Those words hung in the air and echoed in his mind until all he could hear and feel was the blood pounding in his head and the cold sensation of adrenaline rushing through his veins.
"What?" he said, his mouth suddenly dry. "What did you say?"
Madame Giry flinched, but she pressed on.
"The girl, Christine - they say you have taken her away, Monsieur - spirited her away somewhere that no one can find her. Please, I beg of you, have mercy on her and release her. She is an innocent girl, Monsieur, please do not harm her."
"The girl is not with me, Madame Giry, I assure you."
His own voice sounded foreign in his head, the scene before him unfolding in slow motion.
She didn't quite believe the Ghost, but she also didn't want to draw his ire and a possible punishment. She lowered her eyes.
"Forgive me, Monsieur, I did not mean to accuse you!"
He swallowed hard.
"It is alright, Madame. It is forgotten. I would not harm the girl, nor would I taker her away. You need not fear that from me."
She nodded, her eyes watery.
"Thank you, Monsieur. I will pray that she turns up safe."
"I... will... do likewise," he was truly at a loss for words.
She looked away and nodded again.
"Who has said these things?" his mind finally began to catch up to speed.
She started a little, suddenly afraid of getting whoever had told her in trouble - but she was more frightened of what he might do to her if she didn't answer.
"Some of the performers," she waved a vague hand. "They talk, you know. Christine was reported missing this morning - it was in all the newspapers! - and of course the topic was of great interest to everyone who works here. Someone - I know not who! - must have made mention of the Ghost - of you, good Monsieur - and I'm sure the story was spread around - false though it may be."
She had begun to violently wring her hands, hoping dearly that he wasn't offended.
Behind the wall, Erik nodded absently, forgetting that she couldn't see him or the movement, scarcely believing what he was hearing. How close to the truth that idle gossip had come, and it struck fear into the deepest depths of his heart like a lightening bolt.
"I see," he finally managed. "Thank you, Madame. Do not overly worry yourself - I am certain she will turn up."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
He backed away from the office, his mind still reeling, before turning on his heel and firmly marching back to his house.
Christine sat quietly for a little while after he had left. The little room still seemed to echo with the memory of the beautiful music he had played for her. Curiosity soon got the better of her, and she decided to take the opportunity to explore the house while Erik wasn't there.
She had already been in all the rooms, of course - all but one. His bedroom. She paused outside of the closed door for a moment, wondering about what could be inside and debating about whether he had only meant that she shouldn't go in that room while he was in it (because his mask would be off) or if he meant that she was to never enter it all. There was an organ inside, she knew that much. A bed, obviously. Surely a wardrobe or a closet to hold all of his many fine clothes.
She stared intently at the door before turning and continuing down the hallway. If he hadn't meant for her to go inside, she would hate to do so, and especially hate to have him return and find her there. She wandered into the kitchen, her mind straying to the story of Bluebeard. He, too, had left his little wife home alone with the only instructions of not entering a certain room - though she doubted that Erik's room was filled with blood and the bodies of his previous wives like Bluebeard's room was. She shook her head, surprised at her own silliness - she also wasn't Erik's wife. What an odd thing to forget, she mused.
He barely noticed the hallways around him, barely noticed anything. His entire mood was shattered after hearing what Giry had said, and he didn't feel like he would ever know peace or happiness again. It had been a mistake, a terrible mistake, to ever think that letting her stay in his home was a good idea. The more he walked, the more he thought, and the more he thought everything in his head became worse and worse. By the time he reached the bank of the lake and was approaching his house, his mind was in a frenzy.
you've kidnapped Christine, a poor innocent girl, spirited her away, everyone is talking about it, talking about you, everyone knows what you did - have mercy on her!
After pouring herself a glass of water and drinking it in the kitchen, she returned to the sitting room and had settled upon the couch, just about to open a book and read when suddenly she heard the sound of the front door unlocking.
She looked up to smile at him as he entered the room, but her smiled faded when she saw the serious look on his face.
"Christine," he said, his voice firm and grave. "You're going above right now."
Her face fell. Had she displeased him somehow?
"Why?"
"Someone," he grit out. "Has reported you missing. And do you know what your little friends up above are saying?"
