Note - I realized from where I was drawing my inspiration for Erik in this fic, because it wasn't just Kay (this fic's Erik is too mild-mannered and gentle, but still has his quick wit) and I realized that he is a combination of Kay's AND Charles Dance's Erik. Enjoy!
Chapter 26
Christine
Deep in the Opera Ghost's lair, the infamous Phantom had been given every opportunity to harm me. He'd had the chance to take advantage of me, molest me, mutilate me, kill me. But he did not. In fact, he was ever the kind, gracious host.
And an even better teacher.
I admit that I'd been nervous, deep inside, the entire time. I'd wondered if he might not drown me as we crossed that lake, or take my body as his own on that boat, nothing but the lanternlight and darkness surrounding us. I'd wondered if he wouldn't lead me to a torture chamber to match that medieval house.
But all he did was offer me tea. Teach me how to move my mouth, throat, and diaphragm. All I saw was his parlor, in which there were two black sofas, a large dark mahogany bookcase, and a grand piano. Ornate ebony lamps on the walls, electric like the rest of his house. A red Persian rug on the stone floor.
He sat at the piano and played while he taught me to sing.
And then he brought me back up to the surface, all of our conversation having related to music - my singing, in particular.
He was harmless. Actually harmless.
When he'd returned me up to meet Jules in the dressing room, the last fragment of my fear shriveled to nothing.
So when I came back the next day, there was nothing but anticipation for the lesson to come.
Jules and I didn't speak much on the walk there. We hadn't done so yesterday, either. That was fine, I suppose. I'd already apologized; there wasn't much more I could do. We entered into the dark theatre, eyes taking a moment to adjust after leaving the bright daylight of Paris. We walked through to the dressing room, entered, and stood before the mirror. We waited perhaps two minutes, and it opened again, to reveal Erik.
He was a bit less stiff now. So was I. Jules was nervous as ever.
"Thank you, Monsieur Bernard," said Erik. His assistant bowed and left us.
As he did yesterday, Erik extended a hand and I put mine in his. His fingers were long and thin, and felt hard - bony, even through the thick leather gloves. His entire form looked so. I wondered very vaguely what it might be like to embrace that skeletal form, but quickly pushed the thought out of my mind with a flare of heat to my cheeks.
And we walked through the strange hallways toward the underbelly of the Opera House.
He cleared his throat and glanced back as we turned a corner, the lantern in his hand illuminating the blackness ahead. "You danced beautifully again last night."
"Better than my singing, then?"
He paused, then laughed. "I'd rather hear your singing, at least, than Carlotta's."
I grinned. "Everyone loves Carlotta's voice."
"Society is doomed, then." He turned back around. "Her voice may be well-practiced, but her acting skills absolutely ruin it."
"Oh, never let Carlotta hear you say it, or she will promise to never sing again."
"Don't threaten me with such a lovely thought, my dear."
I let out a huff of a laugh, and he glanced back. There was a glint reminiscent of pleasure in his mismatched eyes.
"She's insufferable, yes," I said, as we descended stairs. I gripped his hand a bit tighter, frightened of the dark depths ahead. "But at least she isn't constantly critiquing the ballet girls like Emma Rougeaux."
"One of the altos."
"Yes. Her sister is a ballerina in London, and so she believes she knows more than any of us. More than Meg. More than Madame. It's awful. And it's never outright comments - just snide little remarks that sound nice but...aren't."
"Like?"
"Like...oh let me think." I looked up at the stone ceiling. "Like...'my, Christine, I wish I was like you. I despise caring about my abilities so much; it would be nice to not care at all. How I envy you!' Little comments." I paused. "Last night was a reprieve, at least. She wasn't here. They had to have an understudy come in for the performance."
"I did notice that."
And one more week of Hannibal. Just one more. This show was supposed to be enjoyable, but Isabelle's disappearance had forever tarnished its music for me.
"I believe she was sick," I added, "she'd been complaining of a ticklish throat for the past few days."
We reached his boat. We floated across the lake. And when we reached his house, I took a bit of a closer look at my surroundings, now that it wasn't such a shock to me. I noticed, first and foremost, that the flowers were not real. Well - how could they be? There was no sunlight down here. Not a flicker of natural light.
I remembered Erik's reason for needing to live underground, and saddened. I pushed it from my mind, just as I had the thought of being wrapped in his arms.
He let me inside.
And we were immediately greeted with a loud, high-pitched yowling to our right. My head whipped in that direction.
A Siamese cat was staring at us, standing on all fours upon a small round table, and meowing like she was personally offended at my presence.
I blinked at the animal, at the diamond collar around its neck, as Erik closed the door behind us with a chuckle.
"Christine, meet my housemate. The true owner of this mansion. Lady Ayesha."
Ayesha sat down and blinked as if in confirmation that this was the truth - she, not Erik, was the master (or mistress) of the house. She licked her chops, still watching me. I liked cats, but her twitching tail and narrowed pupils put me little at ease, so I merely gave her a small smile and watched him remove one of his gloves to pet her.
I stared at his hand. As I'd suspected, it was bony, every knuckle and muscle visible, as though his skin was stretched tightly over everything underneath. And it was mildly discolored - dark blue veins and yellow splotches covered the otherwise pale hand.
He noticed me watching and quickly pulled back his fingers, as though Ayesha's fur was burning. He pulled his glove back on with extreme deftness. His throat was forcefully cleared while he stared at me. I looked away.
I should have told him that it was fine, but that would have only drawn attention to it, and I had the feeling he wouldn't want that. Besides, there were so many better things to point out about him - his voice for example. A voice that could bring down empires, that could reach across solid material to appear inside another's ear-
"How do you do it," I said then, looking at him, "by the way?"
He blinked. "Do...?"
"Throw your voice?"
He eased and smiled. "Practice." He paused. "I could teach you that, too."
I laughed. "Perhaps one day."
His eyes hadn't been hard, but they softened. His lips relaxed - lower lip, really, as only his bottom lip and chin were visible, the skin there quite normal. I realized why with a flush. "One day" implied that there were many days to come.
Perhaps there were. I didn't see an end to the lessons yet.
"Come," he said, and motioned to the parlor. "Let's continue with singing, at least."
I proceeded with going to Erik for the remainder of that week.
That long, long week, in which Hannibal seemed to never end. Meg went to visit Raoul a third time, Madame with her. And the understudy continued filling in for Emma.
Because Emma Rougeaux must have been quite ill. Too ill to let anyone know she couldn't perform. She lived alone, so she likely had no one she could send to let us know, and a knock on her door garnered no response.
For she didn't come the next night either. Or the next night. Or the next night.
Or the next night.
