A/N: This is another split chapter. I really wanted to keep the end scene with this chapter but ultimately decided to throw it in with the next. So you'll have to wait to get your resolution. These next two chapters at least are going to be a little shorter. Do keep in mind the shit is rapidly approaching the fan. Don't worry, you guys will know what I mean soon. ;) Hint: there's a couple big events on the way.

Sorry for the lack of update, I've the story fairly mapped out and something written for every future chapter. At this point I know how it will end and exactly the route it will take to get there. I'm very happy with how it is going to turn out. Anyways, I just scored my dream job (coincidentally for a company I researched for this fic) and have been busy with training.

Thanks, as always, for the reviews. Seriously, you guys are awesome. Your comments are the jam on an otherwise dry biscuit. I love reading your reactions, thoughts, and predictions. Please keep them coming! Hopefully this chapter will be well-received.

For those of you who have been curious about Erik's book, all will soon be revealed.


14 May

That morning had begun unassumingly enough, at least that's what Christine remembered upon looking back. She had breakfasted with Evelina and her friends in the saloon on a typical affair of boiled eggs, toast, sausage, and the usual accompaniments. Erik had declined to go citing unfinished 'business' as his reasoning, she knew otherwise but neglected to push the issue. Perhaps he had been correct, perhaps she was in need of company outside of him and the timid Letitia. After all, she did miss Meg terribly.

Over the morning meal it was announced that the ship would be making yet another deviation from its original route by stopping off in Bermuda, apparently the water tanks had not been mended long-term—of this she was already aware having heard as much from Erik their first night aboard. She also knew that they would be disembarking there and boarding another more discreet vessel for their return to England.

Now it was simply a matter of passing time until evening. When her newfound companions had invited her back to their cabin to play a game of whist she accepted eagerly. Coffee and a full belly lent her clarity and enabled her to reflect on the full magnitude of yesterday, brought into sharp focus the horrid, face-hiding mortification of it all. The longer she spent away from him the better. And, so the hours went by in a flurry of light conversation, japes, and entertainment. All seemed to be going so well - seemed being the operative word. Why she had not learnt better at this point continued to elude her.

As it had been proven countless times before, Christine Daaé was a naïve fool.

How had she honestly believed today would bring about a reprieve from the keen sting of embarrassment?

The tranquil leisure of the morning and early afternoon had done nothing but weave a false sense of security. Poor confused girl, she had not the faintest inkling the lull was just a ruse engineered by whichever deities had taken such an acute and patented dislike of her. Be it one or many they appeared to view her constant humiliation a source of endless amusement, a one-woman jester show.

It was the third instance that damnable book had been her undoing. She should never have accepted it, realized too late that it was a cursed artifact. Christine had been attempting to slip it into her trunk - Lord help her if Letitia found it lying about! - when she noticed the downturned pages. Curiosity got the best of her as it always did. A gasp tumbled from her mouth as the novel almost tumbled from her hand.

If she thought the text itself was obscene then the illustrations were unforgivably depraved. She gaped at them, a bit afraid, wholly repulsed, and yet intrigued. Was this truly what the act was like? Would Erik prefer to take her on a chaise or a bed? Would he gaze down at her face or bend her over and ravish her in the animal way? Christine heard the door open too late. The look plastered upon her face was a priceless mixture of surprise and shame.

"Erik! I didn't expect—"

She was blushing furiously, guiltily, and all the while wishing she could blend into the wallpaper like - what were those lizards called again, the ones with the ability to camouflage? Ah, right, chameleons. Would that she could transform into a chameleon in that moment! The irony did dawn upon her that all the time spent wishing she was in some manner invisible in situations like these could have been dedicated to curbing her troublesome curiosity in the first place.

"Clearly," he drawled, "What are you hiding behind your back?"

"It's nothing, I'm hiding nothing." The frantically issued lie was moot, anyone would have seen through it. She clutched the book tighter, her knuckles turning white—whether in hopes of absorbing it into her skirts or guarding it she couldn't say. Even still, Erik was too quick, before she had seen him move the lascivious tome was in his possession.

