Chapter 28

Christine

Erik and I were friends. Or, at least, we were becoming friends.

Our relationship was easy. Comfortable. If not, of course, unorthodox - but I didn't dislike it at all. The Wednesday after Hannibal, he cut our lesson about ten minutes short and asked if I simply wanted to drink a cup of coffee with him, sitting with him on one of his couches.

He waited for my answer, looking up at me from where he sat at the piano. I smiled back at him. "That sounds lovely, actually."

But this small gesture of kindness, of kinship, brought about a pang of extreme guilt. I waited by the piano for a few moments, then moved to couch, wondering after my own odd emotions.

It was only when he returned with the cups and handed one to me, sitting next to me, that I realized why I felt so badly.

He'd been genuine with me from the start - honest. His intentions had only ever been to befriend me.

And I'd taken advantage of it to prove that he was a killer. Which, it seemed, he was not.

Yes, I now felt genuinely warm toward him. But we'd only gotten to this point because I'd meant to deceive him.

I sipped at my coffee.

"I hope it's sufficiently sweet enough."

I nodded. "It is." I looked at him. He was watching me. "How did you know I like coffee sweet?"

"I guessed. I personally take it black. Bitter."

I smirked. "Then why carry sugar and cream at all?"

He held my gaze. "I had Jules recently purchase those items just in case you cared for them."

My stomach twisted in agony. I had to push away my feelings of regret. He would never know I meant to deceive him. I never had to tell him - and I was the only one with that knowledge, so there was no way for him to find out from anyone else. I was fine. No need to fret.

Still.

I sighed, and took another sip of the, honestly, perfect coffee.

"Something seems to be troubling you."

"No, nothing." I smiled, looking down. "Only thinking of Isabelle," I lied, "and how it is affecting Meg." Although, I suppose this wasn't entirely a lie. Her death did often sit at the back of my mind, tucked away but never exactly out of sight.

He considered this beside me. "You and she are very close."

"Like sisters."

He paused. "At least the killer is caught."

"Madame doesn't think so," I said, turning my attention to him again. "She believes a killer is still on the loose."

A flash of worry crossed his eyes. "I sincerely hope not." His hands seemed to tighten exponentially around his cup. "If that is the case, then don't leave the side of anyone you trust."

I gave a little laugh. "Nervous for me?"

"I'd rather not lose you." His lower lip thinned. "I do...appreciate your company."

Living like he did, alone in the dark, of course he did. Besides Jules who appeared frightened of him, besides Madame who'd only ever heard his voice, I was his only companion - other than Ayesha, of course.

My guilt grew. It spread from my stomach, to my chest, to my throat, forcing me to speak.

"Erik," I said.

"Yes, Christine."

"I need to admit something to you."

At my sudden vulnerability, his pupils seemed to dilate, and he put his cup on his coffee table. He turned more fully toward me. "Yes?"

"I..." I felt a bit hazy, but he deserved the dignity of the truth. "When I begged you in my letter for friendship?"

He paused. "Yes."

"It wasn't...entirely because I was lonely. Though-" I added hastily, "it had been a factor."

His eyes narrowed, and I willed my heart to slow.

"Erik, I initially suspected that you were the killer," I said. "And I wanted to get close to you in order to find out the truth. But when St. Juste was caught, I realized that I still wanted to get to know you, find out more about you. So I investigated the dressing room...made Jules take me here. My wanting to visit you, have lessons here, that was and is genuine. But I hadn't initially been honest."

He didn't say anything. I stared into my cup. There. It was said. And a good thing I said it now - it was still early enough in our friendship that, should he wish to cut ties with me over this, it wouldn't sting as harshly as if I'd revealed it to him later. And now the guilt wouldn't boil my insides.

I felt him chill beside me.

Well, there it was.

Goodbye to singing lessons.

I expected him to tell me how horrible I was - I'd lied to everyone, apparently. I expected him to become stone, to escort me wordlessly to the surface.

"That," he said lowly, "is the most idiotic thing I've ever heard in my forty years of life."

My cheeks heated and I whipped my gaze to his. There was a soft fury there.

I bit my lip. "I-"

"What if I had been the killer, Christine?"

I blinked. "Then-"

"Then you would likely be dead. You...suspected me of murder, and still wrote letters to me, met with me, went to my home!- Luckily, I am not the murderer, but why in God's name would you pursue someone you suspect of brutal mutilation of other women?" He paused, looking at me strangely. "Ah - now the former sweetness makes sense."

I looked down, wanting to bite back but knowing this was deserved.

"You made yourself look helpless and silly. You assumed that these were the qualities a violent man would find enticing - naïve and weak girls are easier to trap and kill. And you wanted to ensnare yourself in my spiderweb, hoping to strike me before I could do the same to you. Is that it?"

My throat was dry, but I lifted my chin. "Yes."

I heard him sigh. "Never, Christine, ever do something so reckless again. I'd thought you were more intelligent than that."

I clamped down on the bubbling shame.

"Of course, I don't blame you for suspecting me. That, I do understand. Of course you would - a reclusive voice in the night, unseen and rarely heard. Why would I have expected you would think anything less?"

I brought my eyes to his. There was a bit of pain there. "Erik, I-"

"I mean it. I would have suspected myself too. And, to be truthful, I have killed before."

I felt a blast of ice pass through my chest. I stared at him.

"It was when I was very young. A necessity, to stay alive. I've not killed since - but that matters little. Not when I look like I do. Not when I live where I live. Keep the mask on, and people are uneasy. Take it off, and I am branded a monster. Live aboveground, and I am chased from every space I claim; live belowground, and I am transformed into a ghost. Damned either way, it seems."

