CHAPTER SEVEN

(In which our heroine endures more unpleasant surprises)

I slept badly that night, but not because of dreams. I had gone to the masquerade intending some sort of resolution, even if only in explaining myself to Raoul. Instead, I had explained nothing, resolved nothing. Raoul said that Mama Valerius told him I was with the Angel of Music: to whom else has she said that? Did the management believe me lost or mad? Even should I leave Erik and return to the world above, would there be a place for me to return to?

By the time my candle burned out, I had half-persuaded myself I did not care. Raoul would easily believe that I had taunted and toyed with him after all, and my acquaintance among the chorus and the dancers would give me up soon enough. Mama Valerius…well, I would think of something, because I could not abandon her. But the rest, I told myself, I could. Let some other woman triumph upon the stage. I would sing for an audience of one in the deepest cellars.

I cannot know how much of this Erik knew, or guessed. Certainly, he startled me the following morning.

"Good morning, Christine." Erik did not look up from the small box he held in one hand, merely shut it and made it vanish somewhere into the folds of his cloak. "I trust you slept well."

"Well enough." Christine hesitated, but when Erik did not ask further, she entered the room. A small pot of coffee or tea sat steaming next to a plate of muffins, the same sort of breakfast to which she'd awakened every morning for two weeks, as if last night had not occurred at all and nothing had changed. Except something had changed indeed, or else Erik would not be dressed to go out.

Erik waited until she had poured herself a cup of coffee, then said, "Forgive me, but your discussion with the Vicomte last night. All is settled?"

Christine spooned sugar into her coffee, then stirred it. She could still feel Erik's eyes upon her. She could delay until the end of the world, she thought darkly, and Erik would still wait. "I…I hope so," she said at last.

Soft sound of breath being let out. Then Erik said, "Christine."

She looked up from her coffee.

"I…would you wear this?"

With a magician's turn of the hand, he offered her a golden ring. A wedding ring. But not an offer of marriage. How could he think she would accept it? Did he think she was once more so far under his spell that she would forget his manipulations, his lies, his face?

"I do not ask you for promises," Erik said, voice gentle as ever the Angel's had been. He still held out the ring steadily. "Only that with this ring, you allow me to begin again. Allow me to court you like any other man…like your vicomte."

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, unable to hold back tears. Like any other man? When had anything concerning Erik been simple or ordinary? A ring without promises -- how could she accept it?

How could she not?

If only she had sent Raoul away entirely. She could never explain this to him. She gave Erik her right hand, and watched as he slipped on the ring. It fit perfectly, though it felt heavy and awkward. Erik did not let go of her hand for a long moment -- I must not look up, Christine thought, the words dreadfully clear in her mind, if I meet his eyes then a promise will be made and I shall be lost -- then abruptly released her and stepped back. "Finish your breakfast," he said, for all the world like nothing had just happened, hardly even a tremor in his voice. "We must return as soon as you are done."

"Return? To the Opera?" Of course to the Opera, Christine thought furiously, Erik had never met Mama Valerius. Return to the Opera to face Carlotta's hatred, Meg's giggling questions, and Raoul's hopeless, confused eyes following her every move. Christine hastily swallowed her coffee, then picked up a muffin and began buttering it.

"Of course." Erik vanished into her room: his voice floated out, laced through with amusement as if at some joke he didn't choose to share. "The chandelier shall soon be mended, performances have already begun once more, and La Carlotta severed her contract three days ago. We don't want the managers to forget the talent right under their noses." He emerged with her cloak over one arm, and tossed it over the chair next to her, before going down on one knee next to her, voice dropping to a vibrant, glorious whisper. "It is time for you to recover from your 'illness', and return in triumph."

Alas for vanity! I was not, as I'd half-expected, the focus of Opera gossip when I returned. The ballet 'rats' had other matters to babble about. Mme. Giry had been reinstated, so little Cecile Jammes told me importantly, but -- glancing around to be certain Meg did not hear -- only because her replacement died in the chandelier crash. (The Phantom's doing, all agreed. I caught myself wondering if Erik u had /u done it, and suppressed the thought instantly.) As for Carlotta, La Sorelli made a point of telling me that the managers even now sought a replacement for the diva, for Carlotta refused to ever return to the stage where she had known such humiliation. I managed a polite smile and said nothing.

