Hello again! I had such a burst of creativity after the last chapter, I just had to write another one. I'm so glad that people seemed to like it. I appreciate your reviews greatly. Please read and tell me what you think!
Eriks's day was perfectly fine. Well, as fine as a day might be for a recluse who had terrible sleeping habits. He picked up his extremely bitter cup of tea, mulling over the rather boring newspaper. The curtains were drawn tight, allowing no one to see in, or out of the room.
In the early morning, though it was not so early now, he felt unable to get a thing done. A stack of papers was growing on his desk, no doubt letters and commissions from those who desired his musical talent. He was smug.
So there he sat in the chair, the muffled sounds of a luncheon being prepared. It felt like a terrible disturbance to hear the occasional clatter of plates, the wheeling of a cart, or other such things. Although, he couldn't just fire his entire staff for a minor slipup.
Erik had just begun to read an interesting section entitled "Trade in the English Channel", when the dashed doorbell rang! He could have jumped out of his chair in fright. Whoever would be calling at this hour? His brain was a flurry. He ran to his desk, checking his relatively small list of things he had to do. Nothing for eleven o'clock!
He knew not to work himself up. It could be a volunteer or a charity collector. That thought didn't assuage his nerves. Besides, he was in his study, and M. Giry would handle it. That's why he hired her as the Housekeeper. She would turn away anyone he hadn't given express permission to let in. He paced.
He heard a bit of talking, discernible even for him- and it just kept going and going and going. Oh yes, he was going to be sick. Was that Amir? And by George, who were they talking to? He couldn't take the suspense. Erik was almost ready to retreat to the basement and not deal with whatever was going on out there.
"M. Laurent?" The voice of M. Giry startled him out of his stupor. Too late to go to the basement.
"What is it?" he yelled back.
"There's a girl outside- she says that she wants to see you." A girl? "She asked for you by name, sir." By name? However could she have heard my name?
"No."
"She's rather insistent."
"No." Though his tone was calm, his heart was beating ghastly fast.
"Erik! I am sure you would like to meet her." Chimed in the voice of Amir. Was he snickering at him?
"I'm sure?"
"Now that's the spirit." No, no no no no! He rushed to his life-sized replica of a human head and quickly affixed the black wig and full mask to his face. Just in time too, as the door was swinging open. To reveal- that pesky flower girl!
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Madame Giry was rather adept at anything she did, but one of her strongest suits was organization and leadership, which made her the perfect person to run this spotless household. She had known Erik since a little after her dear Meg's birth.
Right now, the chef was in the middle of preparing food for the midday meal. Most often, it seemed to be the only one M. Laurent ate, so she always made it count. A few maids were setting the table for him and his guest, M. Ahmadi. The 'doom and gloom' of the household seemed to not quite disappear, but rather have one of its layers stripped away whenever he visited. It was refreshing.
She began to tidy up the guest bedroom, stripping the sheets, fluffing the pillows, and taking out the small trash bin. She found the rote, mechanical movements of cleaning relaxing, but not strenuous. Before she had been promoted to the lead maid, M. Giry had to clean the floors, which was terrible for her back. She suspected it caused some of the pain she had to deal with, even now.
After the bedroom had been sufficiently tidied, she went back downstairs to observe the work of the other maids and made sure they were following her specific instruction. That was when the doorbell rang. M. Giry was momentarily startled. The post wasn't scheduled to come until two, and even on the days it came early, it is never more than an hour.
She pulled the schedule out of her pocket, just to be sure, but nothing was even close to the eleven o'clock spot.
Either they had a new record, or someone else was ringing the doorbell. She hurried down the stairs, careful not to trip on her full-length mourning skirt. It was nothing she couldn't deal with.
M. Giry peaked through the tiny hole in the door and saw a blonde-haired girl in a wide-brimmed, flower-adorned hat and grime on her face. She looked harmless enough. She opened the door. The girl looked up at her.
