The soft music of an organ flowed through the wooden doors, slowly coaxing
Christine from her sleep. She stirred in the bed, turning onto her back as
the music surrounded her. With a soft breath her eyes slowly opened; her
forehead felt like it was on fire. Strands of her hair clung to the sides
of her face from a mixture of sweat and water. Her head swam with a slight
dizziness and her mouth was dry.
Christine slowly sat up. Her head pounded for a moment and she stopped, a hand flying to forehead. A folded towel tumbled off her brow as she touched it, landing on her lap. Christine picked it up, somewhat confused; the towel was almost dry. She looked around and noticed a small bowl filled with water, placed on a bedside table.
'Where am I?' Christine thought. She put the towel next to the bowl of water. Christine felt something stir around her feet. She pulled her legs up to her, frightened of what it might be. Christine quickly noticed a small Siamese cat, curled into a ball, sound a sleep on the blankets. 'That cat looks familiar. What happened last night?' Christine watched the cat for a moment, letting the memories of the night before spring to life. 'She belongs to that man I saw in the street, the one dressed for a masquerade. Maybe. . . . Maybe this is his home. He must have brought me here when I blacked out. Oh dear! This can't be true!'
The cat made a soft noise, causing Christine to cease her thoughts, but the feline didn't wake.
Christine smiled softly, comforted slightly by the sleeping cat. She pushed the covers off her and let out a startled gasped. She no longer wore the red dress from the night before but a soft off-white nightdress. Christine felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment of the thoughts that came. Unless the strange man had a female companion, the man had changed her himself. She grew frightened of the thought and even more so of the soft music playing around her.
Moving from the bed Christine pulled open the large wooden door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She was met by the soft organ music, which seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, as she crept from the room. Christine lifted her gown slightly and tiptoed across the cold, stone floor, afraid of making a sound. Her eyes wandered as she moved through the short hallway. There was nothing but stonewalls and a few candles placed for lighting. Christine slowly came to a stop as she passed through another set of doors. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat as her eyes took in what lay before her.
The main room of the unknown home seemed to open before her. A lavish fireplace sat against a wall, burning wood with a soft light and the soft snapping of burning wood nearly out sang the ghostly music. A Persian rug sat in front of the fireplace with books open and stacked up from an obvious late night of reading. An array of black and red velvet cushioned furniture graced the room itself. The only light, besides that of the fire, was that of low burning candles and oil lamps.
Christine fell onto the cushions of one of the extravagant couches with a soft smile and a sigh of comfort. A wave of warmth flowed over her; she didn't know if it was the night's fever or the warmth of the fire, but she didn't care nonetheless. She let her head fall against the back of the couch with a smile. Christine's mind slowly drifted away from the fear of the unknown man, but towards the fact that she was in complete luxury and comfort; it was like she was in a dream.
Time seemed to disappear as Christine began to wander the home she had woken in. She looked through rooms of books, art, and old sheets of music, seemingly put in far off rooms due to lack of use. A small area had been put to one side for a dinning and kitchen area. It looked neglected and tired, as if the strange man never bothered to eat. A few of the doors were locked, including the one in which the music seemed to flow from. She would pause for a moment and wonder what could behind those doors, her hand still lingering on the door's handle. Her imagination began to weave something from a fairy tale, so much so that Christine had to tear herself away from the doors and move along.
Christine soon found herself back in the main room. She had taken a liking to the Persian rug and the warmth of the fireplace. She spent her time petting the sleepy cat, which had suddenly appeared, and flipping through the books that had been set out. They were books on medicine, herbs, and illnesses; who ever the man was, he had his mind set on helping Christine back to full health. She was impressed by it all, despite the strange and ominous feeling she had. This man had taken her away to a house that didn't have a single window; there was something strange about it all.
"Good morning. I'm happy to see you're doing well."
Christine jumped in surprise, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She turned quickly, unable to stand for a moment, and looked towards a once closed door. It was the man she met what only felt like hours before. The hat and cloak he once wore were gone, revealing a slim, well-built figure and brown hair that curled around his ears. A simple porcelain mask covered the right side of his face, which held an elaborate opening for his soft brown eye. He wore full evening dress and a pair of white gloves that covered his long, thin fingers.