"Fanny Hill—" A wicked smirk curled his lips, "My, my, who would have thought the pure and chaste little princess would have such ... lewd tastes in literature?" She stared at her feet as if she'd just been condemned to publicly hang. Given the choice she might have preferred execution.

Good God, how in the hell could she continue to face him? In the span of fewer than forty-eight hours she had sullied her reputation more than she had in the weeks they had spent together sleeping mere inches apart. He must think her more wanton than a back-alley whore at this point. Erik chuckled once more before handing it back to her. Christine hesitated.

"Aren't you going to take it away from me?"

"I'm not your father. What the devil do I care if you choose to spend your days reading pornography?"

"It's not pornography..." She took it numbly and tried to pretend the rich noise of his laugh didn't warm her insides.

"No? Come, girl, we are neither of us children, you might as well call a spade a spade. Now if you are quite finished sulking supper awaits, I've arranged for an early meal to be delivered to our cabin. It is doubtful you will have another chance to eat before we disembark, I suggest you take advantage of my offer." Erik paused in the doorway, posture relaxing. His tone softened but he did not turn to face her again; she was thankful. "I would like it if you decided to join me."

Five minutes elapsed before she followed. One spent stowing the evil thing in the folds of the chair and the remainder collecting herself. Lord help her, she would need every ounce of composure to endure dinner. Especially after last night, especially after what happened just moments ago...

Christ, it would be no small wonder if he decided to eschew delivering her to Oxfordshire altogether and just dropped her off at the closest bordello. But she endeavored not to think about that as she took her place at the table, just as she endeavored not to think of those dextrous fingers removing her bodice as he removed the silver cloche shielding their supper. Holy father, she needed to pull her mind from this abyss of sin before she was forever lost.

Quietude was a mutual agreement, blessedly so. A majority of the meal went by in silence, tension mounting. She was so close to escape. Would that she, the most cursed of souls, were that lucky! The air was saturated, could hold no more restlessness, its stillness was suddenly perforated by a whoosh of words.

"Are you upset to be dining with me rather than in the company of your new friends?"

She chased her food with a swig of wine. What to say—God, what to say?

"I mourn the lack of music." she stated, finally landing on a reason. "I rather enjoyed the string quartet last night, I had forgotten how much I missed hearing the violin."

Another pause. The sounds of clattering cutlery and thoughtful chewing filled the air. It drove her mad, she wanted to tear at her hair. Instead she smiled sheepishly.

"If music is your desire we've a drawer full of phonograph cylinders."

"Oh? Do we now?" Christine had naturally noticed the machine in the corner of the parlor but was not inclined to investigate any further, much less take inventory of its accoutrements. "Do they work?"

"Let us endeavor to find out, yes?"

No!

—rather that should have been her reply. She knew it should have been, felt in her bones it must be, and yet... Her assent was issued at the end of a protracted sigh, a polite afterthought tacked on. Christine prayed he hadn't heard but of course he had. It was then she registered, as Erik slid a cylinder onto the mandrel, that tonight she would live firsthand Dante's vision of hell. And she was giddy.

Against her will the song soothed her, dispelled discomfort and doubts. It was tinny, Bach or something, but—oh, did it sound wonderful! Christine could not have resisted had she held her breath and covered her ears, she was a child of music at her core, melodies were the lifeblood flowing through her veins. Before she had regained her faculties she begged for another, her appetite wheted and hunger ignited.

"That was lovely, please put on another?"

This time it was a waltz, the opening strains lively and pleasant.

Erik offered a mocking hand, "Shall we make good use of the cylinder?"

"You're asking me to dance?" More question than statement, more anxiety than joy. She knew very well what her answer should be.

"If you are not opposed."

"I never learned—"

"You don't know how to waltz?"

"I learnt when I was little at the insistence of my governess but I've since forgotten. Dancing was never of great import to me..."

