Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom, or Corpse Bride, or the Arabian Nights. If I did, I would be very rich and very dead, since at least two of them were made before even my dad was alive, let alone me.


So, we have a Situation. With a capital S. It's just that much of a Situation. Hee hee.


So come, little child, cuddle closer to me

In your dainty white nightcap and gown,

And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree

In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Excerpt from 'The Sugar-Plum Tree' by Eugene Field


She will not stay the siege of loving terms,

Nor bide th'encounter of assailing eyes,

Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.

O, she is rich in beauty, only poor

That when she dies, with beauty dies her store.

Romeo and Juliet, Act One, Scene One.


A Varied Seat

He had come back to the door set in the whitewashed wall much sooner than he had expected or wanted. For more than one reason, he was very reluctant to encounter the lovely burden he had left in Ayesha's room any time soon, especially since she was probably awake by now.

Silently he cursed his cowardice, his own pig-headedness, for leaving her alone. Who knew what could have happened, what she could have done?

It's all been ruined…

Thanks to Jules. There, at least, Erik could find something to smile about. He knew for a fact that Jules would not be blurting out any secrets in atrocious songs any time soon.

Nadir opened the door before he even had a chance to knock.

"Oh," he said unpleasantly. "So you're back again, are you? Where have you been?"

"Walking…thinking." He stepped over the threshold, causing Nadir to have to stand back. "Paying a visit to Jules, and talking to him about certain things; like how inadvisable it is to discuss other people's lives at large."

Nadir sighed. "Erik…"

"Don't make such a fuss, Nadir. It isn't as if I could do anything very terrible to him in any case – just as you yourself have remarked upon."

"But, Erik-"

"He can still talk, Nadir. Which might be more of a liability than a blessing, but there it is."

He had to pause for a long moment to summon his courage for what he wished to say next.

"How…how is she?"

Nadir's expression was now unreadable. "You'll see." He extended his arm, in the direction of the main garden, which the entrance hall led into.

He looked over to where Nadir was pointed, and it was as if his un-dead heart had suddenly started beating again.

Christine sat on an elaborately carved seat at the far end of the garden, Ayesha in her lap, her arms encircled around the girl's shoulders and her lovely curly hair pulled over to one shoulder and trailing down onto the pages on the book she held in front of Ayesha. Her head was bent over the child's shoulder as she whispered something, and smiled to hear the resultant giggle in a way to pull him ever closer, towards the entrance to the garden, longing above all else to be held in that embrace, feel those arms around him, feel her hair tickle his skin, have her whisper in his ear and smile at his words.

But he couldn't. Because she wouldn't. She never would now…

Then her lips began to move, and her beautiful voice echoed around him, flowed over him like a soothing balm, healing all his woes. He listened in bliss to her words, yet he was certainly not expected for what she said:

"But when the youngest Prince – the King's favourite son – fired his arrow over the city, it fell among the thatches and tiles on to a wholly unremarkable house occupied by no one but a large and lonely tortoise."

He had to stifle a smirk, as he listened to her voice deepen in a slightly absurd manner, earning a laugh from Ayesha. "'Shoot again,' said the King,as hurriedly as a cat climbs out of water. 'Allah has made a slight mistake.'"

Ayesha, still giggling, tilted her head to look up in wonder at Christine's face, marvelling, no doubt, at the way the young woman could manipulate her voice so well. He was impressed himself; he knew full well of the beauty of her voice, but he was only just becoming aware of its dexterity as well. Though there was something vaguely familiar about the voice she was using…

But already she was speaking again, "Please, Ayesha cherie, keep still. I can't tell the story with you squirming all over the place." She spoke with gentleness, but it was obvious that she expected to be obeyed.

"Sorry, Christine." At once Ayesha swivelled back to her original position, her eyes on the pages, determined not to be cheated of her story.

"That's better." Christine turned her attention back to the book. "But the second arrow fell on the self-same house. 'Shoot again,'" she went on, altering her voice once more. That strange, deep voice coming out of that pert mouth seemed so strange, and yet the voice itself somehow seemed familiar, "said the King, as hurriedly as a cat climbs out of fire. 'Allah has made a terrible mistake.'"

Ayesha laughed out loud at that. "You sound just like Nadir!"

So that was it! He wondered how he could not have realised it before; that deep, accented voice was undoubtedly an almost perfect mimic of Nadir's own solemn tone! It was deliciously funny, all the more so as he shot a snide glance at Nadir's own puzzled face, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. With a quiet chuckle, he turned his eyes back to the little duo on the seat – only to be fixed with Christine's soft brown gaze in that moment, as she jerked her head up at the unexpected sound.