Naturally, there were other minor points of talk -- who had done this, who had said that, who had returned to the Opera the day after the chandelier disaster and who had not been seen since. But the center around which all gossip swirled was the Phantom. I could not escape it. What had Carlotta done to so extravagantly incur his displeasure? Or was it all the fault of the new managers, for firing Mme. Giry in the first place, and daring to sit in Box Five? Perhaps the chandelier was simply old and its chains rusty, and had fallen of its own accord -- but the girl who suggested that was immediately shouted down.

No one noted -- or at least, no one commented on -- my disappearance. They all seemed to believe I'd fled when the chandelier fell, like everyone else backstage, and been ill with shock or some such ever since. No one asked me where I'd been, or where I'd gotten the gold ring I wore.

Well. Almost no one.

"Mademoiselle Daae. Might I have a word with you."

Jeanne froze comically still, as if she thought that distinctively accented voice from behind them might belong to the Phantom himself. Christine herself took a deep breath and let it out once more. They had just left rehearsal (Faust again, as if the managers wanted to spit in the eye of the Phantom), and she had hardly expected to be accosted by anyone at all, let alone --

"Mademoiselle?" The Persian actually sounded as if he were asking her, this time, rather than demanding.

Christine forced a small smile and nodded to Jeanne. "I'll see you later tonight," she said.

Jeanne nodded gratefully, and fled on down the hall with scarcely a backward glance. Christine watched her go, then said, "Monsieur?"

A pointed hesitation, as if waiting for her to turn around and face him. Christine obstinately remained where she was, facing away. At last he cleared his throat and said, "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but I have been given to understand you were missing for two weeks."

"I was ill."

"You were not ill, mademoiselle." Politely spoken, but quite firm.

"Then I was not ill, as you please." Christine searched her memory for what whispers she'd heard about the Persian. Forever turning up here and there, writing little notes to himself in a small notebook which no one else had ever managed to read…supposed to know the Opera Ghost, but what backstage tale did not wind its way back to the Phantom sooner or later? She turned to face the Persian at last. "Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"Because I wish you well," he said softly, stepping closer, as if he wished to avoid anyone overhearing their conference. He had dark eyes as sharp as Erik's golden glance, that seemed to pin her in place. "I know you were with him."

Christine's breath caught in her throat. He knows. No, absurd, he could not know. Except that, if he meant only that she had spent her time with some more ordinary lover, surely he would have named the man. "With whom?" she managed.

"I know him, mademoiselle," the Persian said, as if he hadn't heard her, or brushed aside her weak protest. "He is not an angel of music, I swear to you, nor an angel of anything at all…except perhaps death. He considers himself no longer human, if he ever were. He is not bound by our human laws. Whatever promises he has made to you, you cannot trust him."

"Why not?" Now she wished she had stepped aside, or allowed the Persian to draw her into some more private spot than this far-too-public hallway. She lowered her voice as well. "I thank you for your warning, monsieur, but he has not harmed me --" not in ways that you would understand, or that I would explain to a stranger, no matter how much he claims to know Erik! "--indeed, he has sworn never to harm me, and I believe him even if you would not."

"Did he not kidnap you?" the Persian reminded her in a sharp whisper. "What of Joseph Buquet, mademoiselle, or do you truly think the man committed suicide? What of the chandelier that so opportunely dropped on the head of the woman who replaced Madame Giry?"

"Can you be certain it was not suicide? Why do you believe he did those things?" Christine could still hear the terrible shout that had rung in her ears when she had ripped his mask from his face. But these were not crimes of passion that the Persian described. How many of those tales about the Phantom were true? What else had he done besides deceiving a brainless dreamer of a chorus girl? "Is it so impossible he should act honorably to me? Even given the…circumstances…" His face, she had been going to say, but caught herself in time. One takes what rendezvous one can get.

The Persian reached out and raised her chin with one finger, examining her face with those bright, searching eyes. Christine endured it, hands tense in her skirts, and at last he stepped back and released her. His gaze dropped to her hand and lingered there for a moment, then his shoulders rose and fell on a long breath. "You risk everything on such faith, Mademoiselle Daae," he said soberly. "But I cannot say you are wrong to do so. Au revoir." He bowed to her, and walked away.

