Christine couldn't stop the grin on her face as she made her way up to her dormitory to pack her things. Ever since Mamma Valerius had gone, she had felt a little alone. She had plenty of friends, yes, but she had no family at all. Sometimes she couldn't help the little sting that came along with hearing the other girls talk about visiting their many various relatives. She had Raoul, of course, and Adele would always feel like family too, but even though she loved them very much, it still didn't feel quite the same as having uncles and aunts and cousins like all the other girls had.
She was surprised to find that Erik felt almost like family as well, but in a way that was decidedly not like a family member. He reminded her a little of her Papa, at times, but in a different way. She couldn't explain it, and she didn't like to examine it too closely, but the fact remained that he somehow held the comfort of a family member and the camaraderie of a friend at the same time as possessing a certain charming allure that she would be pleased to find in a suitor - if she were interested in a suitor, that was.
She bumped into Meg in the common area of the dormitory.
"Christine! Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
Meg made no mention of flush on her cheeks or the smile on her lips, but all things together, she had an idea of where her friend was headed soon.
Christine motioned for her to follow her into her bedroom. Once inside she drew her carpet bag out of the little closet an threw it on the bed.
"I'm spending the break with my teacher," she explained. "But you can't tell anyone! Oh, please, Meg - it's important no one know."
Meg nodded solemnly.
"For the entire break?"
"The entire break."
Meg sighed.
"That sounds so exciting! Maman wants us to go visit my aunt," Meg rolled her eyes. "Three days off, and they're going to be spent with my stuffy old aunt."
Christine giggled.
"How do you know my teacher isn't stuffy?"
"Oh, Christine - you wouldn't be smiling like that if he was!"
Christine tried to press her lips into a serious line, and almost succeeded.
"What do I do if someone asks where you are?"
Christine shrugged.
"Just tell them you haven't seen me, that's all. I really don't think anyone is going to ask, anyway. Who even would?"
They talked a little longer as Christine grabbed this and that and shoved them all haphazardly into her carpet bag.
"Christine," Meg suddenly changed the subject. "Isn't your dress going to wrinkle? You didn't even fold it."
She hesitated, looking at the dress she had tossed in the bag on top of her nightclothes and dressing gown. She knew very well that nothing would get a chance to form wrinkles - they wouldn't even be in the bag longer than an hour - but how could she tell that to Meg?
"It's fine, I think. He, ah, he doesn't live that far away."
"You're in quite a hurry," Meg remarked with a little grin as Christine grabbed a pair of slippers and tossed them in the bag.
Christine frowned, theatrically so.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said primly.
Meg raised an eyebrow.
"And if I'm in a hurry, it's only because I'm looking forward to his guest room," she went on. "He has a perfectly lovely guest room."
"Mmm hmm."
"It is!" she insisted. "His bed is the softest mattress I've ever slept on. Er, the bed he has in the guest room, I mean."
"Ohhh, I see. How does the guest room bed compare to the one in his room, then?" she asked innocently.
Christine gasped and swatted at her with a stocking.
"I've never even been in his bedroom, I'll have you know!"
"Ah, so he visits you in the guest room, then?" she teased.
Christine heaved a sigh.
"Yes, Meg - that's where he... visits me," she shot her friend a perturbed look.
Meg's face lit up, overjoyed at how she had finally worn Christine down.
"How perfectly lovely indeed!" she giggled. "Tell me, does he have a piano?"
Christine eyed her warily. She knew better than to trust that wicked look on Meg's face.
"Yes, he does... Why?"
"Do you remember when we accidentally walked in on Piangi and Carlotta making use of that poor piano backstage?"
Christine groaned.
"Meg! I had just managed to forget that! Now that image won't leave me alone for weeks again."
It truly had been weeks before the two girls had been able to cease staring at the piano with horror as the pianist played and touched those very same keys without a hint of knowledge of what had transpired on top of them.
"Besides - Erik would never! He's- he's a refined gentleman."
Meg wrinkled her nose.
"Refined? That doesn't sound very exciting or... or passionate. Who wants a refined lover?"
"Oh, I assure you he's plenty exciting and passionate. He's an excellent lover, I'll have you know," Christine didn't stutter, but her face turned bright red at the word lover despite both of them knowing it was only a joke.
Meg jumped up and threw her arms around Christine, hugging her and laughing.
"Oh, Christine, I hope you're not cross with me!" she giggled. "You know how I like to tease, but I don't mean anything by it!"
