Chapter 5. Confession Part I
Erik stared after Christine, nonplussed at this uncharacteristic display of temper on her part. Suddenly this comfortable room where they had spent so much of their time together was unbearably painful. He rose and soundlessly followed her, to stand outside her door. Leaning forward, Erik lightly placed his hand on the carved gothic arches set into the paneled door. He could detect no sound from within her chamber, and he would be damned if he would enter without her permission. Irritably, Erik stalked away to the foyer, swirled his cloak around his shoulders and retrieved his hat. Perhaps the cold air of the outside world would clear his thoughts.
For an hour or more he stood hidden in the shadows on the vast roof of the Opera, excoriating himself for every harsh word, until the biting air cooled his temper. Christine's return had reclaimed him from the morass of despair and self-hatred in which he had become mired. She had come to him again and again. Why was he forcing her to prove her devotion, her caring? Was he punishing her for crimes of the past—for betrayal and abandonment?
Unwilling to return to his home, and aware his black attire made him unacceptably visible against the snow, Erik chose to leave through the Rue Scribe entrance and walked along the sidewalks in the chill growing shadows of the afternoon. He was gone for some time, skulking the nearly vacant streets of Paris until he found what he sought, then returned swiftly to his lair.
Christine did not answer his soft tap on her bedroom door, so he cautiously stepped into her bedroom. The sounds of rushing water in the small private bathroom he had arranged for her met his ears. All the better, he thought, and carefully placed his gift on her dressing table where he knew she would see it and accept it for his apology. Erik paused a minute, noting the small signs of her presence in his home, in his life; a novel face down on the carpet by the fire, a scattering of hairpins across the dressing table, her little slippers side by side under the edge of the bed. He smiled very faintly; it was his turn to make an overture of reconciliation.
Christine emerged from the bath, wrapped well in a towel against the possibly chill air of her bedroom. Stepping through the doorway, a faint blend of scents pulsed toward her; sandalwood overlaid by the sweeter essence of rose. Erik had been here; she could almost reach out and touch the unseen specter of his presence.
Lying across the mirrored glass tray on her dressing table was a dark red rose bud, so dark a red it was nearly black. It was winter in Paris, such fragile blossoms were costly. It was also daylight in Paris; Erik must have braved the public streets and shops to find it for her. Gently, she lifted the rosebud, stroking the velvety petals and inhaling the sweet scent. With no need of words, Christine could hear his unspoken plea for forgiveness. She kissed the upturned tips of the bud, then laid it aside to dress quickly.
Coming out of her room, Christine carried the dark red rose. She stepped through the open door of his study, seeking him. The wide desk, set into a niche in the wall was untended; the room was cold and acrid with the scent of the ashes choking the hearth.
Continuing her search, Christine entered the library music room, past the pair of brass griffins that held open the heavy doors with their carved gothic traceries and looked about for her Angel. Erik was seated in his heavy black chair, long legs stuck out toward the blaze, hands steepled together. He had not heard her enter and she watched his unguarded face, lined and weary in the low flames of the gaslights. "Erik?" she whispered tenderly, her voice carrying easily.
He turned uncertainly and Christine gave him her softest look, raising the rose to her face, inhaling its sweet scent. She wore one of the gowns he had chosen for her of soft blue and her hair hung in loose damp curls down her back. She was unbearably beautiful.
Do not be angry with me, his eyes implored, and she smiled. "I thought it was getting late. Erik, you did promise to take me up to the roof to see the snow. Could we go there now, before it gets dark?"
"You will become chilled," he pointed out, relieved. "It is very cold outside."
Stubbornly, she shook her head. "I've haven't seen this much snow since I was but a little girl, and I've never seen snow from the Opera roof."
Erik allowed his face to soften briefly. "All right. Put on your outdoor things."
He led her up the narrow staircase passages to the side of the Opera leeward of the wind. They stepped carefully out along the broad sloped roof line of the Opera house and she immediately slipped, clutching for his hand with a gasp. Erik caught her firmly.
"Christine," he said, oddly formal, "I am afraid you will fall, for it is rather icy up here. If you insist upon coming up, you will need to stand close by me."
She tilted her head back and nodded at him, stepping into his embrace. Slowly, his arms came up around her, and he enveloped her in his heavy cloak as well, remembering how thin her own was. Erik stood stiffly apart from her. As the heat from his body slowly warmed through her, Christine relaxed. He felt her tension ease and to his shock, felt her settle back against him with a faint sigh of contentment. Slowly, Erik transferred the edges of his cloak to one hand and cautiously moved the other arm around her waist. Christine let her head rest on his broad shoulder, her temple lying against his masked cheek, and he held very still, savoring the moment. She was so close he could smell the sweet scent of her herbal bath soap and the faint touch of perfume she must have put on. They stood together long minutes, suspended from the ordinary world below, and slowly, tentatively, Christine felt his arm tighten about her. With a soft smile she covered his hand with her own, lacing her fingers through his, holding him to her. His steady heartbeat resonated against her back; his breath pulsed softly against her cheek.
Erik felt a glimmer of blind hope flicker among the embers of his dreams, deep in his heart. Christine leaned against him, trusting him to hold her in safety, her slender fingers absently stroking the back of his own hand.
The setting sun hung a sullen, angry red-orange in the sky, casting purple shadows on the snow which blanketed the city and frosted the ornate buildings. The trees etched a tracery of black lace against the nearly white sky. From the street below came the distant sounds of horses' hooves and the faint tinny sounds of peoples' voices. Erik rubbed his cheek gently against her hair. "Are you ready to go back in?"
With a sigh she straightened, reluctantly leaving his arms. "I suppose so. It must be nearly dinner time by now."
They walked back to the underground house in silence, each soberly wrapped in their own thoughts. In one accord they entered the kitchen together, and Erik found she had spent the time of his afternoon absence preparing their evening meal. With a compliment for the tantalizing smells issuing from the oven he left her to the final preparations. Erik went into the dining room, clearing the table of its candelabra. When Christine entered a few minutes later, she found the austere room transformed. A fine pale open-work linen cloth adorned the mahogany table, graced by thin, nearly-translucent china and fragile crystal. Gleaming silver caught the light from the ice-white candles he had lit, and she found a bottle of vintage wine cooling in a bucket of snow. The heavy silver candelabrum had been placed at the far end of the table, which was set for two.
Christine looked up at him, hope and uncertainty in her luminous blue eyes. "Erik," she breathed, "are you joining me for dinner?"
He nodded stiffly, suddenly uncertain. "If my presence does not displease you."
She walked toward him, smiling radiantly. "Of course not. Will you help me bring in the dishes from the kitchen?"
After the serving dishes had been placed on the heavy sideboard Erik turned to her.
"My lady?" he said quietly, his dark eyes smiling down at her. Christine offered him her hand and he took it, barely brushing her fingers with his own as he escorted her to the high-backed mahogany chair and seated her with a flourish.
She watched his graceful movements as he poured them each a glass of dark red wine and sat, partially hidden by the shadows. Christine picked up her fork and frowned at him. "Erik?" she questioned softly.
For a long minute he said nothing, sitting paralyzed with trepidation. Slowly, he lifted shaking hands and slid away the straps that secured the mask to his head. Christine's eyes met his steadily, betraying no fear or loathing at the sight of his ravaged features. Erik reached out, gripping her fingers tightly, his soul, and his face, bare before her.