A/N: In honor of my 700th review, a SUPER QUICK UPDATE (albeit a really short one)!
-glomps Pertie- EXACTLY! Right on the nose. I always have a "point" to each chapter… some insight I want the readers to learn about a character, an action to drive the plot forward, foreshadowing, SOMETHING— and usually at least one of my readers picks up on it. This time the award for close reading goes to Pertie! While fillers can be a royal pain, I do try to spice them up with an undercurrent.
Christine had everything she'd ever wanted. She was onstage again, rehearsing for hours to perfect and tune the voice she had allowed to slip into disrepair. Her best friend worked right alongside her, gossiping, flirting shamelessly with the stagehands, and helping her learn Italian. When she returned home—that is, to her temporary residence—the love of her life waited with open arms and a hot bath ready for her. She had plenty to eat, a steady income, more friends each day, a whole new wardrobe, and a blooming career.
So why, why in God's name did she want to cry herself to sleep each night?
Three weeks passed with no change. Then four. Her voice was getting better, everyone agreed. The Maestro took heed of her peers' compliments, and pulled her aside to remark on her progress, promising her a small solo in the next production should she continue to improve. Immediately Christine began to sing more quietly and a bit off-tune, though her heart physically ached to ruin such beautiful music. That night she said very little to Erik, occupying herself with washing the dishes, straightening the kitchenette, and scrubbing the bathtub until it sparkled. She could feel his eyes singeing her back as she worked doggedly, her gaze fixated on the item she was currently cleaning.
"Something happened at the theater today," he said matter-of-factly, leaning against the wall just behind her. She jolted a little, wincing.
"Something happens at the theater every day," she replied without looking up at him. Even so, she knew he was frowning.
"You are distressed, Christine." His voice was heartbreakingly tender, but edged with authority. "Tell me what's troubling you."
I wish I knew! she wanted to say. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she shrugged nonchalantly.
"It was a long day, Erik. That's all."
A long, painful silence stretched between them before she felt his hand come to rest lightly on her shoulder. "Are you angry with me?" he asked softly. The genuine fear in his voice was enough to unleash the tears she had been fighting so hard to suppress.
"Why would I be?" She sniffled miserably, meeting his gaze at last. His concerned green eyes flickered across her face before he lowered them to the floor. Another long silence.
"No reason, I suppose. You must be hungry," he said finally, rising swiftly to his feet and grabbing his cloak from the hook. "I'll go down to the pier. Does halibut and asparagus strike your fancy?"
Christine squeezed her eyes shut, picked up the damp sponge she had dropped at her knees, and began scrubbing again with a dismissive shrug. He had been doing this all the time lately—sympathetic and consoling one moment, but the very second she pried into his emotions or odd behavior, he would change the subject or take off on some errand or another. What was he afraid of? Or rather, what was he trying to hide?
When the door clicked shut behind him, she threw her sponge angrily at the floor and stood, balling her hands into fists. Then and there, she determined that the moment he stepped back through the door, she would give him a piece of her mind, and get to the bottom of all this secrecy. Christine Daaé was no longer a cowering child, who blindly accepted the maddening mysteries of her Angel of Music.
Highly satisfied with her newfound resolve, she wiped her soapy hands on her skirt and marched over to the old, too-soft couch. She had been at work all day while Erik sat at home doing absolutely nothing; let him do the cleaning! She was not a lowly, apron-wearing housewife! Erik hadn't even proposed, even though she had given him ample opportunity. Technically, she was still the Vicomtess de Chagny, and she should have had ten servants waiting at her hand and foot, scraping and bowing and offering to bring her chocolates and lemonade!
But the title only made her dissolve in tears again, slumping over onto the hard, scratchy cushions. Exhausted, achy, hungry, thirsty, and burning hot, she wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in an ice bath after eating a full eight-course meal and downing gallons of chilled wine. And this horrible rat's nest atop her head! It only added to the already unbearable heat of the Roman summer; she mentally noted that when Erik came home, she would demand that he cut all of it off!
The list of things she wanted to tell Erik grew with every passing minute, until there were so many her head felt ready to explode. Dehydrated from crying and sweating profusely in the sweltering hotel room, she was only too happy to succumb to darkness when it pressed in on her weary mind.
Music was the first thing she noticed upon waking groggily. It was much cooler now; a gentle breeze stirred through the dimly-lit room. Her eyes flew open in shock when she realized she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothing, and she scrambled unceremoniously to cover herself with… sheets? Had Erik moved her to the bed, then? Turning instinctively to the source of the quiet music, her gaze settled on a dark, familiar silhouette on the other side of the fluttering curtains.
But to the contrary of her resolve just before drifting off, a surge of love flooded her heart as she realized how well he had taken care of her. She felt much better after a long rest, with the setting sun depleting some of the unbearable, muggy heat from the air. It appeared Erik also had the uncanny ability to read her mind; he had tied up her hair in a neat bun— a gesture much more rational than slicing the thick mane off. As she wrapped a thin cotton sheet around her torso and padded over toward the balcony, another painful lump grew in her throat; but this time, tears of shame and guilt pressed their way forward.
Or at least she thought it was a surge of tears…
Seconds later she found herself on her hands and knees, retching violently onto the hardwood floor. Erik was at her side almost instantly, one strong arm wrapped around her for support while the other pushed flyaway curls out of the way of her mouth. He caught her when she toppled forward in a shuddering, teary mess, shifting her into a fetal position in his lap.
"I was afraid of this," he murmured as he rubbed Christine's back, shaking his head in self-disgust. "We should have found a doctor and had you vaccinated before we left France. Forgive me."
"What's wrong with me?" Christine whimpered, burying her face in his chest.
"It could be any number of things," he said gravely, climbing slowly to his feet so as not to jar her too much.
"Such as?" she probed, frightened by the sudden severity of his features.
Erik shook his head, laying her down on the bed. "Most likely something as simple and fleeting as the stomach flu. Not to worry, my dear. We must simply keep fluids in you. Once you are asleep, I will ask the mistress to watch over you while I search for an herbal vendor. I know just the tonic to relieve this wretched vomiting." He tried to smile reassuringly, but Christine did not miss the glint of terror in his eyes. As he stood to go and fetch a glass of water, she grasped for his hand.
"Am I going to die?" she asked brokenly, tears spilling from her wide brown eyes.
"No!" Erik snapped, wheeling about to face her with a frightening intensity that only doubled her suspicions. If her condition had so deeply shaken Erik, it was not something to be taken lightly. He tried to soften his tone, bending down to plant a kiss on her sweaty forehead. "No, mon ange, you will not. I won't allow it."
She nodded bravely, holding back her tears until the hotel mistress came up to watch over her while Erik went in search of one of his gypsy remedies. The old woman had a kind, wrinkled face, and though she spoke no French and Christine only understood a few phrases of Italian, there was an unspoken understanding between the two:
Christine would be dead by morning.
A/N: -slowly, veerryy slowly, creeps away from you guys, hoping to avoid being seen-
… Um, in all fairness, I DID say there was gonna be a big bang, right?
Just for clarity: cholera was not "discovered" until 1883— meaning it was in existence, but there was not yet a name for it, let alone a remedy. There was the unspoken rule, however, that upon entering a new country, there was the chance of catching a foreign disease. In Italy, cholera was (and continues to be) a very common ailment for tourists and immigrants, even though it did not have a scientific name until 1883. The symptoms include dehydration and intense vomiting, among other things.