With a sudden intake of breath Christine struggled to her feet. She fixed the gown she wore, feeling her cheeks grow warm. Her eyes slowly shifted to Erik; a smile had shifted across his solemn face, giving him a warmer look. She felt a wave of ease flow over her as she saw the smile.
"How are you feeling?" Erik asked. He moved around the couch slowly, making sure he didn't frighten his guest. Erik made no sound as he moved over the rug or the stone floor. He looked at Christine and motioned towards the couch. "Please, sit. Your cold will get worse sitting on the floor."
Christine said nothing as she took Erik's suggestion. She watched as Erik disappeared from the room. She sat for a moment, wondering what was happening and was some what confused. Erik suddenly reappeared, brining in a tray of cups and a tea kettle. He placed it on the small table in front of the couch, positioning it for his ease. Erik began pouring the drinks, his eyes never coming in contact with Christine's. Christine, though, watched Erik's every movement in a daze. Her eyes were wide, not in fear but in child-like wonder as he moved his hands in a skilled manner.
Erik turned to give Christine a cup but stopped. Their eyes met for an instant, an instant which felt like an eternity to Erik. Christine's cheeks grew rosy and she turned her eyes abruptly. Erik felt the same feeling rising in him, but managed to subside it all.
"You should drink this." Erik said gently. Christine looked at him, somewhat frightened. Erik smiled, trying to coax her like a wounded animal. "It's just an old tea recipe from Persia. It will help your fever."
Christine took the cup and looked into it. With a soft breath she could smell the tea and lemon that had been boiled together, along with a few other spices. She smiled slightly and began to drink. Her eyes wandered to Erik as she did. Erik was putting a small bowl of soup onto the table and slowly gathering everything up. He hadn't touched the tea he had poured for himself.
As Erik stood to leave Christine put her cup down. "Thank you." she said, her voice soft and quivering. She looked up at Erik, who had paused for a moment, going rigid. He looked at her, a look of disbelief wandering through his eyes.
"Excuse me?" Erik asked, sitting and placing the tray back onto the table. His eyes were filled with confusion as he stared at Christine.
"I said thank you. The tea is really nice." Christine said. She lowered her eyes, her fingers beginning to wind themselves around the cuff of her gown. "I was amazed to find myself in good care when I woke. Actually I was frightened beyond belief, but when I saw your cat I felt a little safer; I remembered it from the night before. It isn't every day one wakes up in an unknown home, being taken care of and changed in new clothes. But. . . ." Christine's voice trailed off. She looked into Erik's eyes and noticed a strange twinkle that was urging her on. "When I heard that music," Christine whispered. "it made me feel that everything would be okay; that I was in good care. Your music is so soothing and beyond beautiful. I have been on the rug for hours, I believe, and just drifting along with your songs." She laughed nervously.
A smile crossed Erik's face, but quickly disappeared. His eyes lowered and he cleared his throat. "Thank you for those kind words. . . . ."
"Daae!" Christine said, interrupting. Her cheeks now had a child's rosy color to it. "My name is Christine Daae."
Erik nodded, as if he already knew what her name was. The memory of the young suitor, though, began racing through his head. The insolent and idiotic boy was on his way to send her flowers. Erik understood why; this young woman was beautiful beyond his imagination. He seemed happy with himself that he had destroyed the aristocrat's crush on the chorus girl. This young beauty was now his for the taking. Erik quickly pushed that thought out of his mind; he couldn't do such a thing. It wasn't in his nature.
With a smile Erik's eyes met with Christine's. "My name is Erik."
Christine smiled softly. "That's a beautiful name." Her fingers soon began to trace the rim of her tea cup. "A suitable name for such a talented man. It seems that you enjoy music. I do as well, so much so that I'm a chorus girl for the city's opera house. I do ballet also." She lifted her eyes to Erik. "Have you ever been to the Opera House?"
Erik had to stop himself from laughing. He knew, though, that no one in the opera's company truly knew who he was. Erik had made sure that he was only seen when he chose to. The young ballet girls were the ones he took joy in scaring. Their high-pitched screams made him laugh even harder as he watched them run in every direction. As he thought, Erik had never once spotted Christine amongst the girls. He had always considered they stayed together.
"Yes," Erik replied with a smile. "I go to the Opera for every performance."