He had expected her to start up, to shout at him, as she had done earlier when he had caught up with her in the street, but perhaps she surprised the both of them by doing no more than looking at him coolly for a moment, before turning her attention back to Ayesha, who was still wrapped up in the story, and waiting avidly for the next part.

"But the third arrow fell on the very same house, to the excitement of the large and lonely tortoise inside. 'Either tell me the King's wishes,'" she went on, now readjusting her voice to a slower monotone, suited to a talking reptile, "'or stop shooting arrows into my roof,' she said as the foot-pages arrived with ladders to retrieve the third arrow."

If only she had read to stories to me when I was little, I would have had a blessed childhood indeed, he thought; but he quickly squashed his musings. Nobody could replace his mother. Not even Christine. She was something else to him entirely.

"It's enough to make you want to be in her lap yourself, isn't it?" he remarked quietly to Nadir, who raised a suspicious eyebrow.

"In what way, Erik?"

What? "Is there more than one?" he asked confusedly, just before he understood.

Oh.

Nadir had the grace to look away from his face, embarrassed by the misunderstanding.

"Surely you would have thought I meant listening to her telling you a story, Nadir?"he asked, trying to mask his own sudden embarrassment and annoyance – perhaps even anger – at the Persian. To assume he would speak about Christine in such a crude fashion? Oh, lord, how could even he think of her in such a way?

"Not that I haven't been in her lap already," he added sullenly, turning away. Well, it appeared that he could speak of it, in a certain context.

"What?" Nadir hissed, under his breath, suddenly looking even more panicked than he had before. "Erik, what have you-"

"Oh, do be quiet, Daroga," he muttered, secretly enjoyed the other's distress. "I told you earlier, I haven't so much as touched her in that way." Well…not much, his mind amended, as he thought of the occasion just before his one and only time of lying in Christine's aforementioned lap, albeit in a quite different way from Nadir's hypothesizing.

Nadir's head tilted to one side, as he apparently remembered what Erik had told him by the river, but his lips were set in a scowl. "Erik, this truly cannot go on. It simply cannot."

"Can you never say anything else? I'm surprised that you don't know by now, old friend, that if there's one thing I don't like it's being told I can't do something. And a good deal of incessant nagging this late in the day isn't going to change my mind one bit!"

A turn on his heel in what he was sure was a petulant manner left Nadir far behind, and that beautiful, sibilant being whom he could barely dare to think of without both longing and apprehension stirring in his mind. Instead, he chose to look out upon another of the gardens that Nadir had fashioned; one with trickling fountains and dripping water, creating a pleasing effect, and also drowning out any sounds he might hear from the adjoining garden. He didn't think he was ready to face its occupants again, just yet.

Idiotic fool! he thought savagely, and even here the waters in the elaborate fountain began to hiss, fuelled by his annoyance, bordering on anger. How dare he tell him what to do, even now? It was ridiculous! He wasn't a lost, confused, more-than-a-little-frightened spirit anymore; he was strong, he knew what he was doing, and he was powerful…oh, so powerful, so strong. He was greater than all of this, and he knew it, and Nadir knew it; everyone should know it!

But gradually the hissing of the water died down, as he calmed himself, aware at the same time of the song that was becoming more audible from next door…

that song…

"O sister, can you guess

How deep in love I am?

Or why Allah should bless

A woman with a man?"

As if in a dream, he made his way back into the main garden, drawn by the beautiful song, and the voice which shaped it.

"And such a man as he!"

Christine, it seemed, had finished the story, and was now improvising upon one of the songs from the book, in her lovely, lilting singing voice. Ayesha, utterly enchanted, was clapping softly in time to the flow of Christine's voice as she looked up in wonder from her seat on the young woman's knees, evident adoration on her face, as Christine smiled down at her even as she sang.

"Who thunders like a weir

In the river of my blood

And drowns every fear

In his white, courageous flood!"

Even Nadir seemed captivated by the lovely girl, as he sat staring on another bench, his mouth moving slightly to the words. But surely his friend could not be as captivated as himself. When hearing her voice, that angelic voice, raised in song, he could easily believe that it was able to carry off what remained of his soul.

"What love could equal mine,

The happiest of happy brides?

Not ninety-nine times nine

Who loved until the sea's last tide."

