Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading! I greatly appreciate the reviews. Enjoy!
Chapter Ten: The Cloak of Feathers
1.
Usually, when they sang a duet, it was as if the theatre around them had ceased to exist. They were together, sharing their own small world of music, entirely focused on each other's voices.
This was not the case tonight.
They were working on the Don Giovanni duet again, but Erik had the distinct impression that Christine's heart was not entirely in the music. Her voice sounded oddly flat and lifeless, devoid of the feeling she usually brought to her singing. On one occasion she came in too late, and on another she forgot the words and repeated her previous phrase.
Her hand slipped, striking the wrong chord on the piano, and her voice stumbled to a halt.
"I'm sorry, Erik," she said, brushing a hand across her eyes. He thought she looked tired.
"Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine."
"You just seem…distracted."
Christine stared at the score on the piano's music stand. Her silence unnerved Erik. He recognised, by now, that she only went quiet when she had something serious or upsetting on her mind.
She sighed.
"I had a letter from Paris today. It's rather put me out of sorts."
"What sort of letter?"
"From an old friend." She did not look at him.
"I hope it's not bad news?"
She shook her head. "No. Nothing like that. Only…it unsettled me. I wasn't expecting to hear from him."
Erik felt a strange, entirely unexpected sensation in his chest. It was sharp, and very like fear. "Him?"
She turned to meet his eyes. "Erik, have you heard any rumours about why I left Paris?"
"No. I don't listen to idle gossip. I just assumed you wanted a change."
"I did want a change, but that's not why I left. You see, there was a man…He thought he was in love with me. Perhaps he still is."
Again, that rushing in his chest. "Did you love him?"
"Yes. I'm afraid I did."
Erik's fingers tensed beneath his coat. Who was this man, who made Christine's song so listless and sad? Surely love wasn't meant to do such a thing? Surely love was meant to elevate a person's voice, make it even more beautiful?
"What happened?" he asked, and she gave him a sharp look. "If…forgive me…if you don't mind my asking?"
"He was an aristocrat," she said. "Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. We knew each other briefly as children. When I graduated from the Conservatoire, I failed my first audition for the Garnier. To make ends meet, I became a singing teacher, instructing the children of wealthy Parisians. While I was moving in these circles, I met Count Philippe, Raoul's brother. He became my patron, put in a good word for me at the Opera, and secured another audition for me. This time, I got in.
"Raoul was in the navy, so he was often away, but one day he arrived home on leave. He came to the Opera, and I was overjoyed. It was as if we'd never been apart."
Christine's face lit up with the memory. And something inside Erik, some flame which he hadn't even realised was there, guttered and died a little.
"We spent three months together," she continued. "Raoul was due to leave on an expedition to the North Pole. One day, he declared that he would not go. He said he loved me, that he wanted to marry me." Her smile faded. "Raoul told his brother of his intention to marry, and Philippe forbade the match. We were from two different worlds, entirely unsuited to each other. Raoul was furious. He said he didn't care what his brother thought. Together, we concocted this ridiculous plan to elope one night, after a performance. But Philippe caught up with us and there was…quite a scene."
Her expression was now deeply troubled, her eyes averted. Erik had a gut feeling that what had really happened was more than a mere 'scene'. But he did not press her.
"I couldn't stay in Paris," she said. "Not after that. It was too difficult. It was all over the papers, for one thing. Some of them portrayed me as this dreadful siren who had captivated the innocent viscount, that I'd stolen his reason away with my diabolical singing. Yes, some of the reports were quite lurid." A blush had crept to her cheeks, but she gave a short, bitter laugh. "Such is the lot of women who work on the stage. So I broke off the engagement, even though it was effectively already broken. And I came here." She frowned. "Whatever's the matter?"
Erik had no answer, because he did not know. Christine's words had unleashed a turmoil of confusing emotions, feelings which he could not readily identify, and which he did not care to examine too closely. He groped for something familiar in the whirlpool, and brought anger to the surface.
How could this man, this reckless man, hurt Christine in such a way? How could he break her heart and ruin her reputation? Drive her from her home? Steal joy from her song? It was a good thing - a very good thing - that he was not here.
"Erik?" Christine had turned pale.
He glanced down at his hands, and realised they were clenched into fists, and trembling. With a mighty effort, he uncurled them and dropped them to his sides.
"He wasn't worthy of you," he said, in a low voice.
Her eyes were wide, confused. "What? Why do you say that?"
Why, indeed?His anger was fading, only to be replaced by something else equally familiar and unwelcome: shame. But why? Why had this conversation upset him so?
