A/N: As you might have noticed, this was another chapter I struggled to write. I'm hoping to produce a bit of E/C fluff for the next one. Thanks so much for your comments and thanks to squishmich and iPannzSoccerz! Please keep letting me know your thoughts, it's really helpful and encouraging! :)
Chapter 27: The In-Between
1883
His brain was restless, thick and fat with unprocessed thoughts. He could feel it throbbing against his skull, keeping him awake even when exhaustion should have claimed him. He'd abandoned his bed a long time ago and taken to pacing down in the sitting room instead. At times he was cursing her for the infuriating game she had apparently chosen to play. Calling him maestro, treating him with cool courtesy. The nerve of the girl! At other times he cursed himself for bringing her here without a plan. He should have known that he'd be unable to sleep with her under the same roof.
His heart was beating in her chest, after all, bruised and broken but still functional. She didn't seem to know and perhaps for now that was his only blessing. He hoped it'd award him the time to fix matters, to treat her with kindness that would annihilate the wrath she'd witnessed, to court her here in his world so that she might come to see.
A groan of agony wrenched itself loose and he sank down on the carpeted floor, his face in his hands. Why did he have to love her so?
He'd never been filled with such foolish notions before. They were ludicrous and dangerous, paralysing his mind and making him susceptible to all kinds of reckless actions.
He only just heard the upstairs door creaking open and jerked upright to observe Christine as she hesitantly emerged. He was grateful for the brief warning, for it enabled him to look far less pathetic, but he remained aware, nonetheless, that he was kneeling on the ground only in his shirtsleeves. Whatever would she make of him like this?
Their silent eye contact continued for quite some time while he tried to appease the beast that was roaring in his chest. Whenever she watched him like this – however infrequent such an occasion was – he felt himself grow and change underneath her gaze. For her, he wanted to stand taller, square his shoulders so that he looked broader and more protective. If only she gave him the chance, how different he might be.
"Maestro," she at last greeted him coolly and he immediately felt himself deflate. How quickly he was growing to loathe that name. "I was hoping I might take my breakfast early."
He narrowed his eyes and watched her as she descended the spiral staircase. She was still carrying herself with that air of arrogance, her chin tilted high, her gown following her in a regal train down the stairs. She hadn't changed garments since he had taken her and her stubbornness both amused and annoyed him.
"An excellent idea," he praised softly, his tone not quite genuine, "I shall have it ready once you have tended to yourself."
He rose smoothly to his feet despite the ache that resided in his bones and walked over to the little compartment in the wall. He waited there until he heard her footsteps fading towards the bathroom and then opened it to reveal the food he had stashed away there. Most of the time he stole from the conservatoire. After all, they had plenty of food to spare what with some of the girls refusing to eat more than a few morsels. Lately, however, he hadn't been able to make the trip up and so Nadir had provided him with food from the market. The poor daroga thirsted for a task, really, something to keep him occupied. Surely he hadn't minded the additional journey.
He smirked and lifted out the tray and then busied himself setting it all up on the table for Christine. It was strange how when she was around he didn't pay much attention to the illness of his heart anymore. Not two days ago on the roof of the Palais Garnier he could have sworn to feel it decaying in his chest, due to give out at any moment. Now, in Christine's company, he could feel it too, young and alive, fluttering in his chest like a damnable traitor.
He took a seat on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair to smooth it. The sleeves of his shirt he patiently rolled up, exposing his slender pale arm with the pronounced blue veins and needle marks and the full length bronze arm with all its wheels and pockets. He heard Christine although she didn't speak and listened to her climb the stairs once more. His anger stirred softly but somehow he managed to subdue it and a little while later she emerged again, carefully padding down the stairs until she sank down next to him.
Quietly, she helped herself to the tea he had brewed a short while ago and to a couple of pastries that had not yet gone stale. It was dreadfully difficult preserving food down here where it was damp, but it wasn't something that couldn't be fixed with the right invention, and if Erik was one thing it was inventive.
