It had been a conclusion she'd suspected for many years, but Christine had finally reached it. She was not an intelligent person. As a matter of fact, she was probably below average. She resisted the urge to throw the book, instead putting it down on her desk before she let her hands come up and tangle in her hair as she groaned.
She'd thought herself so smart when she'd begun, figuring out those simple diagrams to build a battery, reading through that book on chemistry, asking Erik for supplies to try a few experiments. And he'd been so happy to oblige, his eyes lighting up as he brought her whatever she asked for and more. But the more Christine learned the more she exposed her own ignorance. She almost wished she'd never begun this path, stayed a singer forever with no strange ambitions. Surely that would have been more fitting for a young lady.
But had she ever known satisfaction like that first figure she'd managed, all on her own? Had she ever felt that sense of rightness as she did when the words on the page aligned and gave her new knowledge? She could almost feel her mind expanding, accepting new ideas of different types of metals for different electrical purposes, envisioning their world dancing through a sky of stars, sketching the array of beams and pipes that made the skeleton of the little underground house. Everything was new and beautiful in her eyes, the world gaining colour when it had seemed grey for years.
Singing had kept her connected to her father, a lifeline in a storm of grief. But now the clouds had parted and she found firm footing again, and although it was mad she'd hoped to be able to set sail for new and distant shores. But the ship of her mind was hardly a vessel suited to the task; there was so much she didn't understand, so much she was getting wrong.
When she had started she'd simply asked Erik whenever she'd run into a tricky phrase or concept, and he'd explained it to her. But after the third time he'd explained the mechanics of a bird's wing she'd still been unable to grasp the concept, so had simply decided to move on. Surely there were enough other mysteries for her to ponder without knowing that one. Yet it had been a thorn in her side, and when she'd come to Erik again he'd given a slight chuckle at her question before beginning his explanation and she'd had an awful moment of realization.
Erik was indulging her like one would a child, asking innocent questions with no hope of understanding. Erik was a genius, that was beyond doubt, but she was coming to realize just how vast the distance between their intellects. He'd read all these books multiple times, and always had something to add no matter the subject. Yet she struggled with the most basic of questions, and needed to go over equations and diagrams over and over to have any hope of remembering a concept. He never complained, but she was unable to see their relationship as anything other than a teacher with a hopelessly inept student. Not even that, for surely he didn't really believe she could learn all this?
But maybe he did. He was constantly bringing her new supplies, suggesting new experiments (and his careful eye ensured she was in no more danger than a toddler, something she'd appreciated but was now coming to resent), and asking her questions. Perhaps he hadn't realized how stupid she was, how the endless French gave her headaches and how the simplest equations required hours of thought. Eventually he would, and then he'd laugh at her all the more. Or worse, he'd be disappointed. She could hear him now. "Perhaps this is too much for you, my sweet. You're too pretty to be frowning over such things, let's leave the studying to the real scholars. Would you like to pick some flowers instead? Surely that's not beyond your abilities. Perhaps if you dedicate yourself you might weave them into a crown."
She was perhaps being a little unfair. Erik never gave any indication that these were subjects a young lady should not be reading, never seemed to tire of her questions. But what if it was only an act? What if he found it an amusing hobby, but one he expected her to lose interest in eventually? What if, in an effort to keep her happy and ignorant of her own stupidity, he forbade scientific reading, refused to answer her questions, put an end to her experiments? She was wholly reliant on him, and there was hardly a soul in the world above who could understand her studies, much less aid her in pursuing them.
Well, she'd have to prove him wrong. She'd figure these things out on her own, without any help. Maybe she could achieve something that would be so great, so spectacular, that Erik would be impressed. He'd praise her with shining eyes, compliment her intellect and dedication, and ask her to go shopping with him for new reading material. Perhaps she could recommend a new subject of study, being a mind equally matched with his own.
Her first project had been a kite, inspired by the sketches of strange triangular shapes and memories of windy days on the moors with her father. She was halfway through sacrificing one of her dresses and her parasol to the project when she realized the flaws with her project. Erik would never journey outside with her to fly it, so she considered modifying it into a lantern that could float on their lake. It would be quite lovely, but she couldn't get the fastenings to work on the parsol and with no way to test the durability or get new supplies (she could hardly ask Erik for them, now could she? He'd want to see her project and it would all be ruined) she abandoned it. It would be better for her project to be something more useful, something that amounted to more than a child's toy or decoration. Something that Erik might use in his hauntings, perhaps?
The electric lights had always been a source of interest to her, their light steady and bright when compared to gas lamps. She began to experiment with her circuit, noting the different levels of brightness she could obtain from the bulb. Would it be possible, she wondered, to make the bulb dim or flare with some kind of switch? The bulb would not just be on or off, it would have a bright and dim setting as well, a convenience that was the only advantage she could see from gas lamps. She'd burnt herself a few times on the wires, and it was one day after her fingers were stinging that she'd decided to sulk with a book in the living room that she'd realized her project was fruitless. Erik had proudly displayed his new electric lamp, one of his own design, declaring it would burn out less on account of having two bulbs instead of one, and you could choose which bulb was lit. He'd demonstrated and she'd only felt ridiculous; worse still, were it not for her experiments causing her own bulbs to burn out and prompting the stealthy replacement of them with the ones in the sitting room lamps Erik would have not been driven to this solution. A heavier lampshade and two bulbs, and the desired settings of bright and dim were achieved, where she was no closer to her goal with her pathetic little wires.
