..."
"Yes, yes," she agreed dismissively, "And, you will play for me afterwards?"
"You need only name the composition, my dear."
"Very well, then."
With that conversation died and music was born from its ashes. Erik had never been so enamored. Indeed, he had never paid other musicians much care his usual attitude one of arrogant condescension, however, Christine had him enraptured. It didn't matter that the piece was not perfectly executed or that she missed a few notes, something about her little hands flitting over the keys held him in an unbreakable thrall.
It was then that he fell, well and truly fell - no more demurrals.
He could love.
He did love her.
When the song concluded he was nearly breathless.
"Well done, you were spectacular."
She stared at him queerly, a hint of pride glazing her eyes, "Do you really mean that?"
Well, he supposed he deserved that, his usual modus having been criticism rather than praise.
"As I told you the day before last, I cannot bring myself to lie to you."
"Oh. I wasn't sure if—"
"Nonetheless," he interposed, a bit wounded, "I thought the value of my given word had been proven."
"Yes, of course it has; I apologize. But, since we are on the subject of your word... It is your turn to play, you did promise."
"I did, yes... And, what does the little princess demand?"
"She demands to be surprised." Erik's mouth quirked in that haughty smirk so endemic to him.
"I believe I can accommodate that request."
Thus passed the remainder of the evening, with him playing while she listened dreamily, a blithe tilt of honest-to-goodness contentment to her lips; they took their supper in the parlor. Christine watched him move from song to song with indefatigable fingers, the fluttering sensation in her stomach spreading with each piece. To her Erik had never seemed more alluring. Had someone told her that this man and the one she brained in the shed a fortnight ago were one and the same, she would have denounced them for a lunatic.
Once, alone in a cave as the Earth roiled and writhed, she had declared him the opposite of appealing. Now it was clear a reassessment was due. So, what did she feel for him? What was this giddy, aching warmth in her chest called? Love? No, surely not. Then, again... She pondered over it, presenting the argument within the court of her mind and hoping for some sort of verdict. The deliberation waged on until he stood and beckoned to her.
"Come, I've something to show you."
Still lost in this airy world of thought she followed him upstairs. Their room resembled a sad, barren wasteland devoid of its earlier clutter. Brow raised, she watched him kneel by the bed and use his knife to prise two floorboards loose. This blatant defacement of property unnerved her, but then—recalling who it was in question—Christine swallowed her alarm looking on in keen interest as he extracted a box from the hidden place.
He carried it to the table and stepped back in an unspoken invitation for her to peek inside - when she did she was absolutely floored: cradled within the innocuous nest of unvarnished wood lay an assemblage of jewellery. Though she couldn't say with any certitude what she'd been expecting, it was not this. She stared mutely, transfixed like Ali Baba in the thieves' hoard.
"What do you think? Well?!" Erik pressed impatiently when no reply came, fingers working in nervous motions at his sides.
"I—" she struggled, "It's— What is it, exactly?" He flashed her a strange glance as if questioning whether or not she was serious.
"I should think that answer obvious."
"But, why?" she stressed; Christine shook her head in frustration both at his sarcasm and her inability to expound. "What is it for?"
"For you, of course." The words were colored with slight condescension. "Why else should I present you with a box of jewels if not intending them to be worn?"
For ... her?
All of these trinkets were meant for her?!
"Good God," she whispered, awestruck. Lost in this place of bewilderment she picked up a strand of pearls adorned with a diamond flower studying it with eyes stunned into sightlessness. All of this and for her? It was more than she could process. Another necklace, this one of emerald and diamond caught her attention - not real emeralds or diamonds but a cheap facsimile, she amended.
Surely, these were faux pieces crafted simply to appear expensive.
If not—
Well, it didn't bear consideration, there was no possible way these articles were the genuine thing.
"Would you care to try it on?" Christine started at the sound of his voice so close behind having momentarily forgotten she wasn't alone. She gave a faint nod jumping again at the cold kiss of metal against her throat.
"Very becoming, if but a touch old-fashioned. I apologize if you're of more modern tastes but the options were few; this collection came from the estate of a local widow, it was the best I could find. Here," Erik pulled a hand mirror from the desk drawer. "Look for yourself."