He watched her chew her food carefully, clearly struggling with the prolonged silence as propriety would dictate her to engage him in polite conversation. He was positively gleeful to notice that she had crumbled and clad herself in one of the dresses he had acquired for her. After all, there was only so long one could spend wearing the same old garment. The dress she had chosen was in keeping with the current Parisian couture with a woollen under layer of a soft, light-blue colour and a brown leather bodice that rested on top. Ordinarily, the bodice would have been a corset and the skirt would have only extended to her thighs, but he had made alterations so that the dress was longer to preserve her modesty and the bodice merely gave the illusion of a corset. He couldn't possibly expect her to sing while wearing such a contraption. La Carlotta did it, of course, but then he knew precisely what cheap trick she used to magnify her voice. She would never be required to take a full breath.
"When you are finished, join me at the piano and we will continue where we left yesterday. Perhaps with some luck we will be able to address the next song already."
And so one day slipped fluently into the next as they conquered the grand score of Aida together. Progress didn't always come easily and a few times he lost his temper, knowing all too well just how much better she could become. But at night the beauty of her voice soothed his heart which was still smarting from the cruel indifference with which she continued to treat him. Perhaps it was time to change his tactic.
"I expect you to rest today," he told her one morning when she had joined him in the sitting room, the exhaustion of the rehearsal process written all too plainly on her face. "I have some other matters to attend to, but I trust you will find everything here that you might require in my absence. Upon my return, there will be a surprise for you."
It amused him greatly to watch her struggle to suppress the excitement that came so naturally to her. In truth, it was one of his favourite attributes. Yes, she was strong and calm and sometimes stubborn. She was kind and affectionate and generous, but she had a childlike sense of excitement that endeared her to him in particular. Perhaps because he operated on a similar level. He was, after all, a master of illusion, an accomplished magician. To have someone truly amazed by this was not only refreshing, it was also of utmost importance as it posed the only way to win her heart. The Vicomte had his good looks and his charms, no doubt, but he could not make her eyes light up with honest amazement like Erik could.
Still, he was surprised that Christine took his instructions so dutifully, retrieved cloak and hat and set about the strenuous journey to the world outside his sphere. He emerged eventually from the column in box five and positioned a thick pamphlet of sheet music, set and costume sketches and other relevant documents on the armchair of red upholstery. It wouldn't be long before Madame Giry found it there and he trusted her still to read the little card attached to it and follow his instructions.
Then, he disappeared through the thin doorway back into the column and set off towards another part of the building. He had one clear destination in mind: the manager's office, although that did not stop him from pausing occasionally to listen to the ongoing gossip. A man shunned by society could never compile enough information that might one day come to work in his favour.
Though today there was nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing he hadn't anticipated. Talk of Christine's disappearance was rife in the whole building. The ensemble girls were debating which one of her two suitors she could have run off with. He listened to them with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Such silly girls, happy to tarnish somebody's image with ridiculous talk, how easily they were entertained! Yet the thought that the Persian might be viewed as one of Christine's suitors was absurd enough to make him chuckle. He was old enough to be her father!
Still shaking his head, he walked a few more paces until an entirely too familiar voice caught his attention. Joseph Buquet was at it again. He never had been able to resist an opportunity to share his preposterous tales. At times, Erik had found them amusing as his threats were much more effective with a side-kick spreading rumours that exaggerated his power and horrific appearance. But now he was beginning to think that perhaps he had given the man too much liberty and if he wasn't careful, he might just have to make him pay. His metal fingers twitched softly as he contemplated wrapping them around the other man's bloated neck, but then he reminded himself that he had left Christine to her own devices and hurriedly proceeded towards the managers' office.
He had constructed the passageway in such fashion that he could circle the entire office and still be hidden behind a panel of stone. Here and there, thin tubes fed through the cracks and ended up in binoculars which awarded him a clear view of everything that was going on.
The managers were currently situated at either end of the large space, both of them engrossed in this day's papers. After a moment of silent reading, Monsieur Richard set his copy aside and picked up a little hand mirror through which he studied his set of twinkling, golden teeth.
"Do you think La Carlotta will hold her position throughout the following performances?" Moncharmin asked, his goggles and curly grey hair just about peaking over the top of his newspaper.
"You still believe her to be hysterical then?" Richard questioned in return.
"Well, my dear man, what other reason could there be? She got frightened when her voice failed her and made up an excuse as to why she could not perform on opening night."
