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Chapter 44

Christine

Our voices mingled together, creating dancing ribbons of sound in the air, intertwining and overlapping. Mine, I knew, was nothing special. But his - his was colored black and gold and silver and white. Shining, unmarred, a thing of absolute beauty.

The song ended, and the barest sliver of an echo remained in the air. Or perhaps it was the shadow of memory left behind by his voice, staying with me.

He smiled in real delight, sitting there at the piano. "That was beautiful, Christine."

I scoffed but smiled as well; I leaned against the instrument. "Perhaps, but no thanks to me."

He turned to me, looking as though he were ready to scold. "I think I'm a better teacher than what you're implying." He stood from the piano bench. "Your voice is good, Christine. Better than you think. Better than it was when we first met, definitely."

"Due to your expert instruction, of course."

"Of course." He grinned again. He was smiling so much lately. Nearly every time we talked, he seemed to be finding joy in something - and I took joy in that itself. The morning after I proclaimed him to be sent by my father, I'd almost expected to wake up regretting it, feeling like a fool for it. But it hadn't gone away. In fact, when he'd played again, it only solidified, calcified that idea in my mind. He cleared his throat. "Care for coffee, my dear?"

"Definitely." I nodded and went to the couch. "That sounds lovely."

"Excellent. Stay here; I'll be back."

I sat, bringing my hands to my side, palms on the soft cushions of the seat. Looking around this room - at the elegant and dark furnishings, the stone walls with electric lamps illuminating the space, the large red rug under the grand piano - I never thought I'd consider this place like a home. But I did. I was rapidly thinking of Erik's house as a place I wouldn't mind staying in long-term, a place that was profoundly comfortable to me.

I think, when Madame Giry was found, when Buquet was behind bars, I would visit much more often, and for quite a bit longer each time, than I did before.

My grip on the cushion tightened. Buquet. I'd never hurt anyone before, but-

Erik returned, two cups of coffee in his hands. He seemed to balance them effortlessly, not even glancing down at the coffee as he walked. As for me, I had to be consciously steady if I was transporting any sort of liquid from one place to another. I'd spilled far too many times to be careless about it.

I noticed, as he walked, that Ayesha was circling his ankles. I smirked at the little cat - she was lukewarm to the extreme with me, but absolutely obsessed with Erik. It was, in a way, completely adorable.

"Here you are, my dear," he said, and handed me my cup. Milk and sugar - perfectly mixed into the coffee. I sipped at it as he sat next to me, Ayesha jumping onto the couch's arm beside him. In the silence, my previous thoughts returned - the anger I'd felt bubbling hot at that crewmember.

"If it turns out," I murmured, "that Buquet has hurt Madame Giry, I think...I will kill him."

I started at my own words, at the extremity of it, but quickly decided that they were true. I didn't look at Erik, but I could feel him staring intently at me. Analyzing.

"Do you mean that?" he asked.

I paused, then nodded. "Yes. I do." I had no idea how, but it would take very much for me to refrain from hurting him if I was given the chance.

He looked away and took a very long drink of his coffee. I wondered vaguely if he was negatively judging me. I couldn't tell, and somehow I didn't have the nerve to check his eyes for emotion.

"Do what you must, Christine," he said then, "but I will warn you that killing is not as gratifying as it seems. Not after it is done, anyway."

Memory of him saying he'd killed once before, as a boy, came crashing back into my mind, and my gaze finally darted to him. He was sitting up straight, staring into his cup. Though his expression wasn't clear through the mask, I could see a frown. A dullness to his eyes. I swallowed.

"You never did tell me," I said, "what happened."

He inhaled deeply, moving his head back a bit. "Who I killed, you mean?"

"Yes." I wanted to know. Erik had always been surprisingly gentle. To picture him murdering was almost out-of-character. It would have taken someone truly malicious to awaken violence in him.

A long pause, then: "All right. I'll tell you. Since we've decided honesty is the best policy, yes?" He finally looked at me, and I nodded. He did the same and placed the coffee on the table in front of him. "When I was a boy, I ran away from an abusive and neglectful mother and landed in a circus. I didn't want to land there, but the ringleader caught me stealing bread from his caravan, ripped my mask off, and decided that I would be an excellent showpiece."

Nausea roiled in my stomach at the thought. I didn't respond - merely felt my face lose some of its color.

He continued, "I was trapped there for three or four difficult, lonely years - in a cage on wheels, like an animal on display, with the words The Living Corpse carved into the wood in red above the bars that held me. I was made to rise from a coffin in that cage, making lilies around me sing, for an audience of hundreds. Every night - sick or tired or sad, it didn't matter. I had to perform." He grimaced. "One day, he took me out of the cage and attempted to...to hurt me. In the worst way someone could hurt a child. In my fear and anger, I found a nearby rope and strangled him to death, leaving my cage and coffin behind." He looked away, and his eyes were faraway, staring at those memories. "I sleep in a coffin even now." His lips went thin. "That last part was something I never meant to tell you. It slipped out. I apologize - I doubt that's something you wish to know about me."

My tongue was dry. "You sleep in a coffin, Erik?" That could very well be true. I'd never seen his bedroom. It was always closed, and I'd never had reason to go in there. Even if I needed something from him in the morning or night, he was nearly always in bed after me and awake before me.

"I do." His voice lacked any sort of emotion, but his hands had gone taut at his side.

I reached for one of them. Took it in mine. He inhaled sharply and brought his eyes back to mine.

"Why do you sleep in a coffin?" I asked.

"It's fitting. My appearance..." He trailed off, then added. "Besides, before you, the only person who was likely to check on me was Jules - and I thought it helpful to ensure that my body, should I suddenly die, was already inside of or close to a coffin. All he'd need to do was drop me into the lake."

My lips parted involuntarily, the horror and loneliness of that sentiment bearing down on me with such ferocity that I felt tears threaten to form in my eyes. But instead of sitting there and crying from sympathy, I put my own cup on the coffee table and turned to him fully. I wrapped my arms around him, just as I'd done upon deeming him the Angel of Music.

This time, he didn't need to be told to embrace me, though his arms did quiver and he did take a few seconds to recover from shock. Though his grip was comfortingly tight, though it was clear he needed the hug as much as I wanted to give it, it didn't stop the bitterness in his voice as he said, "Don't pity me, Christine. It's worse than fear."

"I don't," I gasped, emotion burning my lungs. "I don't. I'd wear a mask with you in...solidarity. If you want."

He took in my words, and then I felt him shake with light laughter. "No. That won't be necessary." His body was less tense, now.

But I wanted to. I actually did.

"There's a masquerade ball coming up soon, I believe in a week, at the Opera." I said, remembering conversations heard while Erik and I were ghosting through the theatre. I remained in his arms as I spoke. "I think...and you can say no, of course...that it would be the perfect outing, because you already wear a mask, and I could easily hide my identity."

We didn't separate, but even while I couldn't see his eyes, I could practically feel his mind buzzing. Thinking.