Dancing with Christine had been a terrible mistake. He had known it from the moment he took her hand and felt that now familiar spark at the touch, yet he could not refuse her. Not when she was looking at him with such undisguised hope in her eyes. He wanted nothing more than to give her a perfect birthday, and if that could be achieved by dancing with her, then that was what he would do, even though he had never been properly taught and would most likely make a complete fool of himself.
Christine was so generous and patient with him, showing him where to place his hands – the fact that she would even allow his hands anywhere on her body was a small miracle – and letting him take the lead even if he had no idea what he was doing.
Fortunately he had it all figured out pretty quickly. It turned out that one of the most important factors in dancing was having a sense of rhythm, and as a musician and composer he certainly had that. All he needed to do was to listen to the music, feel it course through his body and let it lead him. Once he realized that, dancing became almost as easy as breathing.
He spun Christine across the dancefloor and she followed without hesitation. What he would not have given to keep living in that moment for eternity. With Christine in his arms he felt as if he had tasted all the happiness the world had to offer. Surely a wretched creature like him could not expect anything more from life.
Her eyes did not leave his for a single second. Even after the dance had ended, she did not look away, as if she were physically incapable of doing so. He took a moment to study her face. When his eyes landed on her mouth, he briefly considered kissing her, and that was when he knew he had to take a step back. Tonight had already exceeded all his expectations. He had to stop himself before he ruined it by asking for more. Her refusal – for refuse him she certainly would – would be like a knife to the heart, and he would forever resent himself for wanting what he could not have instead of being content with what she had already given him.
In a final moment of weakness, he allowed himself to take her hand one last time and let his lips brush over her delicate skin in a soft kiss before leaving the room. Maybe he should have said something, given her some kind of excuse for leaving so suddenly, but he was afraid of what he would do if he stayed around her much longer. Her presence was intoxicating, and if he consumed too much of that particular drug, he might lose himself completely.
For that same reason, Erik decided to stay out of sight the next day. He needed time to think, and he could not do that if she was around, clouding his senses. He locked himself in his study, determined to focus on business and the management of his estate, but his attempts turned out to be futile. No matter how long he stared at the papers in front of him, the words and numbers held no meaning. Instead, Christine's face would appear before his eyes and all he could think about was her radiant smile when she had seen all the Swedish food on the table and how stunning she had looked in the dress he had ordered for her and how sweet it had felt to hold her in his arms and how soft and inviting her lips had looked…
The most incredible part of it all was that not only had she not recoiled from his touch, she had even invited it! She had been the one to offer him her hand, she had placed his arm around her waist. He could not remember the last time anyone had allowed him to touch them, no matter how innocently, but Christine did not seem to feel any hesitation on that front. Her extraordinary kindness would never cease to amaze him.
Any thought of business matters had been all but forgotten by now. For the next hour or so he contemplated whether Christine might permit him to touch her more often from now on – in a strictly innocent manner, of course. He would give anything to feel that little spark again as his fingers made contact with her soft skin. Maybe he could offer to teach her to play the piano. That way he would have an excuse to take hold of her hands and let his own fingers rest gently on top of hers as he guided them over the keys. He felt a nervous flutter in his stomach even considering it.
He almost did not show up for Christine's singing lesson that night. Holding her so close had opened up a floodgate of emotions he was not even remotely ready for. He had spent so much time thinking about whether she would object to his touching her again, and if she did not, how and where and when it would be acceptable for him to do so, that he felt uneasy at the prospect of being close to her again, but when he saw her take her place by the music stand and smile at him, nodding that she was ready to begin, he was able to breathe more easily. This was just Christine. Gentle, gracious, kind-hearted Christine. There was no reason to be so anxious around her. He settled himself behind the piano and for the next few minutes lost himself in the joy of creating music with her.
As their lesson progressed, Erik began to notice that Christine seemed rather restless herself. He caught her glancing his way more often than usual, she was fidgeting with her hands and unsteady on her feet, and she appeared to be having trouble with her breath support. Halfway through the song she was already out of breath.
"Let us pause here for a moment," he suggested. "Is anything amiss? Are you worried about your father again? You seem a little preoccupied tonight."
"No, I'm fine," she assured him, "I just cannot seem to breathe properly."
"That's alright. Why don't you take a few deep breaths, and we will try again when you feel you are ready."
Christine followed his instructions obediently, but when she started singing again, she still struggled with the same problem.
"I think the root of the issue is your posture," Erik observed. "There is no way for you to breathe correctly if you are wriggling and squirming like that. Your feet need to be planted firmly on the ground."
As he explained this, he stood up from the piano stool and walked over to her so he could demonstrate what he meant. When he was face to face with her, only a few paces between them, most of her nervous fidgeting seemed to subside. He had the impression that the closer he came, the more she relaxed. He had no logical explanation for it, but if his proximity truly had such a calming effect on her, maybe it would allow him to take a more hands-on approach in helping her find the right posture.
He was close enough now to discern the subtle scent of her perfume, and that combined with the almost unbearable yearning to touch her which he had been feeling since last night made the impulse to reach out impossible to resist.
He went to stand behind her and lightly rested his hands on her shoulders, knowing full well what dangerous territory he was entering. The urge to touch her had simply grown too all-consuming. He could not deny it any longer.