"Here I thought that dancing was the beating heart within every woman's breast. Clearly I was mistaken."

The opportunity was ripe. It was the perfect excuse, a blessing sent from above and one she ignored. Christine did not flee as she should have but glided on complicit feet to stand before him. Pathetic. Stupid. Responsible for her own damnation. Who would save one who clearly did not wish to be saved?

"What if—what if I trod on your feet?" Erik rolled his eyes.

"I'm sure I will live to walk again."

With the merging of hands her soul was signed away to the Devil. He took her in his arms, caged her leaping heart with his own body, and with a patient firmness began to guide her in that heady German whirl. There was nothing indecent in it, there had certainly been far more untoward touches. In fact, Erik was almost painfully decorous, reverent to a fault. This exchange was sweet and light. But his hand at the small of her back, the other ensconcing hers, was so deeply sensual—so deeply and strangely sensual, more than it had any business being.

Her limbs were jelly, her lungs fatigued, her heartbeat thunderous; she could not move, could not breathe, could not stop the yearning at her core that made the area between her thighs tingle and ache.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

On he led, on she followed. Their gazes met by chance, the corner of his lips tipped up in a smile. Lust was chiseled away to reveal something profound—for it occurred to her then, the realization a jolt to the senses. She knew in that instant between steps, knew that she had, knew that she did... Christine's features shone with clarity as the long-dormant came to the light.

An imperceptible shift rippled between them, a forging of souls wiser than either of their respective masters. The dynamic had transformed, he sensed it as did she. He studied her intently, head cocked, mouth parted at an offset. They stopped moving momentarily, though her head still spun on, and she seized the opportunity before her nerve deserted her. She rose onto her toes, swallowing a shallow inhale, and kissed him. Her susurration was nearly drowned in the press of lips.

"I love you."

Erik had woven a web of grand illusion around them. To their fellow elite they represented hope, a brave young officer disfigured in service of King and Country and his devoted wife. They were a symbol of sorts, a picturesque distraction from the unstable, evolving world. How handsome they looked together! So very much in love by every account and rumored to be expecting their first child - Christine's abrupt and violent bout of illness had not gone unnoticed. All were too enamored of the pretty picture to delve past the surface. Truly, he couldn't have hoped for a greater success, so convincing that eventually he too began to dwell in this conjured reality.

Fantasy provided a blessed escape and justifiable outlet for his feelings. He played the doting, star-crossed husband because it was his expected role. The caresses and compliments were an extension of the part and needed to sell the story. Therefore, he was freed from the burden of acknowledgment. These were not Erik Grey's feelings but those of Captain Stoke. Here was a game, a delicate dance, he thought she knew that as well as he. Really, it was a brilliant strategy on his part so long as they each kept to the script. Yet the fairy-tale evaporated the second her lips touched his. No longer were they actors on a stage, Christine had breached the impossible barrier—and, the sanctuary he had so meticulously constructed came tumbling down all at once, demolished by three little words.

He couldn't; they couldn't.

To expose a spark to oxygen would ignite an inferno. It must be doused before it had a chance to kindle. God help them both if it did. They had to be saved, he had to save them from themselves. Erik pulled away.

"Oh, Christine, you've proven a better actress than I could have hoped." Each word left a foul taste in his mouth.

"A-Actress? I don't understand..."

There was no room to falter, forging onward was a necessity, hurt was a necessity. Repulsion came easier than confession. Driving her away was his only chance for succor. Already the molten heat of shame and loathing burned deep within his belly—Lord, forgive him! Maybe in time she would too...

"For a moment, my dear, you had even me convinced. Well done, little princess, you've learned well. Brava."

She clenched her jaws together, clamped down, to control the shaking—it died on a final chatter. Her eyes smouldered with betrayal, hatred, the color of scorched earth as her mouth parted over gnashing teeth to reveal the nastiest leer he had ever beheld outside of his own reflection.