Christine's eyes widened in amazement. "Every performance? You must be a man of high class! What box do you own? You must own one!" Slowly she began to ramble on. "I haven't met a single regular who doesn't own a box in the theatre. It would cost so much if you bought a regular ticket for every performance."
"Box five." Erik said without much thought.
A sudden silence settled between them. Christine stared at Erik with a blank expression. She blinked, unable to respond. Erik averted his eyes to the fireplace, cursing to himself softly for being such an idiot. The way Christine had looked at him, though, caused his memories to stir. He slowly began to remember the torments he received from the children near his home and the way the young girls would run and scream when he'd look at them. Through the years he had taken enjoyment of their screams, but hid himself from their eyes. Now Christine was staring at him with an expression he would see before the young girls would begin to scream those years ago.
"You own box five?" Christine asked, managing to regain her voice. Her hand took hold of her cup and she took a quick drink. "I was told that box five is owned by. . . ."
"The Opera Ghost?" Erik asked. A soft smile of pride came across his lips. He saw the disbelief cross Christine's face. He laughed softly. "Believe me, Mademoiselle; I am anything but a ghost."
Christine clasped her hands together and she placed them in her lap. Her eyes stared into Erik's, studying them and, in turn, studying the mask he wore. "Who are you, then? Many crew people have watched the door to box five. The only person ever to be seen entering that box was Madame Giry. How do get there without being seen?"
Erik's mind began to work quickly. A story of mystery and music began to fill his mind, but he turned that away. He wished to tell her the truth, but lying seemed too tempting. Could he lie to Christine though? If he told her, would she believe him, or find out the lie? He only had one of finding out.
"I am. . . . I am like an angel, Christine. I'm rarely seen." Erik spoke gently, hoping and praying that Christine would believe him, even in the slightest way.
"The Angel of Music." Christine breathed. Her eyes seemed to soften as she seemed to slip into a memory. "My father told me of an angel who bore the title of the Angel of Music. This angel would aid those worthy enough, whether it was writing, singing, or playing music. My father said that the Angel will find me and help me. Please, will you teach me to sing?"
Erik gave Christine a quizzical look. As he looked at Christine's childlike face, he felt his own doubt and morals diminish. She truly thought that Erik was an angel; not just any angel, but an angel of music. His simple lie had grown, but in a way he was an angel of music. He could teacher her and with teaching her, be with her.
Cautiously Erik wrapped his gloved hands around hers. He smiled softly when Christine didn't pull away in fear. "You wish for me to teach you?" Erik asked.
Christine nodded eagerly. "Yes! Please! I will do anything you ask if it would mean you teaching me." Her hands tightened around Erik's, her eyes peering into Erik's. "My dream is to sing with a voice that could make a person weep. Father told me that it was possible if I could find a teacher." With a quivering hand Christine touched Erik's cheek lightly. "I may have found a teacher who just happens to be the Angel of Music."
Erik suddenly pulled away, standing quickly. He couldn't do this; he couldn't teach her. Erik had helped her but had helplessly fallen for her and now she was close enough to kiss. All she wanted was to be taught by the Angel of Music and Erik was the one she thought to be the Angel.
Erik had frightened her with the sudden movement, but Christine hid the emotion well. She looked up at Erik who returned the soft gaze. "Will you teach me?" Christine asked again.
Slowly Erik looked down at Christine, meeting her gaze. Her light brown eyes looked up at him, begging him to oblige her simple request. With a simple smile Erik felt his fears melt away and only saw that Christine was the angel he had been looking for himself.
"I will teach you but it will on my conditions." Erik said, finally breaking through his silence. He took a seat, this time further from Christine. "You must devote yourself to your teachings and not let anyone interfere. We will rehearse in your dressing room almost every night; a few lessons will be taught here as well."
"When will you arrive? I can see to it that no one is with me." Christine asked.
Erik shook his head. "You will only hear my voice, but I will show myself when needed." Erik looked into Christine's eyes; she looked a little more than confused. He smiled softly, watching as a smile soon spread over the girl's face. "I am your protector, Christine. Under my guidance you will sing like an angel. And I," Erik lightly touched Christine's cheek, "will lift you to the clouds of heaven."