"Relax," he breathed in her ear, softly rubbing her shoulders with his thumbs until the tension flowed out of her body. To his surprise, he felt her lean into his touch, her head falling backwards until it was resting against his shoulder, as if she were encouraging him. Was it possible that she wanted this to happen? Had she been thinking about last night too, yearning for his touch the same way he did for hers?
"Good girl," he whispered. He desperately tried to reign in the heady surge of longing as he heard her sharp intake of breath and felt her shiver beneath his hands, whether in response to his voice or his words, he did not know. It did not matter either way.
"Close your eyes." He marvelled silently at how she obeyed his every command without question. It was a far cry from her nervous hesitance during their first few lessons. They had come so far, and he knew he could ruin it all with the liberties he was taking, standing so close to her, touching her, yet as long as she did not tell him to stop he could not bring himself to walk away.
"Now focus on your breathing, but not from your chest. Breathe from here," he instructed as he slid his right hand over her stomach, keeping his touch light, yet firm enough for her to feel it. He felt her relax further as she took a few deep breaths.
"Very good. Now stand up straight, and tilt your chin a little higher." He brought his left hand up across her chest to her face, guiding her chin to the position he wanted, then, unable to resist, trailed his fingers down along her beautiful pale throat. For one brief moment he imagined what it would feel like to let his mouth follow that same path and feel the soft skin of her neck beneath his lips.
His self-control was slowly slipping through his fingers. He had to keep a better grip on himself, remind himself of who – or rather what – he was, and what was hidden behind his mask, before he did something irrevocably stupid. Music. He needed to focus on the music.
"Sing for me," he whispered. She opened her mouth and started singing, and he felt the air vibrate through her throat beneath his fingertips. She sounded marvellous, better than ever before. He had never felt so powerful as right now, knowing that it was his guidance that made her voice soar like this, yet at the same time so utterly powerless in the presence of this beautiful, kind, otherworldly being who could never belong to him. Standing here with his arms around her under the guise of correcting her posture was the closest he would ever get. She was his pupil, he reminded himself. She would never be anything more. He needed to put a stop to this now he still could.
"Good," he said as she finished the song. "Again."
He stepped back slowly as she began her reprise, careful not to make a sound as he made his way to the door. By the time the song was over and Christine opened her eyes, he was gone.
Two minutes later, Erik stormed into his room, loudly slamming the door closed behind him. He grunted in frustration as he banged his head against the wall. The mask caught most of the impact, but it hurt just enough to snap him out of his haze and bring him back to reality.
How could he have let this happen? How could he have behaved in such a wanton manner? He had been all but fondling the girl, and she, innocent and unaware of his depraved thoughts, had let his hands wander over her body as if he owned her. He had always known himself to be a monster, but he had never thought he could sink so low.
Yet how could he resist her? Yes, she was beautiful, but it was not only her body he was attracted to. He wanted all of her: her voice, her soul, her heart.
Why could he not be like any other man? If he had been a true gentleman, he would have simply agreed to help her when she asked that first night instead of manipulating her into staying with him. He would have offered to pay for her stay in an inn in town while her father recovered, and maybe then, when her father was well again, he could have asked his permission to court her properly.
But what use were all these what ifs? He was not a gentleman. He was a vile creature, hiding behind a mask, rotting away in the shadows of his dark and gloomy old house, where he belonged. He could never be worthy of someone like Christine, could never love her the way she deserved, and she would never care for him, certainly not if she ever found out what he had done, he knew that. But then why did he yearn for her so badly? Why could he not put her out of his head once and for all?
He could not go on like this, wanting so desperately to be near her, then indulging in her presence too much, like Icarus flying too close to the sun. So far, he had succeeded in catching himself right before he fell over the precipice, but if he kept doing this to himself, there would inevitably come a time when he would be too late to pull back, and he would fall into the abyss, dragging Christine with him.
That evening, for the first time since her arrival, he wished he had never met Christine Daaé.
The night that followed was a sleepless one. The thought that maybe his inappropriate behaviour had been the final straw that would make her decide to stay away from him altogether until she could rejoin her father kept him awake. Perhaps that would be the safest way to go forward for both of them, yet he could not stop thinking about her. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her face, the rosy hue of her cheeks and her inviting pink lips, remembered the forbidden feeling of his vile hands roaming over her lovely young body, and he cursed himself for his depraved thoughts.
When he had had enough of tossing and turning without finding the rest and peace of mind he so desperately longed for, he got up and went to the west wing, hoping that spending some time there would finally remind him of what he had done and why Christine was much better off without him. As he walked the hallway and passed what had once been his parents' rooms, he noticed that one of the doors was left ajar. He had not been up here in weeks, but he was absolutely certain that he had closed the door after his last visit as he always did, and the staff knew perfectly well they would be dismissed immediately if they ever set foot here. There was only one person curious and stubborn enough to have disregarded his very clear instructions as to the west wing being off limits: Christine.
The blood drained from his face as he hurried along the hall, hoping desperately she had not yet found what she was looking for. His hopes were dashed when he reached the end of the hall and saw the last door was wide open. He looked inside and found Christine with her back to him, studying the portraits on the wall in his mother's old sitting room, all the pieces of the puzzle splayed out right in front of her.
So this was how it would end.