Her next few attempts had all been short lived compared to those ventures. A pendulum to keep time to his music, but she couldn't stop it from slowing and he had no need of one. A design for a watch that showed the movements of the planets, but on the rare opportunity they went out at night she could barely see them past the glow of the streetlamps, and had clumsily snapped one of the gears of the pocket watch he'd given her. As said watch was her only way to tell time she elected to guess the passage of the days from their regular meals and music lessons, but she was simply awful at determining when it was time to sleep, being woken up at what felt like increasingly earlier hours for breakfast and music lessons.
Music lessons, which were quickly becoming the bane of her existence. Had there really been a time when she'd looked forward to these lessons? She'd much rather be sleeping, or studying, and most definitely would not like to try that phrase one more time with better diction. She enjoyed hearing Erik play or sing, but found her interest in her own voice was waning, and felt terribly guilty about it. They'd spent so long training her voice, how was she supposed to throw that away on a whim? For a career she wasn't even good at? Besides, shouldn't she be satisfied with the one thing that she could do well, the one time a day he'd compliment her? Yet she was beginning to resent those compliments.
He admired her voice, said it was beautiful and pristine, but was she anything more than an instrument? Would her greatest achievement be sounding pretty for a few bored aristocrats who'd forget about her song the moment they left the opera? Was there nothing more to her than the sound of her voice, a sound wholly sculpted and molded by a musical genius? She was nothing more than a mindless tool then, like the piano he'd moved her away from when he'd noticed she was becoming distracted by the movements of the little levers as he'd pressed the keys. She'd turned down his offer of a lesson in how to tune the instrument, citing a headache and vanishing to her room so she could read about botany. A new tea blend might catch his interest, but she was unlikely to cultivate any new plants here under the earth. Not to mention such a thing seemed rather banal, unless it had medical properties.
"He wouldn't be impressed unless I made something that could grow him a nose," she muttered under her breath as she put the book aside, remembering the many concoctions and medicines he'd given her when she last had a cold. It didn't matter anyways, she didn't particularly want to give him a nose. She'd long gotten used to that atypical visage, and such a potion would be more likely to send him into a spiral of self loathing than incite praise for her abilities.
She hardly wanted to admit to herself that the most terrifying thing about such a potion would be that if Erik looked like everybody else surely he would then live like everybody else. But such a thing wouldn't be possible for a genius, he'd quickly amass wealth and a legion of admirers with his symphonies or architecture or inventions. And such a successful man would have no need for a stupid little girl unable to grasp even the most basic concepts of engineering. It was rather horrible of her, given how much she knew he suffered for his face, but she couldn't help but be selfishly glad that Erik had met her, and had decided to take her on as his student. Even if she was a failure of one. At least this way she'd gotten to know him, been able to befriend him, to eat meals with him and listen to him tell stories and explain his most recent contraption. Even with the most ordinary face in the world Erik would be extraordinary, and she was beginning to fear she was quite the opposite. All pretty packaging but nothing of worth inside.
Christine's research project was now not only to prove her intellect to Erik but also to prove it to herself. If she could do one thing on her own surely there was hope, surely she wasn't just a brainless songbird. She spent hours skimming through books looking for inspiration, and when her head began to ache from all the French she began to keep notes for the most important terms and concepts, writing their French or Latin names and giving the explanation in Swedish next to it. But her notes were as muddled as her mind and before long she couldn't make heads nor tails of them, her reading material contradicting whatever she'd written and forcing her to constantly revise and second guess herself.
And now the ultimate humiliation. Erik had seen everything, her scribbled notes and half finished projects, and he'd even come across her while she was sleeping at her desk! She dearly hoped he hadn't noticed the bit of drool that had been escaping from her mouth, the hair she had yet to brush, the day-old dress she had been planning to change before supper. But Erik was a genius, how could he not notice such things and immediately draw the valid conclusion? Being, of course, that silly Christine was in over her head, playing at things she didn't understand in a vain attempt to make something of herself. He'd probably explain to her at dinner that she should really just concentrate on music, since at least she sounded good and looked good. He'd probably be right.
Why did she ever think she could do this? Her father would be disappointed that she'd scorned her God-given talents to chase some impossible dream. Her father was a violinist, her… Erik was a musician beyond compare, and she lived and worked in an opera house. What future did she have outside of music? Perhaps a graceful surrender would be the wisest course of action.
The very thought of it made her feel sick. Of never having that moment of clarity again, of never again building or reading or discovering, of quieting that voice that asked why until it could no longer be heard. One more desperate attempt, and perhaps she'd be forced into surrender but she would not go without a fight.
Erik had given her a music box when she'd first arrived. It was a little gilded box that had a toy monkey sitting atop it, with a glassy gaze and cymbals and a tiny oriental robe. He'd explained it had come from Persia and he'd rescued it, repaired it so it would sing once more. She'd appreciated the thought but now wondered if it was just one more sign that he saw her as a child. She fished it out of the back of her closet and stared at it before turning it over and beginning to examine the box, looking for a way to open it.
This would be a triumph, and would finally make him take her seriously. Taking something he gave to her as a symbol of a childhood past and turning it into a device of the future. The music box had a little crank that would play the song when wound, but surely there was a way to make it wind itself with electricity. The press of a button or flip of a switch, and the song would play at the whim of the wires powering it. With this she would choose her future, or have it taken away from her at last.