"Worthy of gracing the premiere stages of London, Paris, and New York, aren't I, monsieur?" Christine caught his subtle inward wince and felt sweet validation, intent on doing grievous harm. "However, I'm afraid that after such an exhaustive display I must retire. Good-night, sir." That final barb issued she floated towards the bedroom desperately trying to keep face as she shattered inside, her heart a fragile, fragmented piece of porcelain.

But, even as her soul dissolved and she felt her chest wrench with the agonizing pain, even as she turned the lock into place and was free to go to pieces, angry pride prevented her doing so.

No more tears shed for Erik Grey.

No such satisfaction from her.

Had she honestly believed that she loved him?

Poor, pithless fool.

Her, Christine Daaé, in love with him?

—that cad, that criminal, that consummate bastard?

Ha!

Entranced, perhaps, dazzled for the span of a single, ephemeral trice.

Bewitched, besotted, and horribly mistaken.

... a romantic idiot.

The denial was almost as believable as it was comforting.

From the other room the click of a door announced she was alone. It would be hours before he returned, she knew; more than likely he would stay away until they docked in Bermuda later that night. Christine could rage, sob, and go to pieces at her leisure - temptation at its root, he would never be the wiser. She could pour the wretched agony from her wounded bosom until she was spent, her eyes deserts.

Alas, no, there would be no grieving. She refused to keep portraying the gullible, lovestruck maiden. Tears were pointless, instead distraction was needed, a powerful distraction. A determined and debauched smirk pulled at her lips, she could think of just the thing.

Christine reached beneath the chair cushion seeking the treasure she stowed there not an hour earlier; she located it almost immediately, her fingers curled round the solidness of its spine and, irises blazing with equal parts mischief and triumph, extracted...

Erik's Hugo?

What the devil was that doing—

Then the revelation curved her mouth into something maniacal. Two secrets hidden in the same place, each unknown to the other until now, his and hers. He would not have bothered concealing it so desperately unless it contained that which was never meant for her eyes. She had always wondered what whims he had set to paper in this de facto journal of his but out of courtesy had never deigned to look. Until now, that was. But, all is fair in love and war, as it was said, and currently Christine was touched by both.

She would not cry because of Erik. Take vengeance upon him, however... Oh, that, vengeance, sounded so sweet, delectable even. And, smarting with malevolence, she did open that proscribed text and began to read.

o o o

Even still the discovery haunted her, thrummed within her mind. Her heart was twisted, gnarled and angry; her chest had gone from unbearable, painful heaviness to feeling as if it was plummeting through her body and the sea below. The revelation disgusted her. She wished she had never seen, never read, never known of that damned book's existence. It was now agonizingly clear why he had stashed it away and the reasoning for his reticence on the subject apparent.

Christine sat in the bedroom upon the very same chair that had housed this Pandora's box numb to the darkness closing in around her. Her thoughts were a spinning top, hurt and misery and confusion rotating round and round. When would her curiosity cease in causing her pain? She hadn't even made it halfway through before she could take no more. The former tale had been completely repurposed but still remained just as tragic.

Endless additions blossomed in the margins: drawings, jottings, and compositions; some borrowed from poems and annotated with questions. Awed, at first she took it as a challenge, racked her brain to see if she could identify them all. It seemed a fun sort of game, a friendly test between two lovers of literature; and Christine gladly dived into her destruction head-first.

True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues to speak;
They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.

The name escaped her, it was Renaissance - of that she was positive. She was unsure how she came by that knowledge, perhaps she had seen it in a book somewhere.

Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Wilmot, she believed.

Therefore the love which us doth bind,
But Fate so enviously debars,
Is the conjunction of the mind,
And opposition of the stars.

And, that was Marvell's "The Definition of Love" she remembered. Christine smiled despite her ire. Erik was undoubtedly a bastard but he did have fine literary taste.

Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;
It is the reflex of our earthly frame,
That takes its meaning from the nobler part,
And but translates the language of the heart.