He stared down at the floor. "Forgive me, Christine. I meant no offence. I only meant…if I were in love, truly in love, I think I would do everything I could to be with the woman I loved. Whether I had a disapproving brother or not. I think I'd regret…deeply regret…not fighting harder."
He winced. What was this ridiculous nonsense he was spouting? Where on earth was it coming from?
He looked up at Christine, and saw that her expression had softened.
"That's more or less what Raoul said in his letter."
"What?"
"That he regrets not fighting for us. But it's hard to stand up against five hundred years of aristocratic family history."
Erik had a sudden urge to spit on the floor. But he prided himself on his manners, so he did not.
"I've met aristocrats, Christine," he said. "I know them, rather better than I would like. They think they're above everyone else, but they're just as capable of cruelty. They demand respect, without giving it in return."
She gave him a long, searching look. "Some aristocrats, perhaps."
"But not, I take it, your Raoul." There was contempt in his voice.
"No. Not my Raoul."
Her words were disarming in their sincerity. He sighed. "What will you do? About the letter?"
"I don't know. He says he just wants reassurance that I'm safe and well. Perhaps I should reassure him. Or perhaps I should draw a line under the whole thing." She covered her eyes again. "My God, I'm so confused. What do you think? What should I do?"
Erik did not want her to write to the viscount. But some instinct told him that expressing such a belief might prompt Christine to do just that.
"I think you need to do what will give you peace of mind," he said. And then drive the fool from your thoughts.
Christine turned to him with a wistful smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to share all my troubles with you."
"That's quite all right."
Before Erik realised what was happening, she had reached for his big pale hand, and was squeezing his long, ugly fingers. "I needed a friend tonight. Thank you."
He stared down at their joined hands, at the hand of the woman who called him friend, a word that was both sweet and painful.
"You're welcome, Christine."
2.
My dear Raoul,
Thank you for your letter. I was surprised and pleased to receive it.
I'd like to reassure you that I'm safe and well. And yes, even happy. The Music Hall is not as seedy as it sounds. The people are, on the whole, friendly. The owner found me pleasant lodgings near the theatre. My landlady is a Frenchwoman, and very kind. I have friends here, including a magician, of all things, whom I have been teaching to sing. His voice is quite extraordinary.
Raoul, I am deeply sorry I had to leave Paris. But I saw no other way. Our love was precious to me, but it was also impossible, and I know you understand that, too.
I cannot return to Paris. But I think of you often, and I'll always remember and miss you. And yes, love you.
I hope you find all the happiness you truly deserve.
Your Christine.
3.
The important, terrifying night had finally arrived. The night when Erik and the Mechanical Nightingale would make their singing debut, and – much worse – when Christine would attempt to perform a magic trick in front of other people.
She looked at her new costume in the dressing room mirror. It was a long, golden gown, embroidered with glinting beads, and trimmed with the same feathers that adorned the nightingale. Her pale blonde hair was piled atop her head and held in place with feathered combs. It was quite deliberate, she knew, that her costume matched Erik's invention. The wardrobe mistress had carried out the dress fitting with much tutting and grumbling about 'the incorrigible magician' who wanted everything just so.
They had given Gerard a preview of the act two days earlier, and Christine was relieved that she had finally mastered the feather trick. Gerard seemed delighted, particularly with Erik's singing nightingale, and had given his approval for the performance to go ahead.
She had expected Erik to be happy, but he had been quiet and self-contained ever since their conversation about Raoul's letter. Christine rather regretted telling him. He had seemed upset, and angry in a way which was quite alarming to her, and she couldn't begin to fathom why.
Unless…
She shook her head and almost laughed. No, that was a ridiculous notion. She flattered herself.
There was a knock on the door, and a call of "Five minutes, Miss Daae."
Christine checked her dress one last time, and made her way to the wings, where she expected to meet Erik.
He wasn't there.
She waited a minute, two minutes. She went behind the stage and peered into dark corners, searched the opposite wing, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Her heart racing in panic, she hurried back to her original place in the wings.
The acrobatic troupe had left the stage, and Fred, the Music Hall's Master of Ceremonies, had appeared and was now praising "The Phantom: Master of Dark Magic, who would be presenting, for the very first time, his new illusion: The Singing Nightingale, with the assistance of Mademoiselle Christine Daae."
Christine raised her hand and waved at him frantically. The flapping motion caught Fred's eye, and he frowned. "One moment, please, ladies and gentlemen…"
A moment later, the MC was with her in the wings. "What's going on?"
"I can't find Erik."
The MC stared at her in bewilderment. "But he's never late for a performance."