"Hello miss, what can I do for you today?" She was expecting a pleading for donations to a chosen charity or to be yelled at by a madwoman. Her first impression was that she was not any of these things. The girl continued to walk into the foyer, obviously unaccustomed to societal norms.
"Better not go any further." She said, hastily. She knew just how much Erik hated unexpected visitors. What the young woman said next wholly surprised her.
"Can I see M. Laurent?" If she had been walking, her legs would have undoubtedly stumbled. No charity girl would know the name of her employer. He had it taken out of all address books. M. Giry regained her composure in a heartbeat.
"I am afraid M. Laurent is busy." The girl squinted at her. It was strangely threatening.
"It's 'urgent,"
"I can take a message." She said, knowing that she definitely wouldn't.
"I know 'hat look! My papa gives it to me when 'e won't do somthin'." the girl pointed at her. "You gotta take me to 'im."
"Now, pray tell, miss, would you want to meet him?"
"It's of a personal nature." she threw imitation mink around her shoulders in an imitation of impatient upper-class ladies. Of that, she was not.
"Of a personal nature?" she asked incredulously. What would Erik have to do with her?
"Yes. Or 'ould you get M. Ahmadi? I 'ould convince 'im to meet with 'is friend." What the girl knew was starting to be unsettling. What did Erik tell this girl about himself?
"What did you say your name was, miss?" the women sniffed.
"Christine Daae, 'lease get me, M. Laurent."
"Now, what is all this commotion?" Amir walked into the room and looked at the unwelcome guest. "I heard my name and I had to come to see what this was all about."
"Would you be able to tell me who this is, M. Ahmadi?" he looked at her closely, as though sorting through possibilities.
"I believe she is a flower seller near the Paris Opera. She attempted to sell me flowers last night. She and Erik got into a bit of an argument." The latter bit didn't surprise her. Erik was prone to picking fights. What shocked her the most was that the girl, Christine, had come here after the argument.
"Any clue what it could be about?" She said, mostly to Amir, but it was Christine that answered.
"Well, M. Laurent said that 'e 'ould make me into a great lady." She turned to Amir, her gaze suffocating. He seemed vaguely uncomfortable.
"Well, yes, he did say that."
"Aha!" Christine cried. "You 'ave to let me see 'im."
"But I'm sure he wasn't expecting you to follow up. After all, he never did give you a way to contact him."
"A lady never reveals her ways." She crossed her arms.
"Well, Ms. Daae, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to let her in." Amir was always looking to jest with Erik. M. Giry was certain it would give her employer a heart attack one of these days.
"Really?" Christine's face lit up like a lightbulb.
"No!" the two turned to face her, "I can't lose my job!"
"I'll take the blame."
"All right, oh well. If I do get fired, by George, you have to pay me to sit around all day."
"Fine."
"M. Laurent?" she raised her voice.
"What is it?" Erik's voice sounded startled. Poor man.
"There's a girl outside- she says that she wants to see you." she paused, waiting for it to sink in, "She asked for you by name, sir."
"No." Christine's face fell.
"She's rather insistent." By then, Amir could barely contain his laughter.
"No." his voice was unyielding.
"Erik! I am sure you would like to meet her." Amir squeaked out. Apparently, he thought this was funny.
"I'm sure?" She could picture his confusion from here. She sure hoped he had put on a mask.
"Now that's the spirit," said Amir. M. Giry had to laugh a bit at that. She addressed Christine.
"Well, you can go in now if you would like. Would you mind if we joined you in the study?" She was dying to know how this world unfurl.
"Surely, M…"
"Madame Giry." she motioned to the door down the hallway. "That's the study."
Christine walked down the hallway, M. Giry and M. Ahmadi trailing close behind her. If she could have seen Erik's expression, she was sure it would have been priceless beneath the mask.
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When Christine awoke, her joints were stiff, and her stomach was rumbling. She soothed it by eating a bowl of the gruel she had for dinner.