"It is rather pretty and elegant however I still fail to see the purpose in all of this; the new dresses were a necessity but the jewellery..."
"The jewellery is yet another detail, little princess - an accessory to sell the pretense, if you will. Which, reminds me..." Her eyes grew into saucers as he extricated a second, much smaller box from his pocket; her breath hitched in knowing even before he opened it.
Oh Lord—
A ring.
With this ring I thee wed,
Words borrowed from an eternal vow pounded in her skull in time with her heartbeat. Oh God, he was giving her a ring! Not a banal band of gold or silver. There was no denying the prestige of it, a piece worthy to grace the dainty, lily-white finger of a peeress.
A vivid stone of marquise-cut cornflower blue centrally set and crowned with diamonds. It seemed too flawlessly beautiful to be natural. She beheld it with mild fright as if worried it might rear up and bite her, scrutinizing it with a hesitance that bordered on hysterical. All at once everything became real, too real. The title of Mrs, the new wardrobe, the jewellery: she could handle those. But, the ring—
Oh, the ring!
That was too much and too fast, the errant block that sent the tower crashing to the ground. Christine tried valiantly to regulate her breathing. Erik continued to stare at her in patient suspense.
"Well?" he gently prompted, "Is it to your liking?"
"It's— It's lovely." The whisper, adequate to answer his question, provided no extrapolation; she could manage nothing else.
His mouth compressed into a unamused line to hear his own fumbled words echoed back. Erik mused over whether this was punishment for underselling her beauty but concluded her shock genuine ... and grew annoyed when it persisted.
"Oh, Erik, you didn't have to—"
"Don't be daft, girl. Of course I bloody did! How are you to be a wife without a ring? Even those in a painful sham of a union must look the part, my dear..." He uttered the last with a desire to wound, lashing out to hide his own anguish.
Humiliation, ugly and white-hot, rose to the fore in a mighty wave. A voice laughed from somewhere within his brain. Had he honestly believed his feelings returned? Had the monster, the faceless nightmare, deluded itself into thinking the maiden fair would have him?
Beauty could not adore deformity after all, it appeared.
—and, he hated her for it.
Hated her for those sweet smiles and coy glances; hated her for the touches and coquetry; hated her for giving him hope...
Above all, he hated that he loved her still.
Ears reddened and expression frantic, Christine tried and failed to explain herself. Erik was silent; he did not need to talk, the glassy aloofness in his gaze spoke volumes.
"This is all strange to me. I just— I've never worn jewellery before."
"I suppose, then, that you must endure the bizarre novelty of being bedecked in gems for the remainder of our voyage. What a burden, indeed."
"Not real gems, though." she corrected finding her voice once more.
"What do you mean?"
"They aren't— Surely, they can't be real." Glacial eyes glittered with offense.
"Why the hell wouldn't they be?"
"Well, the cost, I suppose..."
"So," he drawled, "naturally, you presumed me too miserly to purchase the real articles. I am surprised you did not assume them pilfered given my status as a lowly, duplicitous criminal."
"No! Erik, I would never... Please, I only meant—"
"Don't bother... I am going for a walk to clear my head. Feel free to inspect your new curios with a hand-lens, young Daaé, you'll find them quite authentic." Casting the ring aside as if it were a hot coal he swept towards the door.
Christine knew he must be stopped, was cognizant another angry exit might kill their fledgling relationship entirely; she yearned to run after him, grab his shoulder, whirl him round and set her lips to his. But, all she did was stand there stupidly. Just like last night she let him slip through her fingers, her cowardice allowing his retreat.
Erik was long-gone by the time the tears coursed down her cheeks. He never heard her baleful plea of forgiveness nor did he see her scramble for the small box that lay discarded on the table and slide the ring onto the third finger of her left hand. Only gas lamps and furniture were present to witness her astonishment when she discovered it fit perfectly.
Alone.
She was completely alone and it was all her fault.