But even the beauty of the voice did not detract from the cruel irony of the song. The happiest of happy brides? Surely she would not sing such a thing willingly!

Slowly he raised his hands as her voice died away, and brought them together, the flesh of his right ringing against the bone as well as the flesh of his left; a dead man applauding a living beauty. The applause at once shattered the peace and serenity of the garden – all three looked up in shock at the intrusion, the smile in particular departed from Christine's face, to be replaced with a sullen expression. Nadir wore his habitual inquisitive look once more, the ecstasy quickly gone. But it was Ayesha who certainly reacted the most-

"Erik!" He only just had time to put out his arms before Ayesha slammed into him; at once he wrapped them around her soft, slight little form and lifted her up into the air, as her own arms wrapped around his neck. He was able to see, from what he could of the world beyond Ayesha's immediate attentions, that Christine was looking even sulkier, and slamming the book shut as if she suddenly hated it.

"Erik?" He turned his eyes back to Ayesha's little face, which was now filled with curiosity. "You're different, Erik."

At once Nadir had stood up and was scooping Ayesha out of his arms. "Come on, Ayesha dear, I think Fatima's tired. Shall we put her to bed?"

Ayesha, distracted as only a seven year old could be, dead or not, wriggled in acquiescence, and Nadir's swift steps carried them over to the couch to pick up the doll from the unmoving Christine, and then out of the room; but as Nadir carried his burden out through the doorway he shot a warning glance over her shoulder and the crown of Ayesha's head at Erik.

Well, at least he trusts me enough to leave me alone with her now.

Christine, meanwhile, now looked down at the book she still held in her hands. He could hear that her breathing had grown harsher and deeper, as if trying to control herself, and her heartbeat had increased. All in all, many hours of trust had come undone, and would have to be painstakingly rebuilt again.

Two steps forward, one step back.

"If only you had had the proper lessons, you could have been the star of any stage in the world," he said softly.

She snorted; such a fascinating sound – so unladylike, and yet so refined! "If only my impending marriage had not already mapped out my life for me, perhaps it could have been."

She looked up with sudden alarm at his soft approach, strands of hair falling across her brow. He longed with a fierce, desperate urge to run his fingers through that glorious hair, feel if it was soft or dry, caress that skin to feel its softness against his fingers. It was with difficulty that he placed his hand upon the carved stead of the seat instead – but quite near her head, so that he could reach out and stroke the glossy strands without her noticing, to placate himself.

"You are angry with me."

"You can tell that easily?" She leant forward, almost as if she knew of his plan, and wished to stall it as much as possible.

"Yes, I can. Why?"

"When were you going to tell me? Were you going to tell me?" she asked, softer now and her evident anger less restrained. "About your former bride-to-be? About your death? About-"

"I believe I have the right to some privacy concerning my former life. Which was partly why I was so annoyed at Jules for blurting it all out like that, in front of all and sundry. I trusted him. It seems that my trust was misplaced."

"So you tell an untrustworthy spirit, but you neglected to tell your supposed bride-to-be?"

"Oh, so now you do wish to become my bride?" He chuckled inwardly at the ire he obviously was raising in her, but he was not quite prepared for her reaction of shooting up off the bench, her eyes hard and her voice, when it came, almost choked with frustration.

"That isn't what I meant at all, you…you…ooooohhhh," she ground out, her words almost becoming a snarl. "No, I don't wish to be your bride! Especially now! What am I to you, Erik, merely a replacement? A trophy bride in the underworld, to make up for the one you couldn't have on earth? You dragged me all the way down here, away from my friends and Raoul, and for what? Merely so that you can be married! You don't care about me at all, you say you love me, but you don't, you can't-"

"And why should you care, if you don't wish to marry me?" His words were calm, but he felt the rage inside him again, for himself. Why have I done this to her? Why have I allowed her to come to believe this?

But his words seemed to snap something inside Christine. With a shrill noise shrieking from her throat, she struck out at him; her sharp nails caught him on one cheek, and one actually tore it, taking away some of the skin and whatever was underneath it with it. He felt the contact and even the tearing, but not the pain, since all that he was aware of was Christine, and the tears beading at the corners of her eyes, and the way she disregarded the skin and flesh under her nails as she glared at him.

"You're vile and wicked and cruel, and I hate you! I hate you! Before you came into my life I was happy, and then you ruined it all-"

"Were you?"

She stared up at him, momentarily halted by his simple statement. "Was I…what?"