"I could never be cross with you, Meg," she returned her hug tightly. "Even if you do have a terribly overactive imagination that comes up with the most awful things that would never happen in reality."
Meg snickered and pulled away.
"Oh! I didn't mean to keep you, either - you must be wanting to leave soon."
Christine nodded and grabbed her packed bag.
"It's alright. Have fun at your aunt's, or try to at least. I'll see you when you get back - and remember! Not a word of where I'm going to anyone!"
"Of course!"
Erik was there waiting for her behind her dressing room mirror. He escorted her down the tunnels and across the lake, and after a bit of small talk she eventually brought up a question that she had been wondering about.
"Erik?"
"Hm?"
"How would I get to your house if you weren't here to escort me?"
A pause.
"Why on earth would you be going to my house if I wasn't here to escort you?"
"Well, what if?" she shrugged. "What if I wanted to ask you something but you were at home and the question couldn't wait?"
"What kind of question would that be, exactly?"
She turned in the gondola and shot him an annoyed look.
"It's a theoretical question, Erik. Do you enjoy making two trips just to fetch me?"
"I don't mind it," he said stubbornly.
"Well what if I wanted to surprise you one day? Show up on your doorstep with a gift or something?"
"I don't do well with surprises, Christine."
She sighed.
"What if there was some patron who wouldn't leave me alone and I wanted to someplace safe to hide?"
"Is someone bothering you, sweet? It's alright, you can tell me," concern colored his voice.
"No," she shook her head. "I just- oh, it's silly I guess."
He didn't understand why she'd want a way to spend even more time at his house, but he also didn't like that defeated tone in her voice.
"My home is specifically designed to keep anyone but myself from accessing it easily, but... I will think about what you said."
"Thank you," she smiled a little, her voice soft.
She went right to her room - when had she started thinking of it as her room? It surprised her, but it felt right - after they reached his house, and she unpacked her things. When she had finished, she found Erik had already prepared some tea for them in the sitting room.
She sank down into one of the chairs and sighed happily, letting the intense warmth of the little porcelain cup seep deep into the bones of her fingers. She closed her eyes a took a slow sip. Erik, seated across from her, fiddled with the ring on his little finger as he often did when slightly anxious - this was a long time he would be entertaining her in his house, and he was curious about what she would like to do to fill the time, lest she grow bored of him and being there.
"Would you like for me to play you a song on the piano?"
Her eyes flew open and she choked on her tea, the terrible conversation with Meg suddenly flooding her mind. Her wide eyes darted to the piano in the corner of the room - the one that looked like her mother's piano - as she coughed and sputtered and very nearly dropped her teacup.
"Christine!" Erik shot up, worried. "Christine, are you alright?"
He knelt next to her and hovered a hand near her, intending to pat her on the back, but she cringed away from him.
The image that had been seared into her mind was there again, only now she was in Carlotta's place and Erik was in Piangi's and all of it was taking place on top of her mother's piano and she knew with a certainty that if Erik touched her now she would never recover.
He pulled his hand back, but still watched her closely as her gasps began to settle into normal breathing again. She stared down at the floor, not able to meet his eye. She felt a little guilty about pulling away from him so - he'd probably assume she was repulsed by him - but there had been no helping it. She took a deep breath, placing a hand on her chest.
"No piano, not today, please," she managed.
He nodded, standing up slowly.
"Of course, Christine, whatever you wish. You must try to be more careful, though," he fretted, wringing his hands. "What ever would I do without you, my dear?"
She smiled weakly, her eyes stinging from coughing so hard, but she still couldn't look at him, and she resolved to slap Meg the next time she saw her (though she knew, of course, that her resolve would fade away in a handful of hours and the incident would eventually become a funny - albeit embarrassing - story to tell her when she saw her again, still the thought of slapping her helped her regain her composure in the moment).
"I'm alright, Erik."
She supposed it was what she got for joking in such a way - it was one thing for Meg to have said those things about him, but had she really needed to say he was an excellent lover? She dared to dart a little glance at him, a wicked voice in her head wondering far too loudly about just what kind of lover he would be. She quickly looked away again.
He sat back down in his chair, still a little concerned. Her cheeks were red from her coughing fit, but he never would have guessed the other reason behind that color on her face.
She took another careful sip of her tea, and for a moment he held his breath as she swallowed it. Of all the myriad horrible endings his mind had come up with, her choking to death on something he had given her had not come up - until now. What other possible outcomes could there be that he had neglected to think of? It boggled the mind and made him uncomfortable.
