Chapter 81 Majesty

Emilie rushed through the corridors to her rooms, her feet clattering loudly on the wooden floors, thankful to have finally sent all her ballerinas to bed. She wanted nothing more than to get back inside her home and slam the door on the whole lot of them. How could Erik have been so reckless? How could Christine have been so stupid as to wear an engagement ring in full view? And how could Raoul have dismissed the tale of Erik's rescue from the gypsies as easily as he had done, only half an hour before?

Did the man know nothing of compassion? Was there not one tiny part of his heart that could be turned to think with pity upon Erik instead of this stupid, deadly - utterly male - rivalry that existed between them? Didn't he realise all Erik could have been, if ever given a chance? She remembered, with mounting fury, the condescending look he'd given her when she'd finished speaking. As if she only thought of Erik with a mother's relentless forgiveness, no matter what he might do. That arrogant, ignorant, blinkered -

"Must you always spoil my fun?"

She stopped short, her heart flying to her throat. She'd often cursed the day she'd accompanied Cecile - against her better judgement - to that gypsy fair. And when she saw Erik standing outside her rooms, still dressed in the costume he'd worn at the Ball, she damned that decision to hell for all eternity.

His arms were folded, one leg raised up against the wall he leant back upon, an insolent smile playing about his lips. She wanted to smack it right off his face. "What are you doing?" she hissed, grabbing her keys from the pockets of her skirt and hurrying to open the door. Her heart felt as if it was about to beat right out of her chest. "Do you want the whole world to see you tonight? Wasn't that ridiculous performance enough?"

"Ridiculous?" he smiled. "I thought it was rather a fitting encore myself."

"And that costume," Emilie said, glancing back at him over her shoulder and looking him up and down, then wishing she hadn't. "I suppose you thought it was clever for you and Christine to be the only ones there not following the rules? Or did you intercept the note telling her about the colours that were meant to be worn?"

"Nothing quite so mundane," he said. "I merely found out which of our seamstresses was appointed the task, then gave her enough inducement to dye the dress. Though it seems my instructions were not quite followed to the letter," he frowned slightly. "It's a pity I wasted 500 francs to end up with that insipid pink. Don't you think we would have made a glorious couple otherwise? Both resplendent in red?"

Emilie glared at him incredulously. Did Christine's reputation mean nothing to him now?

"But you didn't answer my question," he said, casually pushing himself off the wall to walk into the room before her. "I said - must you always spoil my fun?"

"That was not fun," she said, shutting the door quickly behind him and locking it firmly. "I know what those mirrors can do. Did you think I'd just leave him in there to slowly go mad? Or die from hunger, or thirst?"

"Would've been his own fault," Erik replied, glancing away from her. "He shouldn't have tried to follow me. He may have dressed up as a soldier tonight in that ridiculous costume, but he'd never best me with a sword."

"Really?" she asked, going past him, down into her rooms. Why couldn't he have changed before coming to see her? She could hardly bear to look at him. "And what makes you suddenly impervious to a blade?"

He snorted with disbelief, following her for a moment, before going to pour them both a brandy. "He's no match for me. What Christine ever saw in him past his title is quite beyond my comprehension."

"Perhaps the fact that he does not play stupid games with people's lives is enough to hold her interest?" she snapped, taking the glass from his outstretched hand and gulping at the burning liquid gratefully.

"This is no game," he said darkly, remembering how it had felt to see an engagement ring laying so innocently above Christine's breasts.

"Then you shouldn't underestimate your opponent," she said. She'd never tell him that she'd told Raoul of his history. He'd hate her for it. It hadn't worked, anyway. Neither man could turn away now from the depth of feelings they each had for Christine. Even if it killed them both, they'd fight each other for her until the day they died. She swallowed the rest of the brandy quickly; thankful for the respite from wretched emotion that it provided.

"Opponents," he snapped. It was not only the Vicomte he fought against, or had she forgotten what the rest of the world thought of him? It was true, things tonight hadn't quite gone as he'd planned. It was supposed to be his entrance, of sorts, into their world; not just a chance to publicly deride those he despised. But he'd not expected the awed reaction he'd received. It had spurred him on to even greater cruelties, as he'd held the whole room in the palm of his hand. They'd hung breathlessly off every word. How could he ever have been strong enough to be immune to that power?

