She could not believe she had been so bold as to embrace him like that. What was she thinking? As soon as she realized what she was doing, she had released him and turned away, hoping he could not see the mortification written all over her face. Luckily Erik did not bring up the subject of her rather improper behaviour again while they were having dinner or during her singing lesson, although he did seem a little more distant and stiff than usual.
She was just so excited when he offered her the use of his library that she could not think of any other way to express her gratitude. At least, that is what she believed that warm current flowing through her body to be. Gratitude. Nothing more.
Ever since she was a little girl, Christine had loved stories. Lying in her bed at night, when her father tucked her in, she would always beg and plead for just one more story, until her father relented (which he did almost every time, because he loved telling stories just as much as Christine loved listening to them).
When she was a little older and had learned how to read, she would devour any book she could get her hands on. It did not matter that there were not all that many of them to be found around the house. When she was finished, she would simply reread them until she could quote them from memory.
It broke her little heart that they could not take their books with them when they moved to France, but she understood why. Strictly speaking they did not need them, and it would not be practical to drag them along everywhere they went. Yet there was one book she could never part with: the fairy tale book her mother had given her as a birthday present a few months before she had passed away. It was such a precious gift, and one of the few mementoes she had of her mother. She begged her father to let her keep it, swearing that she would always carry it herself, in her own satchel. Seeing the utterly earnest expression on her little face and knowing how much it meant to her, he simply could not say no.
Over the years, she had read that book more times than she cared to admit, especially when she felt sad or when she missed her mother. It would always be her favourite, offering her a kind of comfort that no other book could, but now that the chance to explore entirely new, unknown stories presented itself, the temptation was impossible to resist.
The knowledge that she now had a whole room full of books at her disposal was overwhelming, almost too much to fathom. Not quite knowing where to start when she went back to the library the next day, she made her way to the section of Swedish books Erik had pointed out to her and picked up the first one her eyes landed on, settling down in one of the plush velvet chairs by the window to read.
From that moment on, she spent several hours a day in that very chair, immersing herself in the worlds contained within those hundreds of thousands of pages surrounding her. She tried to memorize the books she read as accurately as possible, so she could recount them to her father on her visits to the hospital.
Her second visit had gone by in a pretty similar way to the first one. Her father remained asleep the entire time, but Christine talked to him for two hours straight, hoping that he might hear her and that her presence might bring him some comfort. Afterwards, she encountered Raoul on her way out, who enquired politely after her father's health and her own well-being before excusing himself to assist his brother on his rounds, telling her he hoped to see her again soon.
On her third visit she was not quite as talkative. She had not slept much the night before and was feeling rather tired. It had been a very stormy night, and the sound of the wind beating against the shutters in front of her window had kept her awake most of the night. She felt herself dozing off to sleep when suddenly there was a knock on the door and Raoul entered.
"I am so sorry, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said as he saw her drowsily blink her eyes open, "I did not mean to wake you."
"It's quite alright, monsieur. I did not mean to fall asleep in the first place," she answered with an embarrassed smile.
"Please, call me Raoul."
"In that case, you may call me Christine. Please, take a seat." She gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the small room.
"Oh, I do not wish to intrude. I simply wanted to see if there was anything you might need," he explained.
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you, and you are not intruding. My father is not much of a conversationalist these days." She gazed sadly at his motionless form on the bed.
"I'm sorry," Raoul said as he accepted her invitation and sat down. "I'm sure you will get an opportunity to talk to him soon. The nurses tell me he is awake a little longer every day. And his cough is getting better as well."
"That's great news," Christine said, relieved to hear her father seemed to be making progress, no matter how slowly.
"This must all be very distressing for you. If you don't mind my asking, do you have any other family members you can turn to for support?" Raoul asked with a compassionate look.
"No, I do not, sadly enough. It has been just me and my father for a very long time now. I don't know what I would do without him." She tried to blink away the tears forming in her eyes. She did not want to cry in front of Raoul.
"I understand. Please know that we are doing everything in our power to help him make a full recovery."
"I know, and I'm very grateful. It means so much to me to know that he receives such good care here."
"Well, we're only doing our job," Raoul said modestly, but the excited gleam in his eyes told her it was more than simply a job to him. He clearly loved looking after people.
"Have you always wanted to be a doctor, if I may ask?"
"Yes, you could say that I have. Ever since I was little, I've wanted to do whatever I could to help other people, or any living creature, really. Although I must admit my parents did not always seem too happy about that, especially when I insisted on bringing home every injured bird or stray cat I encountered," he said, grinning widely. Christine could not help smiling too at the endearing image.