"Papa?" She shook him awake this time, worried if he slept any longer he would not wake up. "Papa?" she said a smidgen louder. His eyes opened.
"Good morning, Papa." The two always spoke in their native Swedish when around each other. It was simple and practical.
"Is it already that?" His voice was dry and brittle. He needed water. She handed him her flask.
"Yes, it is."
"How was your day, sweetheart?" it broke her heart to see him like this, weak and in bed.
"Oh, fine." How would she tell her father about the lessons?
"Sell a lot of flowers?"
"Of course, Papa." His hand patted her's.
"Good, good." Christine decided she would just go for it.
"I'm going to take lessons now, to teach me how to speak better in French." His eyes went wide.
"How will you pay?"
"I must have enough money saved up, now. Then we can finally get out of the shack." ...and get you help.
"That sounds wonderful."
"It really does." A tear ran down her cheek just thinking about how great life could be for them. She might even own a flower shop by the time this was through. "I leave today."
"Today? Then who will look after me? You know that you do it best." She laughed weakly.
"M. Valruis will check on you two times a day, make sure you are eating and cared for." Christine knew the lady would check on him more than that. She was always so compassionate.
"I will miss you, Christine."
"As will I, Papa." She dunked a rag in the water bucket and washed the dirt off her face and hands. Christine put her hat back on and pulled her coat on.
Before she could change her mind, she was off into the world, ready to start a new adventure. She passed loads of shops, clothing shops to be exact. Christine went into the alleys behind them to search for moth-eaten clothing the boutiques had thrown out. She found what she was looking for. An imitation mink scarf.
He was bound to accept her for lessons if she wore mink. Or at least something that looked like it.
Christine knew she was going the right way. She was walking down Wimpole street but had to check just to be sure.
"Madame, 'ould ya tell me if I be goin' the right way to 27a Wimpole street?" The woman she addressed nodded slowly and pointed.
"I believe you are going the right way."
"Thank ya, Madame." The lady stared after her, most likely impressed by her mink.
Christine walked down the street briskly, but felt as though she was swimming upstream. The shopping district was in the opposite direction.
Finally, she got to a row of townhouses that went down in number enough to suggest that she was nearing her destination. Each house was on a large lot, but wedged between two other houses of vaguely the same build.
One house was different from the rest, though. Where other houses had light brick, this had dark. Its door also had red stained glass, instead of a multitude of colors. It gave the appearance of a pool of blood on the ground. It was imposing. M. Laurent must have a flair for the morbid and dramatic. A man could appeal to strange fancies when they were wealthy.
If Christine were wealthy, she was sure she'd have an aviary of rare birds.
Steeling her resolve, she approached the door as the bells of the churches chimed eleven. Taking a deep breath, she rang the bell on the door and waited. A house like this would have housekeeping staff, so she wasn't expecting to see him right away.
The seconds ticked by as she waited. It became clearer and clearer to her that no one would answer the door. She thought she could cry. She should have given them a time! Then they would know when to expect her. Maybe they thought she was coming tomorrow. Christine looked off to the side and her gaze settled on the barren flower garden.
The bushes must be so lovely in spring.
Finally, the door opened to reveal a stern-looking woman with a dark braid of hair behind her. For a moment she was worried that she would be chopped into a stew, but then the lady spoke.
"Hello miss, what can I do for you today?" Christine walked into the foyer of the house. It was marvelous! Still as dark as the outside, but it was lavish and entirely gorgeous. The rugs were oriental, and the whole room was decked with electric light, something she had only seen on the outside of the Opera. She was sure that her mouth was agape, but could not bring herself to care.
"Better not go any further." Christine flushed with embarrassment and stopped in her tracks. She was so excited she hadn't realized she had gotten so carried away.
"Can I see M. Laurent?" She cleared her throat. Straight and to the point. If the lady didn't understand her, it was the lady's problem. Said lady paled.
"I am afraid M. Laurent is busy." Christine narrowed her eyes. So he wasn't expecting her then? She couldn't quite believe what the woman was saying.
