Disclaimer: Oops. Forgot to credit this in the last chapter. Tom Chandler is a name I was hoping someone might pick out as being a character from a British soap, but I guess most of you guys are in the US :) Chandler is a Superintendent in the police drama "The Bill" which personally I adore, and even though Chandler's a bit of a creep, I adore him too :)
Carmen is the opera used throughout the rest of the fic (inspired by a beautiful performance I recently saw in Prague) and that, its storyline and its characters, belong to Bizet. (And no, I don't know an awful lot about opera - if there's no way on earth Christine could sing Carmen, do let me know, and I'll change it :) But I figured, Carmen's not an alto, only a mezzo ... I'm rambling. Let me know :) )
A/N - I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, but the combination of family problems, a ten day trip to Germany, and writer's block all conspired against me at the same time. Sorry!
T'eyla Minh - the Mme. Giry fic. Oh, dear. I've been asked this a million times, so I suppose it's best to announce it here. Basically, the short answer is ... no. I can't seem to get inspired to continue it - I do have some of the rest of it written, but at the moment I just can't get myself worked up to finish it - this and some other unfinished fics are commanding all my attention for the moment. It will be updated at some stage - but probably not in the near future. And Legacy - I got my copy off eBay. It's a good book if you like that sort of thing (personally, I adore Tudor history, so it's great for me) but it's not quite as good as Phantom. In my opinion :)
panther7x - Thanks for the advice :) Very much appreciated. Basically, the reason Erik's been being so nice is that everything that happened at the end of the musical completely emotionally destroyed him - and he's still apprehensive about being around Christine, he's desperate not to make the same mistakes again because he can't bear the thought of losing her. I will try to make him a bit more IC for the rest of the fic, though :)
Christine shifted in her seat to look around the room. It looked a lot better than it had done yesterday; Erik must have been up all night trying to make the place fit for habitation again.
Erik handed her a cup of tea.
"Thank you," she murmured. For a moment, there was an awkward silence, and Christine reflected with brief misery that Erik seemed less at ease with her than he had ever been. All morning he had been quiet, courteous, and utterly withdrawn, impossible to talk to about anything that didn't pertain exactly to the Opera.
"Have you been watching the auditions?" she asked timidly in an effort to break the silence.
Erik looked up briefly then looked quickly away from her as if embarrassed.
"No," he said shortly. "Which opera are they doing?"
"Carmen."
He looked up at her in surprise. "With you as Micaela?"
She clasped her fingers together. "No ... they want me to have a try at Carmen."
Erik frowned. "She's too low for you."
Christine shook her head. "No ... we thought she might be, but Monsieur Reyer and I had a quick look at the score and we think I should be able to manage it, as long as we work on my lower register."
He glanced briefly over the score and closed it on the piano. "I'm not happy about this. Carmen won't show off your voice as your part ought to."
"Erik ... not every opera we put on has to be simply for the purpose of showcasing my voice," she said gently.
He turned away from her, picking up the score again. "A voice like yours ought to be displayed to its fullest advantage," he said coolly. "Giving you a role which was written for a mezzo-soprano is nothing short of insulting!"
Christine sighed. Erik always took every decision made regarding her and her voice so personally - perhaps Carmen was no Mimi or Aida. But it was a good part, and it would be interesting to play a heroine with a little spirit.
She remained silent, twisting her hands unconsciously in the folds of her skirt.
He turned back to her at last, and she was conscious of the depth of effort he called upon to pull himself together.
"Have you begun work on any of the music yet?"
Christine breathed again in relief, spreading the sheet music flat on the piano.
"No ... there haven't been any official rehearsals yet, so ..."
"All right." Erik turned away from her and began to leaf through the score. "Do you want to try your first entry?"
"Havanaise?"
He nodded and played a brief phrase on the piano, his lips moving silently as he reacquainted himself with the piece. "You know the music?"
Christine glanced over the sheet of music and nodded.
"All right." He picked up a sheet of music and set it on the piano, giving her a starting note. "Start from 'Love is a rebellious bird' and take it from there to the end of the next verse. I'll give you two bars introduction."
Christine took a deep breath as Erik played the introduction, barely seeming to glance at the score as the music came, as naturally and easily as water from a spring.
"Love is a rebellious bird
that nobody can tame,
and it's useless to call him
if he doesn't feel like answering you!
Nothing is any use, threats or prayers,
one speaks sweet words, another is silent,
it is the other I prefer,
he says nothing but I like him."
Erik nodded in apparent satisfaction. "Good. How does that feel?"
Christine hesitated. Erik smiled and nodded, searching for another sheet of music in one of the meticulously neat piles covering the piano.
"It will feel strange for a while, you're not used to singing a whole piece pitched quite that low. You'll get used to it." He paused, glancing up at her and looking quickly away, and she sensed that there was something else he wanted to say but couldn't quite gather the courage to.
He looked back at the piano. "All right," he said, all business once again, producing another sheet of music. "Let's try these."
Christine took the paper, glancing curiously over it. "This isn't Carmen," she said in surprise.
"It will help you get used to your lower register," Erik said absently, folding sheets of music and tidying them into piles. Christine, glancing over his shoulder, caught sight of her name heading one of the sheets. Erik stared at it for a moment, then, looking away, folded it and pushed it to the bottom of one of the piles.
Christine's curiosity was piqued.
"What's that, Erik?"
He didn't look up at her. "Nothing of importance," he said softly. He shook himself, and glanced up at her. "Do you want to try the havanaise again?"
"All right," Christine agreed, slightly confused. She had known Erik wrote music for her, but this was the first time he had refused to allow her to see it. Usually his music was for her to sing ...
"Try the first verse again," he instructed, beginning the introduction. "Be careful of that first bar, it sets the tone for the rest of the piece."