She recognized that as Coleridge; beneath it was scribbled in his infallible hand an addendum: Is it love or is it desire, this searing, wondrous, curséd fire?

Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.

But gentle sleep shall veil my sight,
And Psyche's lamp shall darkling be,
When, in the visions of the night,
Thou dost renew thy vows to me.

Then come to me in dreams, my love,
I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.

This was one of her favorites by Mary Shelley. She had read it frequently enough to notice that the second stanza was omitted. Under it written something foreign:

In dreams she comes to me,
Kisses me; touches me; ensnares me with greedy arms and legs
.
The feel of her heartbeat within her breast sets the rhythm of my soul.
And, we two, form beginning, middle and end, an endless cycle of pleasure.

In darkness she is mine but in daylight she haunts me.

The remainder was wholly unfamiliar, original compositions and random notations, authored on the spot. They started harmless, sweet and pure, and devolved into vulgarity. This transition was marked by a shift in handwriting as well, starting off neat and progressing to a frantic, barely-legible tangle of letters. Here began the slices of music in the margins, splotches of nonsensical notes overlapping the print. It was almost as if she was witnessing a syphilitic's descent into insanity. Maybe she was in a way - love could make a person go mad, could it not?

Her pale skin gleams ethereal by moonlight, illumined curve of cheek a perfect crescent of ivory reminiscent of yet superior in quality to that which supplies said light. In candlelight it glows with soft dullness, mellow and earthly; she is a goddess in the former and an innocent in the latter.

Not only does she walk in Beauty—but sits, laughs, smiles, stands, leans, cries, and argues in it as well.
Her life entire is lived in it.
She
is Beauty, she is light.
Ev'ry movement and expression
A promise of both salvation and rapturous delight.

Above all women, virgins and those blemished, she is glorified.
In her lies the absolution for Eve's great sin, wrongness made right.
Purer than nature unmolested, than sea-foam or dawn skies.
Perfection incarnate, Imogen.

Her eyes are that of nature glowing,
Of soil and life and all things growing.
Her lips of blushing lily petal,
Coloured with surprising mettle.

Those heavy curls of wisteria hang,

Love could make a person go mad, indeed. But it was not love for her that had driven Erik daft. The tears came at a slow trickle, rain at last breaking through swollen grey clouds. Yet she could not stop reading, she could not stop!

She taunts me, endless torture. I cannot help but wonder if she is privy, if this coy game is meant to unravel me. Her presence is suffocating, I can scarce draw breath and yet she is my oxygen; I can survive off of nothing else but her, my Imogen.

What is want but what I feel for her, what courses through me nerve and vein? To have her - oh, to have her! - what I would give for but an hour, what I would sell - limb, heart, soul - just to touch her, to feel her.

My dear Imogen cries in terror of the night and those ghastly things lurking in evening's gloom; she seeks the balm of my comforting words and company, lays her sweet head upon my shoulder and lips upon my neck.
Little fool! She has no idea I am the darkness she so fears, that I am Death and horror and foulness cloaked in ravaged, decaying flesh.
Stupid girl, trusting girl, she comes to me a willing sacrifice and I, the monster, will devour her.

Does she know what she does to me, even as she sits there all innocence and books?
Does she know how I ache?
Can she sense the schism at my root, the dilemma: to take or not to take always in my thoughts?
Does she know I would destroy her with my passion, mar her with my desire, brand her as hideous as myself with my yearnings?

I can no longer close my eyes without seeing her, feeling her, touching her, tasting her, taking her. She is inside me, possessing. And, in fantasy I am likewise inside of her, penetrating, paying homage to the miracles of femininity.

Is it Love or Lust, the more powerful emotion?
I am a shipwrecked sailor adrift in the oceans of Love but clinging to the floatsam of Lust for dear life.
Oh Lord, have mercy upon my soul.