"Happy. 'The happiest of happy brides.' Were you?"

He watched the anger slowly drain out of her. She looked as if she was trying to remember something, something painful. When her voice came again, it was terrible to hear the lost air in the words, no matter how hard she tried to sound definitive.

"I…of course I was happy! I was going to marry Raoul…I was going to be a Vicomtess…I am going to marry Raoul! I had everything!"

"Mmmm." He nodded, supportively, even as his mind blazed at the thought of the De Chagny. "So, were you happy, Christine?"

"I…I…" Slowly she half-sank onto the bench again, as if the longer she could not answer the question, the more her strength was drained from her.

"How do you manage to do this?" she muttered, as she stared at her hands once again. "How do you always manage to do this to me?"

"Annoying you beyond endurance, or reading your mind?" he asked, crouching down beside her. Even at this level, he seemed so much larger than her – especially since she now seemed to be deflated in defeat. She was so small – from her, if he wrapped his arms around her, he would probably be able to envelope her whole body in his.

"Both." With a sigh, she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder, so that the crown of her head brushed the mask. "You truly are a unique individual, monsieur."

Her touch, however unplanned, set a fire alight within his chest. He could see her eyes glistening. He would not see her cry again. Not now. "Oh, indeed. I wager you would have lots of fun with me," came his reply, as calm as he could make it.

"What could the underworld give me that the earth could not?"

What, indeed? Perhaps the happiness that you have lost?

"Music? A chance to sing again? With me?"

"You flatter yourself, Erik. I would not stay under the earth simply for your voice." But there was indecision there. Curiosity, begging to know more, wondering whether perhaps that could be her desire…

"What about staying for the greatest ventriloquist that ever lived?" Another snort, but this time of laughter, came from the head that rested so near him; he felt the spurt of temporarily hot breath reach through his waistcoat and to his skin.

"You're laughing…perhaps you don't believe me? Listen." It was a simple manner to manipulate his voice. "You see my lips, such lips as I have? They do not move, my mouth is closed – and yet you hear my voice!"

"That is not very special, all things considered." But he could just see her lips smile as she spoke.

"We shall see. Where will you have it? In your left ear?" It was enjoyable, despite the loss of contact, to see her jerk away from him and look beside her in amazement, and not a little alarm. He decided to play his craft a step further. "In your right ear?" Clearly not expecting the words he had placed right inside her ear, she gave a gasp and shot away from the noise, to land up against his chest.

"In the table? In the scorpion by your foot?" She positively squealed at that, pulling her legs sharply up onto the bench and out of harm's way, before realising that the insect was just a brass ornament set into the paving stone, and shooting him a very dirty look.

"You're just doing this to push me into your arms, aren't you?"

"Not quite," he said smoothly, still speaking through the scorpion. "I am just a scorpion. But am I scaring you? Shall I turn and scuttle away?"

"Erik, do stop it!"

The chuckle that he gave came from his mouth again. Christine was just so delightful to confuse at times, it was wonderful! "It is really not so difficult to do, Christine. If you wish, I could teach you."

"Teach me?"

"Your voice is a marvellous instrument, Christine, even if you fail to acknowledge it. Already you show great talent in your manipulation of it. But with training, it could become so much more."

"If you were the one that did the training?" One slanting eyebrow rose, wrinkling her forehead.

"Then perhaps your voice would grow to rival even mine." Perhaps he was boasting, but he felt that it was only the truth. After all, she met his exceptionally high standard, but could she surpass it?

Christine sighed. "I suppose it must be." She paused, then added softly, with a mirthless grin, "It's not as if I'm going anywhere."


And finish. Again, not a particularly good chapter, but one I strove to complete. So, yes. Bit from the book, again. Can you tell which bit? It's like Where's Wally, isn't it? So, definitely back upstairs for the next chapter. Oh, well. C'est la vie.

The story Christine is reading Ayesha, The Prince and the Large and Lonely Tortoise, is a very good story from One Thousand and One Arabian Nights: a combination of Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella, with romance, magical occurrences, and a rather novel use for pea-soup. All of Christine's story is taken from a very good version of Nights, by Geraldine McCaughrean, and the song she sings later is taken from The Tale of Pearl-Harvest, from the same book.


'Christmas is comin', and the goose is gettin' phat!' (Cue much waving around of hands with various fingers extended. Don't ask for an explanation, 'cos I'm saying nothing.)


Reviews for the half-Irish seamstress!