"It's 'urgent,"
"I can take a message." The woman looked at her kindly, but full of empty promise, and she wasn't promised a message. She was promised lessons.
"I know 'hat look! My papa gives it to me when 'e won't do something." She pointed at the woman, attempting to guilt her into taking her to him. "You gotta take me to 'im."
"Now, pray tell, miss, would you want to meet him?" What? Christine was starting to think that M. Laurent wouldn't give her lessons at all.
"It's of a personal nature." She threw her mink to disguise her unease.
"Of a personal nature?" the woman was obviously confused, but Christine was not defeated. She knew of one more person in the household.
"Yes. Or 'ould you get M. Ahmadi? I 'ould convince 'im to meet with 'is friend." Christine nodded her head eagerly, hoping to get through to the woman.
"What did you say your name was, miss?" She sniffed.
"Christine Daae, 'lease get me, M. Laurent." She set her mouth in a line.
"Now, what is all this commotion?" The man she had seen- M. Ahmadi was there to her rescue! "I heard my name and I had to come to see what this was all about."
"Would you be able to tell me who this is, M. Ahmadi?" he looked at Christine like he was attempting to remember her. Did he not remember her too? She liked to think herself rather memorable. If he didn't remember her, her life would be ruined.
"I believe she is a flower seller near the Paris Opera. She attempted to sell me flowers last night. She and Erik got into a bit of an argument." she was greatly relieved and could have smiled.
"Any clue what it could be about?" The lady asked M. Ahmadi, but Christine could tell she knew better than all of them in that regard.
"Well, M. Laurent said that 'e 'ould make me into a great lady." She turned to M. Ahmadi eagerly. He twitched.
"Well, yes, he did say that."
"Aha!" Christine cried. She had finally got them! "You 'ave to let me see 'im."
"But I'm sure he wasn't expecting you to follow up. After all, he never did give you a way to contact him." Christine could have clutched her heart. He wasn't expecting her? Brute. At least that cleared up confusion about why no one knew about her. M. Laurent hadn't told anyone!
"A lady never reveals her ways." She crossed her arms.
"Well, Ms. Daae, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to let you in." Finally, someone could see sense. She smiled brightly.
"Really?"
"No!" Christine looked at her, hoping she wouldn't protest any further. "I can't lose my job!"
"I'll take the blame."
"All right, oh well. If I do get fired, by George, you have to pay me to sit around all day."
"Fine."
"M. Laurent?" The woman spoke loudly in the direction of the hallway.
"What is it?" M. Laurent's voice was cutting like the glass from a broken beer bottle.
"There's a girl outside- she says that she wants to see you." she paused, waiting for it to sink in, "She asked for you by name, sir."
"No." of course he wouldn't want her. After all, she was just a poor street urchin. Or 'guttersnipe' as he called her yesterday.
"She's rather insistent." M. Ahmadi was- giggling?
"No." His voice, though pleasant, was pleasant in the way marble was to the eye. Cold, but carved just so to give the appearance of warmth.
"Erik! I am sure you would like to meet her." His voice might have gone up an entire octave.
"I'm sure?"
"Now that's the spirit," said M. Ahmadi. M. Giry wheezed.
"Well, you can go in now if you would like. Would you mind if we joined you in the study?" Odd request, but she really wasn't well versed in typical priority. Her Papa had taught her manners in order to get by. He also taught her how to be kind to others, but she suspected he never knew that she would be in a situation relatively close to this.
"Surely, M…" She had forgotten to ask her name! What type of imbecile was she?
"Madame Giry." she motioned to the door down the hallway. "That's the study." Christine gulped and walked down the short hallway. She took as long as she could, but it only succeeded in turning up the butterflies in her stomach to a ten. She could hardly remember that they were two people behind her with all of the blood pumping in her ears.
Christine grasped the handle and pulled it open to reveal a darkened study and a man in a mask.