Readers:
I was working on my English paper after my last post when Erik demanded that I complete this next chapter. He insisted that I have been slack in my writing, and that I should only make amends by posting another chapter. Who am I to refuse the Opera Ghost? (She has before - O.G.) Shut up, Erik! I hate when he steals the keyboard from me. In case you were wondering why Erik is sitting next to my computer, it is to ensure that I do finish this chapter on time. I have a bad habit of beginning a chapter when he demands, then turning to other things as soon as he leaves. So he sat next to me the entire time. (Not that I minded.) (Insolent girl, she thinks that I stay for her. She is lucky that I let her bask in my glory - O.G.) Erik, if you don't stop stealing the keyboard, I will never get this posted. Now leave me be! Do any of you know how good it feels to tell off a rather intimidating, talented, (hot), genius assassin and get away with it? Well, if you don't, it feels pretty dang good. Particularly since I used part of his punjab lasso to make a prop for drama class.
Oops, shouldn't have typed that. Gotta go take apart the prop before he freaks out again. Erik is very possessive. He seriously needs to get a grip, but he is particularly attached to that lasso and the mask. I will never pull a Christine and steal the mask though. That would be insanely dumb, knowing what I do about his temper. All right, Monsieur O.G., you can stop standing over my shoulder, now. I'm posting.Besides,you're kind of scary when you're reading my computer screen over my shoulder.
Anyway, I'll post again soon.
Your obedient servants,
S.R. and O.G.
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Erik was making his usual rounds of his opera house. He was angry. Christine had not been working as hard as she should have been on her scales. Her voice was not bad by any means, but it was not improving as he knew it could. He could form it into the most glorious voice ever to touch men's ears, but she had to work at it! Something in him whispered that she was only a girl, but he cast it aside. Youth was no excuse.
His temper had been ill enough that morning before rehearsal. When, from his post in the rafters, he had heard that Veronique D'Avignon singing the role of Azucena, he had simply boiled over. The falling sandbag precisely next to the girl had not been an accident. Mme. Giry knew that, as did several other key members of the opera house staff, but the girl was convinced it was good luck that it hadn't hit her. Foolish girl! Where was Cecily? Why hadn't she been singing her role?
He was on the way to the dormitories to ask exactly that when he heard muffled cries coming from a bedroom that had long been vacant. He changed course and hurried to the room, if only to see what was happening. A girl was lying on the bed, a pillow pressed over her mouth as she screamed. The screams gradually turned to tears, and she removed the pillow in order to breathe.
"Cecily…" he breathed in shock. What was she doing here, alone? And what was so wrong that she had been screaming?"
A long string gibberish came from her mouth as she brought herself under control. "Erik, I know you're here. Come in."
She watched as the figure in black seemingly walked out of the wall. The soft light of the candles near her bed cast softly over him, reminding her of an image from an opera performed long ago. The scene had been of a girl who was locked into her room by her family in lieu of her upcoming wedding, a day which she loathed. The locked door and high walls had not deterred her lover, however, and he had appeared on stage, a mask covering his face, waiting to take the young woman in his arms. Yes, the light made the two look very comparable.
"You found me." It was a statement, not of surprise, but rather of expectation. She had had no doubt that he would know where she was soon enough.
"What happened? Why did you not sing today?"
Cecily grimaced, and Erik noticed the well-checked tears that floated in her eyes. She pulled back the covers and lifted her gown up to her knee. She did not even think about the impropriety of it. He had seen her with her shirt lifted, so why should a knee matter?
He simply looked back up at her, his eyes full of concern. "What happened?"
"I was dancing. Mme. Giry said my part required dancing, so I was warming up. I was startled and fell. The doctor said that I tore a ligament. I don't even know what that means."
He removed his gloves and laid his hands gently on her swollen knee. "It means that the fibers that connected this bone," he touched her shin, "to this bone," he touched her thigh just above her knee, "are broken. Depending on which one and how badly the tear…"
"I will never dance again," she finished sadly.
He wiped away a tear and stood up. "You should not stand on that knee for a week."
"A week! The doctor said three days!"
Erik shook his head. "I will make sure they leave you until a week has passed. You must not stand on it." This was a command from the Opera Ghost. One did not disobey the Opera Ghost.
"All right," she said grudgingly, "but you can't expect me to lie here like a dead rat all week. They're all busy with rehearsals." She paused, unwilling to actually make her request.
"I will visit you, and you will visit me."
"How am I supposed to do that? I 'must not stand on it', remember?"
"Like this," he said, disregarding her accusatory tone and lifting her from the bed. He paused to ensure the door was still locked, then walked into the passageway. "Put your arms around my neck," he commanded, "so that I might have a free hand if I need it."
She obeyed, wrapping her arms tightly around him as he slid the door shut. Once again, she was left alone in the utter darkness of the passageways, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, letting herself dissolve into his strength. If she was not herself, her memories could not haunt her.
She breathed him in, the scent of burning candles and ink. It was a pleasant smell, comforting in its familiarity, possessing in its simplicity. She looked up at his face. She could see nothing of it except that looming white mask. She closed her eyes, allowing her memory to fill in what her sight could not. His strong jawline, his fair skin, the green eyes that pierced like sabers, the radiance that emanated from him when he played his music.
A fear that had never possessed her now took hold of her heart. She had realized that not dancing meant leaving the opera house, but only now, in the arms of the one dearest to her heart, did she realize that it meant leaving Erik too. She could survive losing her livelihood; she could always find another job. But she could not leave her heart behind, and as surely as Erik held her body in his strong arms, he held her heart. Without her heart, she would survive. She had to find a way to stay at the Opera Populaire. She had to stay, or she would die.
