Author's note: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! I really appreciate every single reader. I hope you enjoy this new chapter.
Chapter Seventeen: Phantom at the Feast
He was going to make himself late.
Erik had made it to the door of his attic room five times, and each time he had stopped and turned back to check his clothing in the mirror.
Everything was in place: evening suit, hat, cloak and mask. He regretted not purchasing a new pair of evening shoes, but he had polished his black lace-up boots until they shone. There was nothing wrong with his new clothing, but he still found himself turning in front of the mirror, examining the suit and cloak from all angles, obsessively smoothing away creases and brushing off imaginary pieces of cotton.
A knock on the door made him jump. "Erik?"
He exhaled in relief. "Christine."
"May I come in?"
"Of course."
The door opened, and Christine's face lit up with a smile.
"Oh, Erik. You look wonderful!"
"Thank you." His face grew hot beneath his mask. "So do you."
Christine was wearing a midnight blue evening gown, her hair piled atop her head and secured with diamante combs. A blue velvet cloak hung from her shoulders.
She offered him a gloved hand. "Shall we?"
"Yes. Just let me get one thing." Erik retrieved his leather bag from the couch.
"What's that?"
His mouth twitched. "My bag of tricks. A magician requires some props, you know."
Christine linked her arm through his. "What have you got planned for tonight?"
"I intend to eat and look elegant."
She gave him a mock glare. "I meant the illusions."
"Ah." His smile widened. He could feel his heart dancing in his chest. He was actually excited about tonight. "You'll have to wait and see."
They went downstairs. A carriage was waiting for them outside the theatre's front entrance.
As they approached, the carriage door opened, and Gerard poked his head out. He grinned.
"Hello!"
Erik felt a prickle of irritation at the thought of sharing a cab with Gerard. He had observed the way the man behaved around aristocrats and other rich patrons. There was no doubt he would prove insufferable all evening.
"Ah, Miss Daae, allow me." Gerard offered Christine his hand and helped her into the carriage. "You look divine tonight."
Erik grimaced, and then realised Gerard was staring at him in amusement.
"Is there a problem, Gerard?" he asked.
"Not at all, Erik. Only that you scrub up remarkably well." Erik glowered at him, and Gerard laughed. "For heaven's sake, man. I mean no offence. Come on, hop in or we'll be late."
Erik gathered up his cloak and mounted the steps, seating himself opposite Christine.
"Is Sorelli joining us?" asked Christine.
"She has another engagement tonight," said Gerard. "Posing for a painting, apparently. Some fool who thinks he's the English Degas. She's going to meet us there, after dinner."
Gerard knocked on the ceiling with his walking stick, and the carriage trundled away.
"So," said Gerard, turning to Christine. "Tell me about the wonderful music I should expect tonight."
Christine and Gerard kept up a steady flow of chatter throughout the journey. Erik spent most of the time staring out of the window, watching the passing city and trying to quiet the nerves dancing in his stomach. The novelty of the event had hit him: he was going to a dinner party. An actual dinner party in a fancy house, and while he would be performing, Christine had assured him he was also a guest.
He had never been a party guest before, and he had never dreamed he would attend such a thing with Christine.
It was just a pity that the Viscount was the host.
The buildings became grander. Then the carriage drove into a square with a fenced-off, leafy garden in the centre, and came to a stop outside a large, white-washed townhouse. Every window blazed with light.
As they dismounted onto the pavement, the front door opened, spilling the sound of voices into the square. The Viscount came down the front steps.
"Christine." He smiled at her and kissed the back of her hand. "I'm so glad you could come."
"My pleasure. Thank you for inviting us." Christine glanced over her shoulder at Erik. He took this as a cue to step forward.
The Viscount's expression seemed to cloud over, but only for a moment. He forced a smile.
"Monsieur Erik. Thank you for coming."
Erik bowed his head. "Viscount."
They shook hands rather awkwardly.
"Oh, please, do call me Raoul. 'Viscount' is so formal, don't you think?"
Erik did not have a strong opinion about this either way. But he decided not to say this to the boy. He was, after all, a Civilised Gentleman. And Civilised Gentlemen did not contradict their aristocratic hosts, however irritating they might be.
"As you wish…Raoul."
Raoul's smile became a touch broader and more genuine. "Do go in."
Gerard swooped forward, making a grab for the Viscount's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "My dear Viscount, it's so good to see you…You must introduce me to this delightful aunt of yours…"
Scowling, Erik followed Christine into the hallway. A young man appeared and asked to take their cloaks and hats. Erik felt a little self-conscious without these garments. The hat in particular had cast a shadow over his mask. But he supposed he would look even more conspicuous if he kept them on.
They stepped into the parlour.