Monsieur Richard stretched his lips and gawked at his teeth from a different angle.
"Yes, I must say it is more plausible than an abduction by a ghost. Though if Signor Piangi is to be believed, it was more than a ghost that took her."
"Why, of course, he would say that. The man was part of her plot to make it look more convincing." Moncharmin cast his paper aside now too and looked positively smug. "She'll be back. You saw how outraged she was when she heard that Mademoiselle Daaé had been used as her understudy."
"Still, I'd prefer to have someone we can actually rely on," Richard mused pensively, "as it stands we have two hysterical women who keep disappearing and that just won't do for business."
"Yes," Moncharmin agreed, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, "the Vicomte was quite incensed this morning."
"Foolish man," Richard replied, laughing so hard that his belly bobbed up and down, "surely he should know not to get invested in a chorus girl. Loose girls and gold-diggers, all of them."
Behind the panel of stone, Erik's eyes narrowed into slits.
"Don't I know it? Have you heard about the Giry girl and the baron?"
"You'd do wisely, Messieurs, to keep your noses out of other people's personal business!" Erik boomed, projecting his voice into the centre of the room so that it reached both managers like a slap in the face. "Especially since your own business endeavour is turning out to be such an abysmal affair."
He would have laughed at the panicked looks the two men exchanged, had he not been so furious at what they'd been previously discussing.
"But fear not," he continued, dropping his voice to its silkier tones, "I have just the solution for you."
Both managers now looked around the room expectantly not daring to breathe so much as a word.
"Aida, Verdi's great triumph will be the next piece of the season. Mademoiselle Daaé will perform the title role, lest you wish for a great misfortune to befall everyone."
"Who- Who are you?" Monsieur Richard finally managed to question, his big chest puffed out like a shield. "How dare you threaten us?"
"Oh, Messieurs," Erik replied, chuckling softly and eerily, "we all know who I am. Just as we know that you'll do exactly as I say. Set pieces and backdrops aren't the only things that can come crashing down."
The chandelier, for example; he'd never liked that gaudy thing. He'd always hoped to get rid of it in a much more dignified manner, but if circumstances forced his hand?
"Madame Giry will be with you shortly," he continued when the two managers appeared too stunned to speak once more, "she will present you with the score as well as my suggestions for cast and crew. It is paramount that this production will be a triumph! And it will be, provided you follow my instructions."
Ordinarily, he would have stayed just a little while longer to watch the blank expressions on their faces grow into outrage or panic. Ordinarily, such spectacle would amuse him greatly. But today he was all too aware of the woman waiting for him at his house, and so he turned around without a second glance and pushed back through the pitch-black corridor. Thankfully, he could solely rely on his eyes to see without the aid of a lantern.
He had almost reached the back of the opera house when a painfully familiar voice caused him to pause.
"I know you know more than you are letting on, Mademoiselle Giry!"
Yes, undoubtedly the voice of the Vicomte. Oh how he wished he could see through the thick layer of stone and marble that separated them to observe his anxious posture, his self-righteous anger.
"Please, Monsieur, there truly is no need to be afraid," the young Giry responded confidently and surprised, Erik stepped closer to the barrier and rested his odd hands against it. "Christine is quite safe and I am certain she will return soon."
"But where did she go?" the bold man practically thundered. "If I have offended her she must give me the chance to rectify my error."
The impertinence of the boy! It quite clearly betrayed his youth. In his chest, Erik's heart was constricting uncomfortably. A reminder, perhaps, of their age discrepancy or perhaps simply one of his failing health. He couldn't say with certainty but knew that he would rather have liked to wrap his hands around that perfect neck.
"Oh please, Monsieur," Meg whispered and he could picture her reaching out to squeeze his hands, "Christine would never be cross with you. She's merely otherwise engaged."
"A suitor?" the Vicomte cried in outrage, but the blonde only giggled.
"No, Monsieur. Her teacher. The Angel of Music took her, the Opera Ghost. You must trust me that she is safe."
What a good child she was. How devotedly she believed in him and repaid the kindness that she had received. Whatever pain he had felt a moment ago was obliterated by a rush of joy.
Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, he thought victoriously, Christine is with Erik and you shan't have her ever again!