"I know, I'm worried. I'm going to see if he's still in his room. Can you do something? Bring on another act?"
Fred ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose I could bring La Sorelli on again…"
"Thank you."
"But please don't be too long. The audience will be getting restless…"
Christine nodded, and hurried from the wings. Erik had mentioned that his room was in the attic, and she made her way there as quickly as she could, gathering up the skirts of her gown so she could manage the steep staircase.
At the top, she was faced with a battered door, green paint peeling away from the wood. She tried the handle, but it was locked.
"Erik?" She rapped on the wood. "Erik, are you in there?"
There was no reply. She was about to knock again when she heard a noise from the attic room. It sounded like someone retching.
"Erik!" She rattled the handle. Concern for him made her voice shrill. "What's going on?"
There was another retching sound, followed by a groan. Then Christine heard shuffling footsteps, and the door opened to reveal Erik.
He had discarded his long coat, and was dressed in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The part of his face she could see was worryingly pale. She had never seen him without a hat before. He was almost bald, his scalp dotted with long, wayward strands of dark hair. The eyes peering through the holes in the mask were wide with distress.
"Christine…" He placed one hand against the doorframe as if to steady himself.
"Erik, whatever's the matter? Are you ill? Everyone's waiting…"
"I…" he shuddered. "I'm sorry…" He whirled around and lurched back into the room.
She hurried in after him. He was sitting on a sofa, his shoulders tense and his fingers digging into the worn chair fabric, trembling so hard that she feared he would break apart. "Erik, what is it?"
"I…can't do this…"
Christine had known stage fright, but she had always managed to overcome it. Erik, on the other hand, looked far too shaken to step onto a stage.
"Do you remember your first lesson, when I taught you how to breathe properly?"
He nodded miserably.
"Try it now. Take deep breaths, as if you're getting ready to sing."
Christine glanced around the room, trying to find a suitable distraction, something to divert his attention away from his fear. There was a small desk stacked with books, and more books piled on the floor. The wall above the desk was covered with sheets of music, Erik's own messy annotations scribbled in the margins. She smiled. "You've papered the walls with music."
He nodded slightly, but did not look at her. "Yes…it's easier for me to study it that…way."
She crossed to the desk. "You have a lot of books. What are you reading at the moment?"
"A history of…opera. And a guide to…architectural terms…"
He was already calming down, his hands loosening their grip on the sofa.
A moment passed, and he gave a great sigh.
"Feeling better?" she said.
He nodded. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this." He ran a hand through his hair, which was lank with sweat. "You must think me pathetic."
"Not at all. Stage fright can be overwhelming."
"What's happening downstairs?"
"Fred has sent Sorelli and her dancers on again. But I fear their feet might be getting a bit tired by now." Christine smiled.
"Oh, God," Erik rose unsteadily to his feet. "I must get ready. How am I going to explain this delay to Gerard?"
"You won't have to explain anything to Gerard. He'll forget all about it, because you're going to be wonderful."
His eyes narrowed uncertainly. "We'll see, Christine."
"Can I get you anything?"
He cocked his head on one side. "A glass of whiskey would go down well."
She laughed. "Perhaps not just before singing. I'll get you some water."
She hurried to her dressing room, where she always kept a jug of fresh water for during the performance. She poured Erik a glass, and went back upstairs.
Entering the attic, she found a man transformed.
Erik was wearing a long cloak over his dark magician's clothing. The cloak was entirely covered in inky black feathers. He wore a wide-brimmed plumed hat with matching feathers, and he had swapped his white mask for a silver bird-like creation, its nose a sharpened beak.
"What do you think?" he asked, raising both arms to create a pair of monstrous wings. The cloak of feathers shimmered as it caught the light, and she realised it was not all black, but flecked with dark green and a glorious midnight blue.
At first she could not speak. Her breath had caught in her throat.
"Glorious," she said at last. "And also quite terrifying."
"Exactly the effect I was hoping for." He smiled, the expression only just visible beneath the mask's silver beak.
She handed him the glass of water, and he turned away, lifting the mask slightly so he could drink. Then he put the glass down on the desk, and stretched one large, black wing towards the door. "Shall we?"
They made their way downstairs, a small golden bird followed by a great, shadowy raven.
They reached the wings just in time to hear applause and see the dancers slip into the wings. A visibly relieved Fred noted their arrival, and took his place onstage to make the introductions.
Christine looked at Erik. His costume was imposing, the light from the stage catching his silver mask. No one who saw him now would know how nervous he still was. But she felt the feathers tremble on his cloak.
She slipped her hand into his. And they waited.