It was not as crowded as he feared it would be. He counted twenty people, standing around talking in pairs or small groups. The viscount reappeared, with Gerard still chattering away at his side. Presently, Erik found himself caught up in a strange social dance in which Raoul introduced the three Music Hall representatives to his other guests. Within five minutes, he had met Lord-and-Lady-Double-Barrelled-Name, Doctor Whatsit and his wife, Duke of Something-Grand, and assorted others whose names and titles he would never be able to remember.
It was a long time since he had found himself meeting so many people at once, and as usual he was greeted by a varied range of reactions. Some of the smiles offered to him were a little too bright and forced, while other people gazed at a spot just over his shoulder. He pretended not to notice, bowed his head, and introduced himself merely as 'Erik'.
Christine was wonderful. She smiled and shook hands and talked and was completely, effortlessly charming.
"And this," said Raoul, "is my Aunt Genevieve. Aunt, you remember Christine, don't you?"
Aunt Genevieve was a tall, elegant lady dressed in emerald green, with strings of white pearls around her neck. Erik had noticed her when he had first stepped into the parlour, and thought she looked rather severe and forbidding. But upon seeing Christine, her face broke into the broadest, sunniest smile he had ever seen.
"Of course! Christine, my dear, it's so good to see you." She leaned forward and kissed Christine on both cheeks. "I can't believe it's taken my nephew so long to invite you here."
"I came as soon as I could," said Christine.
"Of course you did, my dear." She smiled. "I hope you realise I had nothing to do with that dreadful business in Paris."
"I know. Thank you."
"You're always welcome here." Aunt turned to look at Erik. Her eyes widened slightly. "And who is this?"
"I am Erik," said Erik.
"Just Erik?"
"Yes."
"Why, how refreshingly mysterious of you. You're the magician, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Excellent. The mask is a nice touch."
"Um…thank you?"
"Don't let me keep you. Please help yourself to a drink."
She waved towards a sideboard bearing flutes of champagne. Erik stepped forward, planning to get a glass for Christine, but Raoul stepped in front of him.
"Here, allow me." The Viscount handed a glass to Christine.
She smiled. "Thank you."
"Erik?" Raoul held out a second glass.
"Thanks." Erik took the glass hesitantly, sipped the pale golden liquid, and scowled.
Raoul's mouth quirked with amusement. "What's the matter? Haven't you ever tried champagne before?"
Erik stared at Raoul, trying to decide if the Viscount was mocking him, or if this was a perfectly innocent question. In keeping with the spirit of the evening, he decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
He straightened his shoulders. "No, actually. We don't tend to drink it at the Music Hall."
"I see." Raoul looked surprised, as if champagne was a common beverage of choice. "What do you think of it?"
Erik took another sip, swirling the drink around his mouth.
"I think," he said, solemnly, "that it's rather overrated."
Christine made a choking sound. Erik glanced at her and saw that she had covered her mouth with her hand.
Raoul's face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that. It comes from my family's vineyard. Maybe it's not a particularly good vintage. I'll fetch another…"
"It's perfectly fine, Raoul," said Christine. "Isn't it Erik?"
She met his gaze. Her face was still and serious, but her eyes were dancing with amusement.
"Just as you say, Christine," he said, bowing his head at Raoul.
He realised something more was required of him, so he took another sip of champagne. It was adequate.
"Mmm," he said.
There was a sound of a small brass gong being struck with a hammer.
"Ah!" Raoul smiled. "Excellent. Dinner is served."
Erik laughed.
Raoul's smile faded. "What's funny?"
"Why do you need the gong? Why not just tell people?"
"I…" Raoul blinked. "That's actually a very good question." He waved an arm towards the nearest door. "Would you care to follow me?"
They followed Raoul and the other guests into a large dining room. The long table was laden with candlesticks and huge flower arrangements and very little food.
Raoul led them towards the head of the table. "You're just here, Christine. Next to me." He pulled the chair out for her.
Erik went to sit beside her.
"Erik, you're just a little further down," said Raoul.
Erik noticed each place setting had a name card on it.
His heart gave a jolt as he realised that he was at least four places away from Christine.
He caught her eye. "We're not sitting together?"
"I thought it would give us the opportunity to converse with the other guests," said Raoul.
Erik stared at Raoul. It was quite clear that the Viscount had no intention of 'conversing' with anyone but Christine. Meanwhile, he would have to sit alone, surrounded by strangers. His hands started to tremble, and he hid them behind his back.
Christine looked from Erik to the Viscount, her expression concerned. "Raoul…perhaps, on this one occasion…"
"Of course, I can move you if there's a problem," said Raoul.
It seemed that he was being given a choice. To sit alone, or to sit next to Christine, inconveniencing his host. What would the Viscount think if he insisted on his preferred place? That he was incapable of making conversation? That he was scared?
He held Raoul's gaze, refusing to be intimidated.