"And then when my brother started studying medicine, I decided that that was what I would do too. I wanted to be exactly like him. He was – and still is – my hero."
"Well, I think helping people the way you do here is a very noble goal. Your patients are lucky to have you. You and your brother both."
Their friendly conversation was interrupted by Gustave's coughing. Christine looked over at him, expecting her father to sleep on peacefully after the bout of coughing had passed, as he had done on previous occasions, but this time he opened his eyes. He looked around the room, confused, as if he were trying to remember where he was, until his eyes landed on Christine. He had to clear his throat and swallow a few times before he was able to speak.
"Christine? Is that really you?"
"Papa!" she exclaimed as she rushed to his side, helping him to sit up. As soon as she was sure he was comfortable, she threw her arms around his neck. "Papa, I'm so glad you're awake," she murmured, her face buried against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.
"Oh my child, you have no idea how happy I am to finally see you again."
His breathing was still laboured, but Christine was glad to notice that he was able to form full sentences without coughing.
Raoul excused himself and quietly left the room, leaving father and daughter to their happy reunion.
Over the next hour, after Christine had reassured her father multiple times that she was perfectly fine, she filled him in on everything that had happened at Erik's estate over the past few weeks. Her father was still somewhat sceptical about her staying with this mysterious masked man, who he remembered as being very rude and insensitive, but he seemed to relent when she told him how great a music teacher he was and how he was making an effort to be friendly towards her.
"He really is not so bad, papa, once you get to know him. In fact, he can be very thoughtful, if he wants to."
"Well, you have always had a tendency to see the best in people. And if he is treating you well, as you say, I suppose he can't be that terrible," Gustave admitted reluctantly.
Time flew, and before Christine knew it, it was time for her to leave again. Planting one last kiss on her father's forehead, she promised she would be back next week. She walked out of the hospital feeling as if she were floating. She was barely aware of the chill in the early autumn air as she made her way to the carriage, where Madame Giry was waiting for her.
However, when the carriage got stuck in the mud before they were halfway to the estate and they had to wait outside for half an hour while the coachman went to fetch help, Christine started regretting her decision to go out without a cloak or shawl. By the time they had reached the house, she had still not managed to get warm again. She hurried inside, looking forward to warming herself by the fire in the sitting room.
She was surprised to see Erik there, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap, although he seemed to have abandoned his reading in favour of staring absentmindedly into the fire.
"Oh, my apologies, I do not wish to intrude. I did not expect to find you here." He was usually either in his study or in the music room this time of day.
His head snapped up when she spoke. He must have been so deep in thought he had not even heard her come in.
"It's quite alright. I must have lost track of time," he said a little dazedly. "I can leave if you prefer."
"No, that's fine," she assured him. "You need not leave on my account. I just wanted to sit by the fire for a while to get warm. It is rather cold outside."
"Well, by all means." He gestured toward the fireplace and she gratefully sank down on her knees in front of it, stretching out her hands towards the welcoming warmth of the flames.
"How is your father?" Erik asked, closing his book and putting it on the table next to the couch.
"Good, actually. He woke up while I was there. I was finally able to talk to him," she said excitedly. She did not know what kind of reaction to expect from Erik – he was hardly the kind of man to openly show enthusiasm or excitement at such news – but she was rather confused by his stiff posture and cold tone as he replied.
"Ah, he's on his way to recovery then? Good. You must be very impatient for him to get well so you can finally reclaim your freedom and be out of here."
Christine did not reply, keeping her gaze on the fire in front of her. How was she supposed to respond to that? Of course she was impatient for her father to get well, that was the whole point of her being here, was it not?
Yet she had not really given much thought to what would happen when her father was able to leave the hospital. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit that she had come to enjoy herself here. Her days spent with Jean in the garden, or reading in the library, her evenings with Erik in the music room… Suddenly the prospect of travelling from town to town again without a home to return to did not seem so appealing anymore.
Her father was not getting any younger either. What if he fell ill again and this time there was no one they could turn to for help? But what else were they supposed to do?
Erik must have thought her silence meant that his assumption was correct. He muttered something she could not understand, stood up and left the room without another word.
When Christine had finally regained some feeling in her chilled fingers, she got up from the floor and went up to her bedroom. It was almost time for dinner, but she was not looking forward to spending the rest of the evening with Erik, afraid that her silence had somehow offended him. She decided to lie down on her bed for a while before changing. It had been a long day, and her lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to her.