My coffee, though sweet, tasted bitter. I cleared my throat. "You have to understand-"

"I do understand. Perfectly. And I mean no sarcasm in that - I can genuinely say that your perception of me had been a logical one. The fact that the killer was caught is only mere luck - it's only because of a stroke of fortune that this perception was challenged, only because of your obvious curiosity that you continued wanting to know me. I understand."

And that only made me feel worse. Of course it did.

"Come," he said then, "it's time to return you to the surface." He stood and offered me his hand, but didn't look at me.

I put my coffee on the table and took his gloved fingers. "Will I return tomorrow?"

He didn't respond right away. Once I was standing, he let go of my hand. He began walking toward the foyer, and I followed behind, feeling like my heart was sinking deep into my core.

Finally, he said, weariness in the tone, "Yes, Christine."


Again, the walk from the theatre to Jules's apartment was silent. But it wasn't because Jules didn't want to talk. He still didn't, of course, but it was now because I was feeling quite wretched. I'd lied to both men. And I was still lying to Madame about my whereabouts. To Meg.

Clouds had rolled to cover the sky, and by the time we made it to his apartment, it was quite dreary, dark out. He unlocked his door, and like clockwork, he went to his armchair to read, while I met Annette Bernard in the kitchen for tea.

"Oh, Christine! You and Jules are back." She smiled gaily at me, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. "I hope you like financiers."

"You're baking." I walked in to investigate. Indeed, I spotted the oven on and smelled the vague scent of almond.

"Oh, I love baking! Do you ever bake?"

"Not much. I also don't cook much either, though I suppose I ought to learn. The Girys do most of the cooking."

"Ah, yes. Cooking isn't a passion of mine, but there's something about making pastries - I suppose it's a bit like painting with food. Come. Let's sit. I have the tea ready now, and the financiers should be finished within the next ten minutes. If Madame Giry is here by then, perhaps she would like one, as well!"

Jules, then, popped his head into the kitchen. "Did you say financiers?"

"I did, love."

He smiled. "Please let me know, too, when they are done."

"Of course."

Jules went back to his chair, and Annette and I sat at the small kitchen table. She poured us both tea, and as ever, she asked what I'd learned. I told her, as best I could, what Erik had told me. And as she always did, she attempted to emulate what I passed on to her. Head high. Sing from the core, not the throat or even chest. Breathe into the diaphragm. She sang, right there in that seat.

Quite badly. But I kept my mouth shut. I doubted I sounded much better.

The financiers finished. Jules came in to collect his, followed by three of their children. They slunk off with their pastries back to the rest of the house. Annette and I collected ours as well and ate them with our tea.

And we talked, moving from the topic of my lessons to painting - her own passion. Upon finishing the pastries and tea, she asked me if I wanted to see some of the paintings I hadn't yet had the pleasure of looking at.

"Of course, Madame."

She smiled and led me to her painting room. She showed me works that depicted flowers, domestic scenes, foods, and city life. I looked closely at each, genuinely amazed at the detail of each.

And when we went back to the kitchen, when I looked at the clock on the wall, I started.

Oh. Madame was late. By half an hour. This was especially troubling because she was normally extremely prompt.

I put the thought aside. Any manner of thing could be holding her up.

But when it turned into an hour, and then two, Jules asked me if I wanted him to escort me home himself. I frowned and nodded. I would need to eat something quick - something more than just pastries - if I was to go to rehearsal in a couple of hours.

I wondered what was keeping Madame.

Outside, the clouds had darkened the sky exponentially, and again the walk was silent. I had quickened my pace, becoming more worried with every step. Jules had to move his feet with more vigor to keep up.

At last at my apartment, I put the key in the lock. Jules cleared his throat behind me. "May I go, Mademoiselle Daae?"

I turned to him, wanting to tell him that I didn't need to dismiss him. "Yes, Jules. Thank you for taking me home."

And he did go. I went inside.

"Madame?" I called. "Meg?" No one responded.

Perhaps they were shopping. Strange of Madame to forget where I was.

The thought didn't slow my heart, though. I merely took a deep breath and went to the kitchen area and-

A sheet of paper on the table caught my eye. I saw Madame's handwriting, and let out of breath of relief. Good. She was letting me know where she was.

I read:

Christine-

The killer remains free.

If you are reading this, it means I did not make it in time to warn you.

Do not stay here. It is not safe.

Meg is protected. I cannot write her location.

Go back to where you were, and don't come back here unless I retrieve you.

Do not, under any circumstances, go to rehearsal.

My ears roared.

And as I hadn't turned on any lights - merely reading the note with what little light was shining through the windows - I was suddenly quite frightened to turn around.

I wasn't safe here. She wanted me to leave and not come back.

I didn't want to look up. I didn't want to move. I had the vague feeling of...something. Something being in the apartment with me. Though there was no movement, no sound. Only my heavy breathing.

The Christine who'd been so brave in tracking down Erik - that Christine was not here. Because now there was a real threat. A threat that had the upper hand, for I was completely caught off guard. And a mysterious threat at that, for Madame to be so vague, so hasty. For her and Meg to have fled.

I forced myself to get my bearings. To remember the Christine who'd been ready to let fists fly with a murderer in the dressing room, in the dark hallways behind the mirror.

I took a deep shuddering breath, counted to three, and bolted for the door, taking the note with me.

Go back to where you were, she'd instructed.

I ran after Jules as fast as my feet could carry me.