"No," he said. "I'll sit in my allotted place. It's fine."
"Thank you," said Raoul.
Erik turned away. Christine caught his hand and squeezed it. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Christine, never better."
He found his place towards the middle of the table, next to Doctor Whatsit, and opposite Lord-and-Lady-Double-Barrelled-Name.
His Lordship gave Erik a thin smile. "Good evening."
"Good evening," said Erik.
Servants appeared with the first course: pea soup with bread rolls. Erik was relieved about the soup, as it would be easy to eat with the mask in place. The bread would prove more of a challenge. He picked up the smallest knife -there were four in total – and began to cut the roll into small pieces.
He became aware of His Lordship staring at him with raised eyebrows.
"Can I help you?" said Erik.
His Lordship looked startled. "Not at all."
Erik dipped a piece of bread into his soup and chewed slowly, aware of the stares of the guests closest to him. He felt a stab of irritation. Did they really have nothing better to do than watch him eat?
He glanced up the table at Christine. She gave him a bright, encouraging smile.
"This soup is very good," said Erik, forcing a smile of his own.
"Yes, isn't it?" said Her Ladyship. She sounded relieved.
Some of the tension seemed to leave the table, and the guests began to talk.
"So, Monsieur…" the Doctor hesitated, frowning.
"Erik."
"Erik. What do you do?"
"I'm a performer. A magician, mainly."
"Will you be performing tonight?" said Her Ladyship.
"That's the intention."
"So you work at the Music Hall with Christine Daae," said His Lordship. He leaned forward and spoke in conspiratorial tones. "Tell me…are the rumours true?"
Erik felt the back of his neck prickle. "What rumours?"
"About Miss Daae and our excellent host, of course. Rumour has it they're lovers."
Her Ladyship glared at her husband. "Oh, really, Harold. That's complete nonsense, and you know it."
"Well, why else would the Viscount move in such…" he looked pointedly at Erik "…uncivilised circles?"
Erik felt his blood boil. He had a strong temptation to pour his soup over the man's head. He glanced again at Christine. She was deep in conversation with the Viscount. She laughed brightly, and something tightened around his heart.
No. He trusted Christine. He wouldn't let these people fill him with doubt.
"I'm sorry, Sir, I don't listen to malicious rumours."
"They're not malicious if they're true, surely?"
"It's my understanding that they've been friends from childhood." Erik kept his voice calm and even. "I believe the Viscount was Miss Daae's patron at the Paris Opera."
"Well, there you are, then," said his Lordship. "A patron. No doubt she's trying to snare him, and who would blame her?"
Erik dropped his spoon. It fell onto the table with a clatter. "Miss Daae is doing no such thing! How dare you talk about her like that?"
He realised too late that he had raised his voice. The rest of the table fell silent. All eyes were on Erik and His Lordship.
"I would be grateful if you would not use that tone with me," said His Lordship.
"And I would be grateful if you would learn some manners," seethed Erik. "And show some class."
There were gasps from around the table.
Erik looked at Christine. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was a thin line. She looked disappointed.
Everyone was staring at him. His heart trembled.
He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "Excuse me."
He hurried past the guests, through the parlour, and out into the hall. His face burning, he looked around for a cloakroom or cupboard.
Where had the damned Viscount stored his damned cloak?
"What are you doing?"
Erik froze. He turned to see Christine emerge into the hall. She shut the parlour door.
"Leaving."
"You can't just walk out. What will I tell Raoul?"
"Tell him what you like. It's got nothing to do with me." He turned towards the door. Cloak or no cloak, he was leaving. Right now. "I don't care what the Viscount thinks."
"I don't understand. Why are you acting like this?"
Erik spun to face her. "I can't stay in that room another minute and nod and smile while they insult you."
Christine blinked. "Insult me?"
"Yes. When you're four feet away! I don't know how they have the nerve. I'm used to hearing people whisper about me, but I'll be damned if I stand by and listen to them do it to you!"
She stepped forward. "Erik. You don't need to defend my honour. I don't care what they think of me."
"And yet you're willing to play along with their vile snobbery. How can you stand them, Christine?"
Christine walked up to him. She raised both hands and rested them on his shoulders, so he had no choice but to look at her. "I can stand them because Raoul is still my friend. I can stand them because tonight might be useful to the Music Hall, and because it might be a great opportunity for us. I'm more than capable of rising above their petty, small-minded gossip. I have heard much worse. So please, come and finish your supper."
Erik opened his mouth to protest. Christine held his gaze.
He lowered his eyes, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Christine. I've disappointed you."
"What? No, Erik. No. You really haven't." She smiled and stroked his masked cheek. "Come on. You must be hungry."
Erik glanced at the door. Then he looked back at Christine. Her eyes were soft.
The tension dropped from his shoulders.
They returned to the dining room.