There had been many weeks of meticulous planning; making his costume, unobtrusively adding the additional part for his entrance to the last few pages of the orchestra's sheet music. Casks of champagne delivered backstage to keep those who worked there too inebriated to intervene. Christine's dress. His heart ached at the memory. The moment he'd seen her. That was when he'd become lost.

Part of him had wanted to punish her for leaving him alone all that time. Part of him had wanted to hate her for dancing in the Vicomte's arms for even an instant. The bitter, insulting words he'd rained against her tender flesh had been nothing more than selfish, wounded pride. Yet when he'd finally looked at her again at last, none of that had mattered.

All he could think then was, God, how he had missed her.

He'd never realised just how much until that point, though he'd spent months mourning her loss.

And everything else he'd meant to say, everything else he'd meant to do, became meaningless.

He noticed every little change. Her hair was styled differently, it was longer than when she'd left. She wore a faint tinge of rouge on her cheeks, lipstick upon her beautiful lips - and he'd briefly wondered who had influenced such disparity. Then he could think of nothing more than to kiss away the paint from her mouth as he took her into his arms, their rapt audience be damned.

"I doubt you have much to fear from the people here anymore," Emilie said, breaking his reverie. "Not after that little performance." She went past him to re-fill her glass. "Was their attention everything you'd dreamed it would be?"

"I didn't want their attention -"

"Then what did you want?" she snapped, facing him again. "Room and board up here at last? A salary not gained by coercion and blackmail, but honestly earned?"

"Perhaps," he replied, flustered at the turn her words had taken. That was, after all, part of the reason for giving them his opera. And why he'd emphasised that it had been he alone who'd brought Christine into their spotlight. He couldn't crush the gnawing insecurity that 'Don Juan' would be rejected and had reasoned if his composing failed him, he could instead be employed there as a teacher. After all, evidence of his work was there for all of them to see in Christine.

"Do you honestly think they'll perform it?" she asked, shaking her head in amazement at his naiveté.

"Why not?" he challenged, "It's certainly better than anything else they've tried to stage recently." And was years ahead of any of the other rubbish they regularly peddled to the unsuspecting masses.

"Our Patron will never let them accept it," she said. "He was ready to call you out tonight. If I'd left you two alone down there, God only knows what you might have done to one another with those swords." The very thought made her blood run cold and her stomach clench with fear.

"He's not in charge here -"

"And neither are you."

"He's nothing but a child."

"No," Emilie said firmly. "Christine is the child. The child you are pulling apart between you both."

"I'd never do anything to hurt her," he said, shocked that she would even think of such a thing. "She knows that."

"Then who was it that left a mark across the back of her neck tonight when he ripped a necklace from her throat?"

He turned from her at that, storming over to the fire, staring down into it. To think he'd harmed Christine again made his heart clench in pain. How could he have been so reckless? How could he have let his temper get the better of him, just as he had when he'd thrown her to the ground, when she'd removed his mask? But to have seen the clear evidence of her engagement to the Vicomte with his own eyes had filled him with a rage that couldn't be contained. He looked back at her. "You told me there'd been no formal engagement," he accused.

"As far as I knew, there hadn't been," she protested. "I didn't lie to you."

Even though he only scowled in reply, he did believe what she spoke was the truth. But what else had happened between Christine and the Vicomte that they knew nothing about. The thought threatened to tear the breath from his lungs.

She watched the myriad of emotions play across his face and knew exactly what he'd be thinking. There was everything to be gained from this moment of his doubt. And everything to lose too. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

Turning to refill her glass yet again, she was thankful for the numbness that was gradually seeping into her whole body. She very rarely drank to excess, but tonight she would most certainly make an exception to that rule. "If you really think they'll stage your opera, then you have truly lost your mind."

"And you've lost any control you ever thought you had over me," he shot back, grateful to fight with her, rather than follow the path his mind had taken. "She belongs to me. And no stupid trinket from the Vicomte can change that now."

"Unless, of course," Emilie said coldly, "that trinket changes very soon into a wedding ring."

Erik's eyes darkened. "I will die before I let that happen."

"I know," she replied quietly. And for once she did not even try to hide the misery in her eyes.