—and, she despised herself for it.
o o o
It happened as she was drifting off, the fuzzy yellow haze of a lamp visible through slivered eyelids. She had left the light on for him in a desperate bid to guide him back, a moth to a flame - or maybe it had been to dispel her loneliness. Whatever the impetus it was irrelevant, he never came. Christine bathed and waited up but with no success; eventually she went to bed alone.
Just like last night...
Despite her inner torment the world around her was restful. Sleep came easy in this place of tranquility, even with the gnawing absence.
All was at peace. Until all began to vibrate...
Initially she discarded it as conjured, a strange quirk preceding slumber like the floating or falling sensation one sometimes experienced. A jostle became a violent quaking and Christine was propelled out of bed by sheer terror, her eyes flying open the moment her feet hit the floor.
From over her shoulder there was a loud crash, the shattering of glass, and then darkness - the lamp the first casualty. As everything began to rumble an ear-splitting racket rent the air. She blindly groped for the bedpost, her other hand shielding an ear from the awful wailing. Hysterically she tried to convince herself that it was a dream.
Even though she knew it wasn't.
She could barely breathe, her useless eyes stretching wide in a panicked effort to locate him, to locate Death before he came. For this was no dream, it was the end. Christine clutched the post tighter, silently begging the hideous keening thing to shut up so they might go undiscovered. It was futile - she knew that too - Death would claim her regardless. He had not trekked all this way to leave empty-handed.
This was her punishment for abandoning her dearest friend, for fleeing Martinique to save herself, for condemning Peleé's survivors. The price for turning away from suffering was steep, only life could pay for death. She had escaped her fate at the expense of tens of thousands of other souls. Now, her debt called up, it was her turn; she would die tonight - of that she was certain.
Die alone, friendless in a foreign place.
—just like Raoul.
Die without making amends, die without telling Erik that she—
He would never know; he would go on thinking her a horrid, ungrateful wretch.
The world roiled with greater fury mocking her, drinking in the heady scent of fear and regret. Suddenly there were voices, those which had haunted her in nightmares renewed in strength; they were calling her name, urging her to submit. Death stood in the room with her, she detected his presence, discerned the silhouette of his cowl, blacker than the surrounding blackness; he approached methodically.
Unlike her last brush with mortality she was so very afraid. There was no serenity in this. She could feel his icy aura and the cloying grasp of clammy, rotting fingers. With a bold defiance Christine breathed her last and faced Death head-on.
But when the Reaper at last embraced her fright dissolved, the oscillations grew distant...
... and, the caterwaul became the song of the heavens.
And, it dawned on her that this was not Reaper but Angel.
Fear evaporated in the golden splendor of the melody and so too did she lose herself, a wandering lamb in Eden. Death was chased away by music pure and beautiful. She inhaled again savoring the sweetness that was living.
When it was all over, when the quaking subsided, Christine returned to her corporeal body. Although her feet did rest upon the cold floor her body was warm and safe in the arms of her Guardian Angel; the glorious tones of his voice still ringing in her ears. She nuzzled into the fabric of his robes and whispered her gratitude, holding fast to him with the intention of never letting go.
I can hear some of you yelling, "God, FINALLY!"at your screens, lol.
Yes, Erik at last admitted his feelings - just don't expect him to own to them in the immediate future.
A/N: I've been working on a drawing of the ring and was going to wait until it was completed to publish the chapter but drawing gemstones - especially when they are marquise-cut - is tedious to say the least. I will eventually have that up on deviantart.
*Worth's was a fashion house founded by Charles Worth - considered by many to be the father of haute couture - and an important and sought after dressmaker in London.
*The Tausig piece I had in mind was, Das Geisterschiff (The Ghost Ship); I felt it fit the hectic, impatient mood well.
*The little aside about the princess and her cloak of donkey skin is from the tale of Donkeyskin by Charles Perrault. It's messed up but also oddly good.
*Ali Baba is of course from the tale of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.
*I realize the ending might have been a little confusing. No, it wasn't a dream or a hallucination but an earthquake. Tortola is no stranger to seismic activity, however, there is no volcano in the vicinity; it was just a minor tremor but Christine, being freshly traumatized by the eruption, exaggerated things in fear. Everything will be explained better next chapter, I promise.