Christine smiled happily and took Erik's hand into her own. Tears of joy welled up in her eyes and began to trail down her rosy cheeks. With a slender finger Erik wiped them away.
Christine slowly sat up. Her head pounded for a moment and she stopped, a hand flying to forehead. A folded towel tumbled off her brow as she touched it, landing on her lap. Christine picked it up, somewhat confused; the towel was almost dry. She looked around and noticed a small bowl filled with water, placed on a bedside table.
'Where am I?' Christine thought. She put the towel next to the bowl of water. Christine felt something stir around her feet. She pulled her legs up to her, frightened of what it might be. Christine quickly noticed a small Siamese cat, curled into a ball, sound a sleep on the blankets. 'That cat looks familiar. What happened last night?' Christine watched the cat for a moment, letting the memories of the night before spring to life. 'She belongs to that man I saw in the street, the one dressed for a masquerade. Maybe. . . . Maybe this is his home. He must have brought me here when I blacked out. Oh dear! This can't be true!'
The cat made a soft noise, causing Christine to cease her thoughts, but the feline didn't wake.
Christine smiled softly, comforted slightly by the sleeping cat. She pushed the covers off her and let out a startled gasped. She no longer wore the red dress from the night before but a soft off-white nightdress. Christine felt her cheeks grow warm with embarrassment of the thoughts that came. Unless the strange man had a female companion, the man had changed her himself. She grew frightened of the thought and even more so of the soft music playing around her.
Moving from the bed Christine pulled open the large wooden door and was surprised to find it unlocked. She was met by the soft organ music, which seemed to emanate from the walls themselves, as she crept from the room. Christine lifted her gown slightly and tiptoed across the cold, stone floor, afraid of making a sound. Her eyes wandered as she moved through the short hallway. There was nothing but stonewalls and a few candles placed for lighting. Christine slowly came to a stop as she passed through another set of doors. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped a beat as her eyes took in what lay before her.
The main room of the unknown home seemed to open before her. A lavish fireplace sat against a wall, burning wood with a soft light and the soft snapping of burning wood nearly out sang the ghostly music. A Persian rug sat in front of the fireplace with books open and stacked up from an obvious late night of reading. An array of black and red velvet cushioned furniture graced the room itself. The only light, besides that of the fire, was that of low burning candles and oil lamps.
Christine fell onto the cushions of one of the extravagant couches with a soft smile and a sigh of comfort. A wave of warmth flowed over her; she didn't know if it was the night's fever or the warmth of the fire, but she didn't care nonetheless. She let her head fall against the back of the couch with a smile. Christine's mind slowly drifted away from the fear of the unknown man, but towards the fact that she was in complete luxury and comfort; it was like she was in a dream.
Time seemed to disappear as Christine began to wander the home she had woken in. She looked through rooms of books, art, and old sheets of music, seemingly put in far off rooms due to lack of use. A small area had been put to one side for a dinning and kitchen area. It looked neglected and tired, as if the strange man never bothered to eat. A few of the doors were locked, including the one in which the music seemed to flow from. She would pause for a moment and wonder what could behind those doors, her hand still lingering on the door's handle. Her imagination began to weave something from a fairy tale, so much so that Christine had to tear herself away from the doors and move along.
Christine soon found herself back in the main room. She had taken a liking to the Persian rug and the warmth of the fireplace. She spent her time petting the sleepy cat, which had suddenly appeared, and flipping through the books that had been set out. They were books on medicine, herbs, and illnesses; who ever the man was, he had his mind set on helping Christine back to full health. She was impressed by it all, despite the strange and ominous feeling she had. This man had taken her away to a house that didn't have a single window; there was something strange about it all.
"Good morning. I'm happy to see you're doing well."
Christine jumped in surprise, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She turned quickly, unable to stand for a moment, and looked towards a once closed door. It was the man she met what only felt like hours before. The hat and cloak he once wore were gone, revealing a slim, well-built figure and brown hair that curled around his ears. A simple porcelain mask covered the right side of his face, which held an elaborate opening for his soft brown eye. He wore full evening dress and a pair of white gloves that covered his long, thin fingers.
With a sudden intake of breath Christine struggled to her feet. She fixed the gown she wore, feeling her cheeks grow warm. Her eyes slowly shifted to Erik; a smile had shifted across his solemn face, giving him a warmer look. She felt a wave of ease flow over her as she saw the smile.