She shook her head, concerned at how tight his voice sounded. She could see the tendons in his neck standing out, how he clenched and unclenched his hands in what could almost be spasms. He crept closer to the couch as he spoke.
"They're saying the Opera Ghost has kidnapped you."
Her eyebrows shot up.
"What?!" she nearly squealed.
"So you are going above right now."
"Erik-" she was dismayed over the thought of her lovely vacation being cut short by nonsense gossip. "Erik, I don't want to go up right now. It's just silly theater talk - it doesn't mean anything, and they'll see me tomorrow, anyway."
He frowned hard - why did she not understand how serious this was, how dire their situation had become? Her reasoning fell on deaf ears, because all he could hear was his own mind screaming at him that Christine did not belong in his house Christine needed to be out of his house this instant it was wrong wrong wrong to have her here she shouldn't be here couldn't be here anymore she needed to leave right now.
He quickly closed the distance between them. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up off the couch. She yelped a little in surprise as she was made to stand up, but his grip on her wrist didn't loosen, instead he turned and began tugging her towards the front door.
She had to leave right now!
He pulled her all the way to the edge of the lake, intent on making her get into the gondola, before he suddenly realized that he'd put his hands on her.
He let go immediately, shamefaced. She was looking at him with such hurt in her eyes, and he couldn't bear it. In his haste to prove himself innocent of a ghostly kidnapping and to right the wrong of having her in his house, he had instead revealed himself to be a brutish monster and committed an even greater sin.
He wiped a hand over his suddenly clammy face.
"Forgive me," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean to, I didn't- have I hurt you?"
"No," she looked down at her wrist, but there were no marks on it and even as he had been pulling her it hadn't been painful. "No, it doesn't hurt. But," she swallowed thickly. "You scared me, Erik. I don't appreciate being dragged like that. Please make certain that you don't repeat such actions in the future."
"Never," he promised, his entire frame shaking. "Never again, I am so sorry, Christine."
She gave a little nod, eyeing him warily, but her shoulders relaxed.
She sighed and stepped into the boat. Erik followed behind her, still horrified at what he'd done. How could he have dared to put his murderous hands on her like that? Was it really so easy to forget himself? Touching Christine should be a privilege undertaken with all the tenderness in the world, never something like what he had just done!
He bit his lip as he began to pole the boat across the lake.
"I truly am sorry, Christine," he said quietly. "I am sorry that I grabbed you like that. I should have never."
She turned to look at him and nodded.
"I accept your apology, Erik."
He was overcome by how gracious she was, how incredibly forgiving. He didn't deserve her or her forgiveness.
"Who reported me missing, though?" Christine puzzled out loud.
"I do not know."
She glanced back again, noticing that he sounded on the verge of tears. He was truly upset over his actions, it seemed.
"Erik?"
"Hmm?"
He still refused to look at her.
"You're quite strong, aren't you?"
His brow furrowed, confused.
"What- what do you mean?"
"I mean, you probably could have broken my wrist with just one hand, don't you think?"
He flinched. It was true - he could have seriously harmed her, and they both knew it.
"Yes," he was very quiet. "Yes, I suppose so."
"But you care for me," she ventured. "Don't you?"
"Yes," he replied carefully. "I care for you a great deal, Christine."
"I could tell," she smiled a little. "I could tell because even though you were upset and not thinking straight, you still didn't squeeze my wrist tight enough to hurt."
He choked out a sob.
"I'll never touch you again, Christine, I swear it," he pleaded.
She pressed her lips together. She didn't want him to never touch her again, she only wanted him to not frighten her again, but surely that was a conversation for another time when he wasn't on the verge of a breakdown.
"I don't want your tears, Erik, or any more apologies for it - just don't treat me like that again, okay? Actions mean more than words."
He nodded vigorously.
"Of course, Christine."
They were both quiet for several minutes until Erik finally broke the silence.
"I'll pack your things for you and bring them up to your dressing room after I drop you off."
She turned around again, surprised.
"Pack my things?"
"Yes, we- I made you leave in such a hurry, you didn't have a chance to collect your belongings."
He brought the boat to the shore, and Christine climbed out, thinking about what he had just said.
"But Erik - I said I wanted to spend the entire break with you."
"Surely things have changed, now..."
She considered it as they started down the tunnel to her dressing room. Did he truly not want her to stay? Or was he merely frightened again?