But things seemed normal enough in a few minutes, and she didn't appear to be in any danger of choking again, and his worries began to ease away.
"I've made more progress on your new song," he told her.
"Oh?"
"It'll be ready with plenty of time to spare for your next audition. It'll be a little difficult at the moment, but I'm confident that you can improve enough between now and then."
She nodded eagerly. The next company audition was months away, and though it seemed far off, she knew it would be there sooner than she realized. She was looking forward to mastering the song Erik was composing for her - it was terribly appealing to have something that was a creation of just hers and his,the merging of his spirit and her voice giving an audience something that had never been heard before.
"I'll try my very best," she said solemnly - while it already irritated her when she wasn't able to do well with any old regular song, she knew she would be crushed if she failed to live up to her own expectations with a song her Angel had written just for her. It was not something she took lightly.
"I'm sure you will, my dear," he smiled warmly at her.
"Have you been working on any other projects? Any more pretend houses?"
A brief look of alarm flashed across his features before they settled back into their normal expression. He hadn't expected her to remember the house, but apparently it had more of an impression on her than he had realized.
"Just a few sketches, nothing truly planned out yet."
"Do you ever miss working in architecture?" she tilted her head curiously.
"Sometimes," he admitted, and paused a moment. "But I have found it does not do to dwell on missing things that are forever gone from one's life. Those days are long behind me, and I can never get them back again. If I spent time mourning everything I have lost, well-" he gave a little shrug. "I might never have time for anything other than mourning."
She blinked hard. It seemed to her that she was constantly putting her foot in her mouth, constantly reminding him of things he didn't want to remember, but she truly never meant anything by what she asked - she only wanted to get to know him better. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps getting to know him better and feeling that ache in her chest as she became acquainted with sorrow were one and the same.
His pensive mood seemed to lift, and a teasing smile came across his lips.
"And I if was so busy mourning, who would write songs for you, my sweet?"
She laughed a little, not wanting her sadness to compound his own.
"Will you show me the sketches?" she asked hopefully.
"You would like to see them?"
"Oh, yes, please!"
She finished her tea and he took her into his work room where he showed her his latest drawings.
Even in the form of rough sketches, she thought these designs were quite clever as well. He held them up and pointed out things he was thinking of changing and his thought process behind certain choices, and she was enraptured by every one. Surely, she thought, it was an awful thing to waste such talent, but she knew better than to bring it up again so soon.
After they had whiled away several hours in his work room, she mentioned that she was starting to get hungry. He immediately headed for the kitchen, and she trailed behind him. It took a bit of convincing, but she managed to cajole him into letting her help as he prepared a meal for them. He explained to her the mechanisms for working all of the appliances in his kitchen with great patience (even more patience than he normally had in her singing lessons, she noticed), and he took the time to show her the contents of each cabinet and cupboard and drawer as their soup was cooking.
"You should know where everything is," he told her. "In case you should ever... find yourself here on your own."
She gave him a questioning glance. He wouldn't quite meet her eye.
"Just in case, you know - in case you came to ask me an urgent question but found I was out of the house, and you decided to wait for me to return and you became hungry in the meantime."
She smirked at the thought of such a convoluted occurrence ever happening, but she was pleased to know that he really did seem to be thinking of what she had mentioned earlier.
"Oh, I see. Just in case, yes."
"And you must take care not to burn yourself on the stove, Christine. It's terribly hot and I don't want any harm to come to you. The oven, as well, and the samovar."
She raised an eyebrow as she glanced sidelong at him. She had cooked quite often growing up, and even if she had not, did he really think she wasn't aware that stoves were hot? She knew she shouldn't tease him, knew that he only cared about her very much, and that he was the nervous sort, but-
She schooled her face into questioning innocence, her brow furrowed and lips pouting as though deep in thought.
"Erik," she asked sweetly. "What about the fireplace?"
"Of course that too! Why, an ember could catch on your skirts if you stand too close it, Christine, it's really quite dangerous and you must keep your distance-" he turned to face her and stopped dead in the middle of his lecture on fireplace safety when he noticed the look on her face morphing into one of sheer amusement.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and narrowed his eyes. Of course Christine already knew those things! He was being silly again. He straightened his cravat and cleared his throat.