Christine took a deep breath and began.
"Love is a rebellious bird
that nobody can tame ..."
An alarm went off. Christine jumped and dropped her music, taking an instinctive step closer to Erik. He rose automatically, his eyes suddenly taking on a hunted look, every muscle in his body suddenly tensed wire-taut. Christine looked fearfully to him.
"Erik, what's ..."
"Shh." He took a step forward, his hand moving briefly in front of him, and the lights went out. Christine waited in silence for a moment, before -
"I'm sorry, Erik, I didn't mean to set it off, I tripped over that damn cat ..."
She felt Erik relax, heard him laugh, and at a gesture from his hand, the lights came back on.
A man she recognised as the Persian who spent a lot of time at the Opera entered, stopping dead as he caught sight of Christine.
"Christine," he said quickly, his voice low and urgent, his eyes flickering from her to Erik. "Are you all right?"
Christine laughed nervously, confused. "Yes, thank you ... I'm fine ..."
She could feel Erik smile wryly behind her. "I think our lesson is just about concluded for today, don't you, my dear? Why don't you let yourself out, and I'll see you tomorrow."
Still confused, Christine nodded and, taking her cloak, left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once outside, she crouched down in the shadows to listen to their conversation.
The Persian's voice first, low, suspicious.
"What's going on, Erik?"
Erik's voice, guarded, deliberately calm.
"I should have thought that was moderately obvious, daroga. Even someone with as little musical training as you must recognise a singing lesson when they see it."
"Don't try and deflect me, Erik. What is going on?"
Christine heard Erik sigh and move across the room.
"It's really very simple, Nadir. Christine is an opera singer; she needs a good tutor. And while it is perhaps arrogant to describe myself as such, I happen to be the best person for the job." She heard him close the piano lid. "That's all."
"It's not quite all, though, is it, Erik?"
There was a brief pause, and Christine could sense Erik withdrawing into himself. His voice, when it came, was like ice.
"No? I'm afraid I'm missing your meaning, daroga ... do enlighten me."
The Persian sighed, and Christine could feel his frustration at Erik's wilful misunderstanding.
"Why are you doing this to yourself?"
Erik didn't reply. Christine could hear him shuffling sheets of music on the piano and recognised it as an displacement tactic to prevent his having to answer. This was Erik at his worst; defensive, withdrawn, and utterly impossible to get a straight answer from.
"This isn't going to help you get over her, you know," the Persian said finally. "It can't be healthy for you."
"Perhaps one day she'll kill me," said Erik, his voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "What a loss that would be."
"Don't be flippant, Erik," the Persian said sharply. "She's not worth this."
Christine heard Erik turn, could almost feel the fury rising in his voice.
"Much as it apparently entertains you to interfere in things which do not concern you, Nadir, I might advise keeping your opinions to yourself - nobody wants to hear them, and it might prove infinitely more prudent so far as your health is concerned."
"Tell me why she's worth it, then." Christine silently marvelled at the audacity of a man who was either very brave or very stupid to wilfully provoke Erik's anger like this. "Explain to me just why she is worth risking everything you have built up in the last fifteen years - you can't believe you're the only person out there with the capacity to teach her."
She heard Erik sigh, his anger dissipating. There was a long pause before he spoke, and when he did, the words were unexpectedly reasoned, and just a little sad.
"Do you know, Nadir, she has no idea just how beautiful she is? Or how extraordinarily talented? And the reason she doesn't know is because no one is that whole Godforsaken Opera House cares enough to tell her!"
A pause.
"And that's my job. I am the one to tell her, the one to ensure she can be what she should. And I won't relinquish her incredible talent to the vultures up above who only care for her voice in relation to what it can bring them!"
"And you?" The Persian's voice didn't sound suspicious anymore, only faintly sad. "You only care for her in the capacity of ...?"
Christine heard Erik begin to laugh, very softly, utterly without humour.
"Very clever, Nadir," he said quietly. "But you're forgetting one thing. I'm not one of your petty Mazenderan convicts. I will not be trapped like that. I am her current tutor - and so far as you or anyone else is concerned, that is where my interest in her begins and ends."
Christine closed her eyes and balled her hands to fists in the folds of her skirt.
She heard the Persian sigh.
"Be careful, Erik ..." he said quietly. "Nothing's changed so far as her feelings for you are concerned, you know."
There was a long silence.
"I think you've said quite enough," said Erik, very quietly, suddenly sounding very tired. "You know the way out."
"Erik ..."
There was another long silence, then Christine heard the door opening and shrank back into the shadows. The Persian disappeared down a narrow corridor with the confidence of long familiarity, and Christine knelt outside the door for a moment longer, wondering whether she dared go back in.
As she hesitated, there came a sudden crash from inside, startling her so badly that she dropped her music onto the sandy floor. As she knelt to retrieve it, she peeked nervously round the door.
She saw the shattered remains of the vase which Erik had evidently hurled into the cold black marble of the fireplace, saw him, standing with his back to her, pull a hand back through his hair in a gesture of hopeless futility.
He turned slightly, staring hopelessly round at the room, then, sinking to his knees, covered his face with his hands as his body began to shake with silent anguish.
Christine remained still for a moment longer, her hand lingering on the doorknob.
Oh God, tell me what to do ...
She took one final look into the room; Erik still knelt motionless on the floor, one hand clenched to a fist, the other covering his face.
She rose and began to make her way down the corridor to the outside door. Once outside, she glanced around the teeming street for a moment before pulling up her hood to cover her hair and stepping out of the shadows to join the crowds.
A hand fell lightly on her shoulder, and she jumped, dropping her music again. A hand reached down and picked it up, offering it back to her.
"May I speak with you?"