She must have once again drifted off to sleep without meaning to. When she opened her eyes again, the clock on her bedside table told her she had missed dinner and was most likely late to her singing lesson. She decided not to change her clothes, sparing no thought for her no doubt rumpled dress and sleep-tousled hair, but hurried down the stairs and made her way to the music room as fast as she could. Hopefully Erik would understand. She had no desire to upset him any further.
When she entered the hallway that would lead her to the music room, she paused. The sound of Erik playing the piano drifted across the corridor. Soon any hope she might have felt that he would not be angry evaporated.
The music he was playing was unlike anything she had ever heard. Fury and outrage sounded in every note. It made her want to turn around and keep running until she did not have to hear it any more. Yet there was something in that music that compelled her to listen, no matter how violent and hateful its sound. It was music that held a certain power over its audience, music which could only have been written by a brilliant composer.
Right before she opened the door, she heard a deafening roar, which she assumed must have come from Erik, followed by a loud crash. Upon entering the music room, she saw all of Erik's sheet music scattered around the floor. The crash must have come from the music stand, which had been thrown down as well.
Erik was standing by the piano, his back turned towards her. As soon as he heard her enter, he spun around to face her.
She had witnessed his outbursts before, but she had never seen him like this. Whereas he had been impeccably dressed every time she had seen him, he now looked dishevelled. He had taken off his jacket and carelessly discarded it on the floor, his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, and his cravat was hanging loosely around his neck. His hair looked messy, as if he had been repeatedly running his hands through it, and he was breathing heavily, chest heaving, eyes burning with such uncontrolled anger that for the first time since she had arrived here, she was truly scared of him.
"What?" he bit out when he saw her staring at him. His thunderous voice echoed around the room, as it had done that first night, and she had to bite back a frightened whimper.
"I - I'm sorry," she finally managed to say, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm so sorry for missing dinner, and for being late. I fell asleep in my room. I did not mean to, I swear, it just happened."
Erik hardly acknowledged her stumbling apology. He merely stared at her, and she could almost feel his livid gaze burning through her. She looked around, desperately trying to think of something she could do to make it up to him, when her eyes landed on the mess of papers on the floor. She fell to her knees and started picking them up.
"Stop that," he ordered, but she disregarded his command and went on gathering papers. She needed something to do, something to focus on other than his searing gaze.
"For God's sake, woman, stop!" he roared. This time she froze, her eyes on the floor, not daring to look at him.
After a silence which seemed to last an eternity, he said in a slightly calmer tone: "It is my mess. I will clean it up."
Christine stayed where she was, afraid to move. Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw his hand move towards her.
"Please, stand up."
At last she looked at him. Seeing that the raging fire in his strange yellow eyes had been reduced to a glowing ember, she slowly reached out and took his outstretched hand, letting him pull her to her feet.
Maybe she stood up too quickly, for she suddenly felt quite lightheaded. She swayed a little on her feet and thought for a moment that she might fall, but luckily Erik caught her and was able to steady her before she hit the ground. He held her by her elbows, making sure that she would not fall over again. She could feel the icy coldness of his hands through the sleeves of her dress.
"Are you alright?" Erik asked, looking genuinely worried. His rage now seemed to have disappeared altogether, like snow in the sun. "You do not look too well."
"I'm fine, just tired," she replied. Erik did not look entirely convinced. He seemed to realize then that he was still holding her and slowly withdrew his hands. Strangely enough she caught herself wishing that he had held on a little longer. As furious as he had been mere moments before, his steadying touch had not felt threatening at all.
"Erik, I really did not mean to be late. Our lessons are very important to me. I would never intentionally stay away."
"I know, I believe you," he said and a wave of relief washed over her. "You should get some more rest. You look tired. Let me accompany you to your room. I would not want you to fall down the stairs on your way up."
As she was still feeling a little faint, she gladly accepted, walking up the stairs with him in silence. When they reached the door to her bedroom, he turned towards her. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if there was something he wanted to say, but he could not find the right words. Eventually he said: "Christine, I owe you an apology. You must believe that my anger was not directed at you, and I am truly sorry that you had to witness that. I promise I will do better in the future."
She desperately wanted to ask why he had been so angry then, if it was not because of her, but she supposed that if he wanted her to know, he would tell her, and if he did not… Well, then it was probably none of her business and she had better stay out of it.
"Thank you," was all she said. She bid him goodnight and went into her bedroom, quickly closing the door behind her.
On any other night, she would have been unable to sleep, going over what had happened in her head over and over, trying to make sense of it, but tonight she was simply too exhausted. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was fast asleep.