"I'm sure I can manage the kitchen just fine, Erik," she smiled, her eyes twinkling. "I even have some recipes you might like to try sometime."
"I- I would like that. I believe the soup is done."
"Oh! Go sit down at the table, then. I'll get it for you."
"Christine," he protested. "No, you are my guest, my dear, that would be highly improper for you to serve me."
She shook her head.
"No, I insist, and I can be just be just as stubborn as you can, Erik. Go sit at the table and I'll bring your bowl to you."
"Highly improper, Christine!" But he stood up from where he had been leaning against the counter.
"Erik," she practically begged. "You are always so good to me, just let me be good to you this once!"
"You shouldn't have to serve me my food like some kind of- of maid or- or servant-"
Or wife, his mind supplied, and his eyes widened just a little.
"Maestro, please!" she was very nearly laughing now as she pointed a firm finger towards to dining room. "Go sit down!"
He grumbled a little and muttered something she couldn't quite hear, but he obeyed her request and went into the dining room.
She shook her head again, smiling to herself as she portion out the soup.
He held his breath as she entered the room and placed the bowl in front of him. It really was a very wifely action, was it not? She had helped to cook it, and then she had insisted on serving him. Would this be what it would be like to be married to Christine? He let himself savor the brief moment - it would likely not come again.
"Thank you, my dear," he managed, and she smiled widely.
"Erik-"
"Yes?" he looked up at her, eyes wide and face serious.
She frowned a little and smoothed out her skirt.
"Do be careful with the soup... It's very hot, you see. I don't want you to burn yourself."
He smiled wryly.
"Yes, thank you, Christine. I will keep that in mind."
They talked of the show coming up, and Erik reiterated his distaste for the director, and eventually the conversation turned to the recipes Christine had mentioned, so she began to tell him of the kinds of things she used to cook for herself and her papa. He hung on her every word about her childhood, about the dishes she'd made from the places they'd traveled or the meals she'd make from her homeland when they were so far from Sweden. He didn't think he could ever tire of hearing her speak about her life.
She told him the story of something that had happened when she was still quite small, when she had been distracted in the market square by a baby goat that she had tried to approach, only for it to kick up its heels and run from her. Without thinking about her papa who hadn't even realized his little daughter was no longer next to him, she had chased the goat until suddenly she realized she was no longer in the market square.
"Oh, I must have sat there for ages! Well, not ages, really - probably not even a half an hour - but it felt so terribly long! I just sat down in the middle of this giant field filled with goats and cried my eyes out!" she giggled. "I thought Papa would never find me, that I'd have to live there in that field and become a goat! But he found me, after all. Oh, Erik, you can't imagine how good it feels to know you won't ever have to become a goat!"
He knew it was probably awful to laugh at the image of little Christine thinking she'd turn into a goat, but it was so very precious and he couldn't help it, and he laughed even as his heart twisted for her childhood self.
"But Christine, why would you have to turn into a goat just because your father didn't find you?"
She threw up her hands.
"Because what else was I going to do? I was all alone in the field, so I was going to have to be raised by goats, after all - surely that meant that I would have to be a goat as well!"
Her laughter died down and she looked a little wistful. She missed him so, even still.
"Did you have plans the next few days, Erik?" she changed the subject, not wanting to linger on thoughts of her papa. "I invited myself over so suddenly, I forgot to ask if you already had plans."
Erik considered it moment.
"Not any plans in particular," he said. "Although I had anticipated doing some composing this week."
"Oh, really?"
He nodded.
"You wouldn't mind, would you? I don't want to disturb you at all. I can work on the piano and not the organ."
"I wouldn't be disturbed in the least! And where is the organ?" she was curious.
"It's in my bedroom, that's why you haven't seen it. But it can get rather loud. I promise to keep the racket to minimum."
"As if your music could ever be racket," she teased.
"Hm. Wait till you hear it," he raised an eyebrow.
She insisted on clearing the dishes as well, and he let her. He watched her from the doorway to the kitchen as she washed and dried each dish and cup and the silverware and placed them all back where they belonged. It made him feel something, strongly, but he couldn't name what it was. She looked so at ease there in his kitchen, just like a real wife - even if he did feel that such menial tasks should be beneath any wife of his. But still - his desire to cook and clean for her as an act of service to show his devotion to her - was that what she felt towards him, as well? Was that why she doing this? Or was she merely being polite? He decided to have a copy of the key to the front door made, so that she could come and go as she pleased if she wished to. How she could do so on her own across the lake remained to be seen, but he knew he would find a way. For her, he would.
