Chapter 2

She scampered off to set the table.

She insisted that she should be the one to carry the heavy casserole to the dining room.

And when he saw it, he knew why.

In the middle of their small dining table sat a single lit candle. Not one of their elegant dinner candle on an elaborate, shiny silver holder. Not even one of those squat pillar candles that Christine seemed to favour – it reminded her of going to church as a child, she had explained.

No.

This was an abomination.

Incomprehensible.

Ridiculous.

Deeply offensive.

But just in case she had it made, as another memento of her amazing and bewildering love, he kept his mouth shut.

"Well", she beamed, "what do you think? They've got you down to a tee, I thought."

They. Who were they, he burnt to know.

He managed to keep his voice neutral. "Yes. Wonder how they made it. Did you send a picture to the makers?"

At that, she chuckled in surprise. "Me? Oh no, nothing to do with me. Although," she added, the mischief in her eyes clear, "maybe I should have done that. It would have been the height of romanticism…" She quirked her head, "...and bad taste!"

He breathed in relief.

"You really thought I had done this?", she asked with an amused pout. "Then kudos for not screaming at me. I must admit I thought this was weird, slightly creepy, but also a bit cute."

"Just a bit creepy! Although," his voice took a husky tone as he moved his his lips near her ear, "I do melt in your presence, my dear." She giggled and kissed him.

He straightened and beheld the object on the table. Looking back at him was a five-inch alabaster wax effigy of himself, from the top of the chest up, in his best opera tux, masked and bewigged. And plumper than he knew himself to be. There was a certain perfection in this likeness that both flattered his ego and mocked him.

"So, if you did not have this thing made, who did?" His dread was growing by the second.

"Wellll, I stumbled across it online."

He glared at her and crossed his arms across his chest. "You of all people don't just stumble across things online, you don't have the time these days. Come on, time to come clean."

"Ok, ok, Darius sent it to me. It cropped up in my feed, my official Insta feed, that is. We did a bit of research, and it turns out your appearance at my gala – and your music – are getting you noticed. Those songs we posted on YouTube have apparently gone viral. People like the Gothic vibe about you. And at least, the candle is being marketed as 'The Phantom of the Opera', on account of how elusive you are, rather than 'The Angel of Death'…"

"Oh Lord", he growled, "I KNEW it was a mistake to be seen with you that night." He started pacing round the room. "How do I sue these people out of existence?"

"Talk to Darius in the morning. I knew you would ask that question, so I've asked him to look into it. But he said it would likely be difficult."

"He would say that, the lazy so-and-so. He's probably enjoying every second of my discomfiture. Tell me, he's not the one behind this by any chance, is he? Does the Daroga know about this?"

Sensing Erik's building rage and fearing for the expensive tableware, Christine put a hand on his arm and stopped him mid-step. "Look, I can see this upsets you, but really I think it's harmless. You should be flattered." He felt a blush creep up his neck, and she arched an eyebrow. Damned her ability to pick up on his thoughts! He should be going back to wearing his fabric mask and high-collar shirts round her.

"So you are flattered. Good. Nonetheless, we'll find a way to stop this. And I'll put this out and take it away right now; the stew is getting cold. Let's eat."

She moved the candle aside while he served. Predictably, he just played with his food. No amount of small talk, no attempted jokes would distract him from his ill-humour. After a while, they fell into an awkward silence.

As he got up to clear the dishes, he saw the candle on the sideboard. In her haste to calm him down and eat, Christine had not yet put it back in its box. He went to grasp it; she tried to stop him with an embrace and a kiss – and an apology. She said she would make it disappear. But as he looked at the figure, in which the flame had now left a curious dent where some of his occiput should be, an idea took hold. He disengaged from her arms gently. "Leave it with me", he said. "I have a little project in mind."

After a very tense morning instructing lawyers, Erik spent the next day and a half in his workshop. He barely ate, and emerged bleary-eyed on the evening of the first day when Christine threatened to kick the door in. They both knew she could not do it if she tried, but her tone was a potent enough mix of sorrow and worry that Erik relented.

Some cooling down time was required anyway.