He looked uncomfortable, and she was afraid he was going to apologize or cry again, so she pressed on.
"I'll go upstairs, I'll put in an appearance, people will see me and know everything is fine, and then I'll come back and spend the rest of the break with you - all of tonight and tomorrow."
Erik didn't know what to say. How could she still wanted to be around him?
"Do you mean it, Christine?" he asked weakly.
"Of course I do, why wouldn't I mean it?"
He was silent a long moment.
"I... I haven't..." he swallowed hard before continuing in a choked whisper. "Oh, Christine- have I?"
Her brow knit, trying to understand what he was asking. He was clearly still in a state over what had transpired both up above and in his sitting room.
"Have you what, Erik?" she asked gently.
"Kidnapped you," the pain in his voice was almost tangible.
Christine turned to look at him, incredulous. The anxiety in his amber eyes was plain to see, and he looked like he might be sick over it. She sighed a little - it was ridiculous thought to her, of course, but she knew that it was very real to him regardless of any lack of logic. It irked her sometimes, on the few occasions that it happened, because he normally was so smart about seemingly everything. But once the fears in his head took over, it was as though logic and reason went out the window.
"No, Erik," she shook her head. "You haven't kidnapped me. I came to your house because I wanted to, remember? I could have left at any time, but I stayed because I wanted to."
He sighed, his shoulders sagging. His heart was still beating far too fast for his liking, and there was still a little voice in his head telling that he really had kidnapped her somehow and she was only saying otherwise because she was afraid of him.
Christine glanced at him as thought she could read his thoughts.
"You haven't done anything wrong, Erik," she reminded him.
He was about to protest, about to remind her how he had savagely dragged her from the couch to the boat, but she continued talking.
"What was it about all this that upset you so? Surely you must know that I'd never give up your secrets to anyone. Does the gossip really bother you that much? You've never minded any other story that got told about the Ghost, and some of them were quite unflattering."
"Because it's not just about me anymore. It's about you, too."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Do you think I care what stories they tell about me?"
"I care," he insisted. "Especially if it's my fault they're telling them. I don't care what they say about me, but they shouldn't be bringing you into it."
She frowned. She would have to come up with a story about where she'd been, and quickly.
"Was that the only reason?"
"And," he hesitated. "And I was forced to think about the situation in a way I never had before."
"Like?"
"Like what if you truly didn't want to be around me," he mumbled, ashamed. "What if you had changed your mind at some point and were only trying to be polite in not asking to leave. What if- what if I had tricked you, somehow, into staying with me."
"There," she said softly, and reached a hand out briefly touch the sleeve of his coat. "Doesn't it feel better to talk about it?"
He nodded a little, taken aback by her almost touch. She had had a conversation with him a while back, a day or so after his last bout of nerves, in which she had explained to him that trying to talk through his emotions might serve him better than simply flying off into a moody cloud. He hadn't thought much of the advice at the time (could there ever truly be anything that would help him out of a mood once he was in one?), but even though it was embarrassing and it made him feel terribly vulnerable to put his emotions and thoughts into words, Christine didn't seem to judge him for it. He only wished that he never had need of having to do so - the poor girl shouldn't have to be the one to calm and reassure him constantly.
"And you have nothing to worry about on that account," she went on. "And that's why I'm coming back tonight - because I want to. I like spending time with you. Don't you like spending time with me?"
He bit back his retort of you like being grabbed by the wrist? and simply gave a single nod instead.
They stopped outside the exit on the Rue Scribe side, a mere dozen or so seconds from being outside. Pale light filtered in, just enough to see each other. She turned to face him, but he was staring at his shoes.
"So it'll be just like I said - I'll go up and people will see me, and then in a few hours I'll meet you in my dressing room, and everything will go on just like we planned, okay?"
"You aren't... still frightened?" the words were barely above a whisper.
She shook her head.
"No. That doesn't change anything, Erik. You're trying very hard to be good, I know you are. And you are good to me. We're still friends. We'll still be friends for quite a long time, too, I think. A little mistake here or there isn't going to change that."
"I am sorry that I'm not a better friend to you, Christine."
She pushed a stray curl out of her face.