"How are you feeling?" Erik asked. He moved around the couch slowly, making sure he didn't frighten his guest. Erik made no sound as he moved over the rug or the stone floor. He looked at Christine and motioned towards the couch. "Please, sit. Your cold will get worse sitting on the floor."
Christine said nothing as she took Erik's suggestion. She watched as Erik disappeared from the room. She sat for a moment, wondering what was happening and was some what confused. Erik suddenly reappeared, brining in a tray of cups and a tea kettle. He placed it on the small table in front of the couch, positioning it for his ease. Erik began pouring the drinks, his eyes never coming in contact with Christine's. Christine, though, watched Erik's every movement in a daze. Her eyes were wide, not in fear but in child-like wonder as he moved his hands in a skilled manner.
Erik turned to give Christine a cup but stopped. Their eyes met for an instant, an instant which felt like an eternity to Erik. Christine's cheeks grew rosy and she turned her eyes abruptly. Erik felt the same feeling rising in him, but managed to subside it all.
"You should drink this." Erik said gently. Christine looked at him, somewhat frightened. Erik smiled, trying to coax her like a wounded animal. "It's just an old tea recipe from Persia. It will help your fever."
Christine took the cup and looked into it. With a soft breath she could smell the tea and lemon that had been boiled together, along with a few other spices. She smiled slightly and began to drink. Her eyes wandered to Erik as she did. Erik was putting a small bowl of soup onto the table and slowly gathering everything up. He hadn't touched the tea he had poured for himself.
As Erik stood to leave Christine put her cup down. "Thank you." she said, her voice soft and quivering. She looked up at Erik, who had paused for a moment, going rigid. He looked at her, a look of disbelief wandering through his eyes.
"Excuse me?" Erik asked, sitting and placing the tray back onto the table. His eyes were filled with confusion as he stared at Christine.
"I said thank you. The tea is really nice." Christine said. She lowered her eyes, her fingers beginning to wind themselves around the cuff of her gown. "I was amazed to find myself in good care when I woke. Actually I was frightened beyond belief, but when I saw your cat I felt a little safer; I remembered it from the night before. It isn't every day one wakes up in an unknown home, being taken care of and changed in new clothes. But. . . ." Christine's voice trailed off. She looked into Erik's eyes and noticed a strange twinkle that was urging her on. "When I heard that music," Christine whispered. "it made me feel that everything would be okay; that I was in good care. Your music is so soothing and beyond beautiful. I have been on the rug for hours, I believe, and just drifting along with your songs." She laughed nervously.
A smile crossed Erik's face, but quickly disappeared. His eyes lowered and he cleared his throat. "Thank you for those kind words. . . . ."
"Daae!" Christine said, interrupting. Her cheeks now had a child's rosy color to it. "My name is Christine Daae."
Erik nodded, as if he already knew what her name was. The memory of the young suitor, though, began racing through his head. The insolent and idiotic boy was on his way to send her flowers. Erik understood why; this young woman was beautiful beyond his imagination. He seemed happy with himself that he had destroyed the aristocrat's crush on the chorus girl. This young beauty was now his for the taking. Erik quickly pushed that thought out of his mind; he couldn't do such a thing. It wasn't in his nature.
With a smile Erik's eyes met with Christine's. "My name is Erik."
Christine smiled softly. "That's a beautiful name." Her fingers soon began to trace the rim of her tea cup. "A suitable name for such a talented man. It seems that you enjoy music. I do as well, so much so that I'm a chorus girl for the city's opera house. I do ballet also." She lifted her eyes to Erik. "Have you ever been to the Opera House?"
Erik had to stop himself from laughing. He knew, though, that no one in the opera's company truly knew who he was. Erik had made sure that he was only seen when he chose to. The young ballet girls were the ones he took joy in scaring. Their high-pitched screams made him laugh even harder as he watched them run in every direction. As he thought, Erik had never once spotted Christine amongst the girls. He had always considered they stayed together.
"Yes," Erik replied with a smile. "I go to the Opera for every performance."
