She had hoped that a good night's rest would help her to know her own heart, but when Christine woke up in the early hours, barely having slept, she felt neither rested, nor any wiser as to her feelings.
She could not fool herself any longer by denying that she felt attracted to Erik. From the moment his hands had made contact with her shoulders, she knew that what she felt for him went much further than gratitude for what he had done for her father, or a pupil's respect for her teacher. But what did he mean to her then?
After all this time living under the same roof, Erik was still an utter mystery to her. He was a strict and demanding teacher, a fickle and at times violent man, but he could also be sweet and generous and caring. On the night of her birthday, when she had asked him to dance with her, she had even seen a moment of vulnerability in him that made her believe there was so much she did not know about him yet.
She believed he might return her feelings in some capacity, but whenever he allowed a moment of closeness between them, he would inevitably push her away again sooner or later. Their singing lesson last night had been no exception. The sensation of his hands on her body combined with his deep voice whispering in her ear had been overwhelmingly intimate, and she had been on the verge of confessing how much he was affecting her, yet by the time she had the chance he was already gone.
They could not keep going back and forth like this. Sooner or later she would have to tell him how she felt. Before she could do that, however, she would have to be absolutely sure of exactly what it was she felt for him.
She certainly cared for him. Did she love him? Could she love someone she knew so little about? So far he had managed to avert any question she had ever asked him about his family or his past, and he clearly would not voluntarily offer her any information on the subject. She had tried questioning Madame Giry about it, but she had been just as tight-lipped as Erik himself, saying that it was not her place to disclose any personal information on her employer and that if there was anything Christine wished to know, she would have to ask Erik herself.
It was clear that if she wanted to learn more about him, she would have to find out for herself.
She knew exactly where she would start looking. He had been so adamant about her not setting foot in the west wing that she was convinced he was hiding something there.
It was still very early, too early for Erik or any of the servants to be awake, so now was the ideal time to start looking for answers without being found out. She dressed quickly and then slipped through the corridors and up the stairs to the west wing, a candle in her hand to light her path. Outside, the wind was howling, and she could hear the rain beating against the windows, much like on the first night she arrived here. Today would be another dark and dreary autumn day, it seemed.
Walking these stairs, she could not help but feel slightly guilty, knowing that Erik had strictly forbidden her to come here. She had never disobeyed him before and would rather not find out how he would react if he found out what she was doing, but what other choice did she have? She deserved to know who the man she was living with was. In truth, she should probably have done this much sooner.
The first two rooms she came upon once she had reached her destination were bedrooms. Like most of the other rooms in the house, these appeared not to have been in use for quite some time. At first sight, she did not find anything out of the ordinary there and quickly decided to move on.
The contrast between those bedrooms and the next room she entered could not have been bigger. In this room, it seemed as if time had stood still. There was a small bed against the far wall, a chest full of toys in the corner, the lid standing open as if someone had been playing with its contents only recently, a dozen tin soldiers set out on the carpet. This was a nursery.
Could this have been Erik's room when he was young? But Erik had not been a child for a long time. If he used to sleep here, then why did the room look as if it had been kept in the exact same condition for over three decades? Surely the room would have been vacated or repurposed once Erik no longer needed it?
Christine went on to consider other possible explanations as she continued her quest for information. So far she had not discovered any answers, only more questions. She found a study next and a bathroom, and then another bedroom, but like the nursery, this one was not covered in dust sheets. Everything was clean and the bed was neatly made. Judging by the elegant furnishings and the bottles of perfume on the dressing table, it used to be a lady's bedroom. Could it have belonged to Erik's mother? Then again, she could ask herself the same question as she had done in the nursery. Erik had told her that his parents had both been gone for a very long time. If that were the case, then why would his mother's room be kept in such pristine condition? Why was this room being treated differently than all the other empty rooms in the house?
When she went back into the hallway and noticed there was only one room she had not examined yet, she started to despair. She had been convinced that this was where she would find the answers she needed so desperately, but what if she had been mistaken?
Could she write to Nadir? As his lawyer, he must be privy to Erik's personal affairs. But what reason would he have to share any of that information with her? Surely it was his task to protect Erik's privacy rather than to share his secrets with anyone who inquired about them.
No, Nadir would not be the solution to her problem. She had to find it for herself. There had to be something here, she thought as she walked into the last room. It appeared to be a sitting room. The first thing she noticed was a large box full of papers sitting on the floor. She knelt down next to it and lifted one of the pages out of the box, holding her candle closer so she could read it. To her surprise, she found it to be sheet music. Why would Erik keep these here instead of in the music room?
She stood back up and went to inspect the writing desk by the window, hoping she might find some important documents there, but except for some blank pieces of paper, the drawers were empty. It was then, when she let her gaze wander across the opposite wall, that she noticed the portraits. She went to take a closer look by the light of her candle.
There were four in a row. The first one depicted an elegant but stern looking man with greying hair. Christine estimated he must have been about fifty years old when the painting had been made. Underneath the portrait was a brass plaque with the man's name, Simon Destler, and the year of his birth and of his death. This must be Erik's father.
The second picture was that of a beautiful woman with black hair and eyes the colour of honey. She looked much younger than the man. Christine estimated she might have been his junior by fifteen or twenty years. Her plaque read Sophie Peletier. There was no doubt in Christine's mind that this was Erik's mother. The resemblance was striking.
If the first two portraits were those of his parents, then the next one might very well be Erik himself. Indeed, although he could have been no older than twelve when he had posed for the painting, Christine recognized him immediately. But what struck her most was how the right side of the portrait had been torn to pieces so that only the left side of his face remained visible. The side not covered by his mask. Who could have done this, she wondered? Who might have been so disturbed by the sight of his mask that they had destroyed his portrait? Or perhaps he had not been wearing a mask at all… Could his face truly be so abominable that someone believed this kind of destruction to be warranted?
She put those thoughts away for later as she went to look at the last portrait in the row. It was a golden-haired little boy, barely two years old. He too was named Simon Destler. Could he be Erik's brother then? But Erik had never mentioned a brother. As she read the dates on the brass plaque, Christine realized why that might be. The boy had died at the age of five.
In that moment, she became aware that she was being watched. She did not have to turn around to know who was there. She could feel Erik's piercing gaze on her back. So she had been discovered after all. Well then, if he was here, she might as well try to get some answers from him before he flew into a blind rage and started yelling at her for being where he had explicitly told her not to go.
"Who is this?" she asked without turning around.
"My brother."
"He died terribly young. What happened to him?"
There was only a short silence before Erik replied.
"I killed him."