"You're a perfectly fine friend, even still. Friendship isn't about never making a mistake - it's about being willing to recognize and own up to your mistakes and changing your behavior based on what you've recognized. And Erik - you've always done that. You're a good friend to me."
She paused a moment.
"Erik, look at me."
He finally met her eye.
"Do you believe me when I say all that?"
He nodded slowly. There was no guile in her eyes, she looked as honest as she ever had. A part of his mind protested, of course, but he knew that eventually he'd have to take a leap of faith and trust her. Why not now? How long would he doubt her? He had to trust at some point, and this might as well be it.
He took a deep breath.
"Yes, Christine, I believe you."
She smiled at him, and he thought that her smile was the most dazzling thing he'd ever seen. He wasn't certain, even still, if she was being honest, but in that moment he decided to let himself believe that she was.
"So I'll see you in my dressing room, yes? In three hours?"
"I'll be there," he nodded. "But, Christine - you don't have to-"
"No, no - I will be there, waiting. In three hours. Go get dinner started for us, and then come back to my dressing room. Three hours, okay?"
"Three hours."
She smiled at him again, and she longed to reach out and touch him, touch his arm or even the side of his face, but she refrained.
"I'll be there waiting for you, I promise. I swear it on our friendship."
And with those words she made her way to the secret door that opened out to the street. She paused one last time in the doorway, looking back into the darkness of the tunnel she had just left.
I promise, she mouthed, a little grin on her face before she turned and disappeared from his view.
He stayed put for a few moments after she had left, turning her words over in his mind. He wasn't certain she would return to him, but against all the seemingly better judgment of his mind, he let himself hope.
With that tremulous hope starting to grow in his heart, he turned back towards his house. Once there, he began to prepare a dinner for them both. With it safely cooking in the oven, he began to set up the table.
Every so often a panic would begin bloom in his chest, and he had to remind himself over and over that he hadn't truly hurt her - there were no marks or her wrist, no pain. Still, there was surely a mark left on her soul, and if not her soul, then a bruise on her emotions, and he felt that was just as awful.
But all he could do about it was make certain he didn't do it again, she had made that much clear. She, being the absolute angel that she was, had already accepted his apology.
He placed a newer tablecloth across the table and set a number of candles on top. He would light them just before he left to fetch Christine, and she would have a lovely surprise when she entered the dining room. He ruthlessly shoved down any little voice that told him Christine was not coming - she had promised, after all, and sworn it on their friendship.
She'd promised, and he trusted her.
Meg sat in the Vicomte's carriage with her arms crossed and wondered for the thousandth time how she managed to get into such situations. She had found him searching the streets for Christine, and he had convinced her to join him.
"I'm sure she's fine, Raoul. I saw her just the other day," she said for what also felt like the thousandth time.
Raoul just shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. He sighed and turned from the window. His eyes found Meg's hat, a strange little thing that didn't match her dress at all. He blinked. Was this the latest fashion, perhaps? Some new style he wasn't aware of yet? The girls at the opera always had the latest trends, it seemed.
"I like your hat," he offered politely.
It really did look nice, he thought.
Meg looked confused and reached up to feel her hair. In her blind dash from her room she had forgotten to remove it. She pressed her lips together and looked out the window, embarrassed.
"Thanks."
Out on the street, Christine didn't have to go far before she caught sight of the newspapers. Her eyes widened and she marched up to vendor's little stand, picking up a copy.
OPERA CHORUS GIRL GONE MISSING SAYS VICOMTE, it read. It wasn't the large headline on the paper, but it was on the front page and still in plain view for all to see.
With shaking hands she flipped the pages until she reached the one that the story about her was continued on.
"Hey," the vendor said, annoyed. "Aren't you going to pay for that before you read it?"
Christine ignored him - she had left her purse up in her dormitory, anyway.
She barely had a moment to start reading the story, however. The noise of a carriage distracted her, and when she glanced up she recognized the coat of arms decorating it immediately.
It stopped suddenly in the street, and Christine couldn't help the fierce glare she gave it. The door opened and Raoul jumped out, running to her.
She turned to face him head on, taking a few steps of her own to close the distance between them, not listening to the peeved shouts of the man who was having his newspaper stolen. She held it up in a shaking fist.
"Raoul," ice dripped from her every word. "What is the meaning of this?"