Does she know in dreams I sample her nipples?
As pink as her lips and every bit as delectable.
Does she know I knead those ripe breasts like the tenderest fruits?
Does she see how perfectly they sit in my palm?
Does she know how often I've probed her treasures and purified my fingers in her well of pleasure, that my skin is branded forevermore with the heat of her?
How wet I make her: dripping, drenched, and shaking!
She guards it as a secret, a sin never to be uttered, but her body betrays her, voicing in moans, signs, and gasps - expressions barred from words;
Imogen, the daisy, does not think I know.
Neither does she know that the sweet tang she detects on my lips is that of her delicious, delirious cunt. God, her exclamations!
Oh, her screams and cries when I suck, lick, and feast on her cunt!
So agonizingly musical I swear I'm in the presence of angels as I drink from her nectar.
But we are both of us destroyers.
Me with thrust of hip, suckle of mouth and swirl of tongue.
These are the moments when I am in control, when I, the King, Ozymandias, reign.
Yet no rule is absolute or secure.
There are times when my coy Imogen usurps my power. And there is no better feeling, no more satisfying sight than that of those pretty, pouting lips wrapped around me.
I almost faint watching my cock vanish into her hungry mouth.
Christ, and the way her fingers embrace it, matching it for eagerness, that little twist of wrist on the upstroke...
Then, when my cock is buried to the hilt inside of her, the tight walls of her hot, wet cunt gripping me, I am again a King among men and she whimpers my name like a benediction over and over.

Flanking the page of this last profligate confession were sketches. Not as libertine as those in Fanny Hill but not much better. The nude female form greeted her on bold display in various poses—breasts, buttocks, curves of waist, and ... other places shamelessly flaunted in ink. Unconsciously she compared her own body to that of the seductress and found herself lacking.

Christine slammed the novel shut and flung it away. Her stomach flipped itself, the tide of queasiness rising dangerously high. She reached the sink as the spasm overtook her and she befouled the porcelain with the miscellaneous yellow-green-brown of vomit. At the sight and smell she wretched again, harder.

Annotations she was never meant to see.

Confessions she was never meant to read.

Drawings not meant for her eyes.

Scores not intended for her ears.

Far too many notes for her taste, all of them about his paramour.

That Delilah, that Jezebel, that treacherous viper, that—

Imogen, that was the hussy's name.

How she hated the sound of it! Did her parents fancy her a fit for Shakespeare's plays or Bellini's operas? Christine snorted rudely. What a farce! She'd wager this Imogen had never read anything half as profound as Shakespeare nor seen an opera deeper than those of Gilbert and Sullivan. Yet she had captured his captious and seldom-bestowed attention - and, if his writings were any indication she knew exactly how the trollop had ensnared him.

Certainly not with her intellect.

Imogen, the vile slut, with her hungry mouth and cunt. How Christine hated her! Would that she could meet the strumpet, she'd claw her eyes out! Those fine eyes. A furious huff streamed out of her. What color would they be?

Of soil, life and all things growing.

Green, her eyes were green: the color of envy and seduction. Fitting. She scoffed.

An actress, he had called her. It was a prevarication to a player from one far greater. Acting as if he mightno, she wouldn't even think itwhile carrying a torch for another. No wonder he had ignored her earlier when she laid her heart bare. She loathed Imogen but also herself for not being more feminine, more voluptuous and desirable. But, she could not change her body or personality any more than she could prevent Erik from loving that harlot.

However, she could revenge herself upon the happy pair. What better way than beating him at his own sport? She would make him suffer, make him burn, make him choke, gasp, and pine and cast him off. Oh, yes, this plan would do very well. But, first she needed to know the art of seduction and she knew exactly where she could learn.


Oof. This seems like it will end well.

Now for those who are curious about the poem anecdotes.

*First: "A Modest Love" by Sir Edward Dyer

*Second: "To His Mistress" by John Wilmont Earl of Rochester

*Third: "The Definition of Love" by Andrew Marvell

*Fourth: "Desire" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

*Fifth: "Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!" by Mary Shelley

I did some careful combing of poems to find the ones that I felt fit the best. The rest are original creations.