"What do you normally do in the evenings?" she asked when she had finished with the dishes.
"Read, typically. Shall we go to the sitting room? I'm certain I can find a book that will interest you."
She followed him to the sitting room and watched as he scanned the many bookshelves.
He frowned at one of the titles, running a finger over the spine.
"I think you'd quite like this one, but I'm afraid you aren't able to read Russian..."
"Could you read it to me?" the words were out before she could stop them.
He looked surprised, but he pulled the book off the shelf.
"Papa used to read to me nearly every night," she explained, looking down at her hands as she laced her fingers together. "It was one of my very favorite things."
"Then by all means," book in hand, he gestured her to the couch.
She sat down, eyes bright in anticipation. Erik sat in a chair opposite the couch, and she felt the smallest twinge of disappointment that he didn't chose to sit next her instead - there was plenty of room on the couch for two, after all.
The story turned out to be a novel based on an old Russian folk tale, and though he was reading the page in Russian and translating it in his mind before speaking it in French for Christine, he rarely needed to pause to think about the words before he spoke them, and had Christine not glanced a look at those strange letters on the pages she might have almost thought it was written in his native French to begin with.
His rich, velvety voice wrapped around her like the warmth from the fire, and she rearranged herself on the couch so that she could lean against the armrest and tuck her legs underneath of her. The story was quite interesting, and even as she felt herself growing sleepy she fought to stay awake so she could continue to hear it. She blinked as she stared at the fire, his words eventually ceasing to make sense and instead just becoming muddled sounds in her mind, but they were pleasant and comforting sounds.
He glanced over at her every so often. She seemed to be enjoying the story, and he was glad. They must have gone on like that for nearly an hour so - Christine curled up against the pillow of the armrest, a dreamy look on her face, and he in his own chair, reading her page after page after page.
He glanced up and paused his reading. She was leaning her head on her folded hands resting on the pillow, her eyes closed.
"Christine," he whispered softly.
There was no reply. She was fast asleep.
He simply sat there a moment, watching her sleep. She looked so peaceful, but he knew the sofa was no place for her to spend the entire night. He considered how he might transport her to her bed without waking her - it seemed such a shame to have to wake her.
He could carry her, he supposed.
How would she feel in his arms? She was rather small, though he supposed that had more to do with his own height than any particular peculiarity on her part. He was certain he could easily lift her, her petite frame would be quite light, as light as a feather, really. She would be warm, of course, quite unlike himself. Probably warm enough to feel through all her layers of clothing. Would she nuzzle her face against his neck as he held her to his chest? Would she remain limp as a doll as he carried her, every joint loose and every muscle slack as he placed her underneath of the soft covers of her bed?
She really did look too beautiful to disturb, the way the firelight illuminated little strands of her hair (her hair looked so soft, would it feel like silk under his fingers?), the little motion of her back and chest rising and falling as she breathed evenly (would her corset interfere with her breathing during the night? It would have to come off, he was nearly certain), the way her dark eyelashes rested on her pale cheeks (how he longed to brush his lips across her cheeks, to press them against her forehead). It would be the easiest thing in the world, really - two strides and he would be in front of the couch, a mere handful of seconds stood between him and the sensation of scooping her up into his embrace. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Christine," he crooned, remaining firmly seated in his chair. "Wake up, sweet."
Her eyes fluttered open, and when she took in what had happened she smiled sheepishly against the pillow.
"Oh dear," she said softly. "I must have dozed off a little."
He smiled kindly as she stretched a little and sat up.
"It's alright. Perhaps you are ready for bed, it seems."
"It would seem so." she stood and yawned. "Thank you for reading to me, Erik. It was a delight."
She was thankful, also, for the low lighting in the sitting room, thankful that he likely couldn't see the blush on her face.
"Reading to you was a delight as well, my dear. I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight," she gave him one last sleepy smile as she left for her bedroom.
He sighed and placed a bookmark in the book they had been reading. He wasn't certain what, exactly, she felt for him, but surely she felt something (though almost certainly not what he felt towards her) - and he began to let himself believe that whatever shred of anything she felt towards him (trust? appreciation? enjoyment of his mediocre company?) was in fact quite real.
Christine, having changed and prepared for sleep, pulled her blanket up to her chin and fell asleep with a sweet smile on her face, blissfully unaware of what was about to unfold upstairs.