Christine's eyes widened in amazement. "Every performance? You must be a man of high class! What box do you own? You must own one!" Slowly she began to ramble on. "I haven't met a single regular who doesn't own a box in the theatre. It would cost so much if you bought a regular ticket for every performance."
"Box five." Erik said without much thought.
A sudden silence settled between them. Christine stared at Erik with a blank expression. She blinked, unable to respond. Erik averted his eyes to the fireplace, cursing to himself softly for being such an idiot. The way Christine had looked at him, though, caused his memories to stir. He slowly began to remember the torments he received from the children near his home and the way the young girls would run and scream when he'd look at them. Through the years he had taken enjoyment of their screams, but hid himself from their eyes. Now Christine was staring at him with an expression he would see before the young girls would begin to scream those years ago.
"You own box five?" Christine asked, managing to regain her voice. Her hand took hold of her cup and she took a quick drink. "I was told that box five is owned by. . . ."
"The Opera Ghost?" Erik asked. A soft smile of pride came across his lips. He saw the disbelief cross Christine's face. He laughed softly. "Believe me, Mademoiselle; I am anything but a ghost."
Christine clasped her hands together and she placed them in her lap. Her eyes stared into Erik's, studying them and, in turn, studying the mask he wore. "Who are you, then? Many crew people have watched the door to box five. The only person ever to be seen entering that box was Madame Giry. How do get there without being seen?"
Erik's mind began to work quickly. A story of mystery and music began to fill his mind, but he turned that away. He wished to tell her the truth, but lying seemed too tempting. Could he lie to Christine though? If he told her, would she believe him, or find out the lie? He only had one of finding out.
"I am. . . . I am like an angel, Christine. I'm rarely seen." Erik spoke gently, hoping and praying that Christine would believe him, even in the slightest way.
"The Angel of Music." Christine breathed. Her eyes seemed to soften as she seemed to slip into a memory. "My father told me of an angel who bore the title of the Angel of Music. This angel would aid those worthy enough, whether it was writing, singing, or playing music. My father said that the Angel will find me and help me. Please, will you teach me to sing?"
Erik gave Christine a quizzical look. As he looked at Christine's childlike face, he felt his own doubt and morals diminish. She truly thought that Erik was an angel; not just any angel, but an angel of music. His simple lie had grown, but in a way he was an angel of music. He could teacher her and with teaching her, be with her.
Cautiously Erik wrapped his gloved hands around hers. He smiled softly when Christine didn't pull away in fear. "You wish for me to teach you?" Erik asked.
Christine nodded eagerly. "Yes! Please! I will do anything you ask if it would mean you teaching me." Her hands tightened around Erik's, her eyes peering into Erik's. "My dream is to sing with a voice that could make a person weep. Father told me that it was possible if I could find a teacher." With a quivering hand Christine touched Erik's cheek lightly. "I may have found a teacher who just happens to be the Angel of Music."
Erik suddenly pulled away, standing quickly. He couldn't do this; he couldn't teach her. Erik had helped her but had helplessly fallen for her and now she was close enough to kiss. All she wanted was to be taught by the Angel of Music and Erik was the one she thought to be the Angel.
Erik had frightened her with the sudden movement, but Christine hid the emotion well. She looked up at Erik who returned the soft gaze. "Will you teach me?" Christine asked again.
Slowly Erik looked down at Christine, meeting her gaze. Her light brown eyes looked up at him, begging him to oblige her simple request. With a simple smile Erik felt his fears melt away and only saw that Christine was the angel he had been looking for himself.
"I will teach you but it will on my conditions." Erik said, finally breaking through his silence. He took a seat, this time further from Christine. "You must devote yourself to your teachings and not let anyone interfere. We will rehearse in your dressing room almost every night; a few lessons will be taught here as well."
"When will you arrive? I can see to it that no one is with me." Christine asked.
Erik shook his head. "You will only hear my voice, but I will show myself when needed." Erik looked into Christine's eyes; she looked a little more than confused. He smiled softly, watching as a smile soon spread over the girl's face. "I am your protector, Christine. Under my guidance you will sing like an angel. And I," Erik lightly touched Christine's cheek, "will lift you to the clouds of heaven."
Christine smiled happily and took Erik's hand into her own. Tears of joy welled up in her eyes and began to trail down her rosy cheeks. With a slender finger Erik wiped them away.