Christine watched him out of sight, trembling with emotion. She must get away from here. She must stop and consider. It was one thing for Raoul to spout wild accusations of monsters and death's heads, and another for a man, a stranger, to approach her in calm consideration and tell her -- tell her -- she must talk to Erik, if she could but think of a way to broach the subject without provoking his temper, but first she must sit and think and be quiet for twenty minutes together.

She turned to go, and nearly walked into the subject of her thoughts.

He was wrapped in his dark cloak, dark mask covering his face, all but invisible in the long shadows the gas-lamp cast. Anyone passing could see her, however, she reminded herself. She had somehow escaped the lash of gossip so far: she must not go out of her way to court it, which meant no public conversations of an intensely private nature while in a public corridor. She lowered her eyes. "I beg your pardon, monsieur--"

"Do you?"

The question hung in the air, as if the walls themselves had spoken it. Did she what, Christine wondered frantically. Did she beg his pardon? Did she believe he was responsible for the death of Buquet or that woman? Did she trust him? Did she believe him the monster the Persian had implied? She remembered the demon's face in her dreams, and shivered despite herself. "I remember Joseph Buquet telling tales," she said, choosing her words with care.

Erik made an impatient gesture. "The man didn't have the sense to leave off exploring when clearly warned to do so. It is not my fault he died."

"And the chandelier?"

"The chandelier." Erik chuckled suddenly, an ugly sound that tightened the knots in her belly. "Of course the chandelier fell, Christine. It was a very old chandelier, and badly worn. Carlotta's singing must have set it on edge once too often." He reached up and, as if in deliberate, mocking echo of the Persian, slid his fingers beneath her chin as if to tilt her head up, then followed the line of her throat down to the hollow, the backs of his fingers cool against her suddenly heated skin. "I must go -- my Don Juan waits." He stepped backward, and apparently vanished into the shadows. When Christine whispered his name, there was no answer.

I had not realized.

The words look silly and naïve as I write them. I knew from my own experience how little Erik cared for the rules of society; I had heard the stories of the Phantom, which included more than one name who had, supposedly, vanished into his clutches. But even though I myself had identified Erik, in those first moments after I stepped through the mirror, as the Phantom, two weeks of constant contact had dulled that first impression. Towards me, except on that one occasion, he had always been courteous and gentlemanly, more so even than my behavior invited. I had thought him manipulative, even cruel…but not a murderer.

Mistake me not, I believed him on the subject of Joseph Buquet. The man had so enjoyed the attention he'd received for his tale of encountering Erik somewhere in the cellars; I could, all too easily, imagine him exploring too far, and falling into one of the traps surrounding the house beyond the lake. But the chandelier? Only one person had been killed outright, according to the papers, but dozens had been hurt in the crash, and dozens more in the crush of the ensuing panic. Erik's laugh still rang in my ears, and I could not but remember that the one fatality had -- by sheer convenient coincidence, of course! -- been the replacement for Mme. Giry.

It helped clear my mind a little, at least. Now I rejoiced that I had told Raoul so little of my 'Angel of Music'. The less he knew, the safer he was. Erik would not harm me. I had only to keep Raoul away from Erik, from the very subject of my Angel, even away from me if possible, though I doubted the last.

Alas for fine intentions! Raoul was not so easily governed.

"Mademoiselle Daae."

"Monsieur le Vicomte." She had used this short-cut once too often, apparently -- or else one of the 'rats' had told Raoul where to find her. Christine stopped and folded her hands in front of her.

Raoul bowed slightly. "I understood that you were leaving the Opera." His tone made it half a question.

"La Carlotta left, and the management asked me to take her place. I could not in good conscience abandon them." Let that be the end of this conversation, she prayed. Let him not ask anything more --

"Then your 'Angel' has let you go free?"

-- damn you, Raoul de Chagny. Christine turned on her heel and walked down to the hall to a small rehearsal room, not caring if Raoul followed her or not. Once inside the room, she turned and watched him close the door behind them. "My Angel is not your concern, monsieur le Vicomte," she said flatly.

"Everything about you is my concern," Raoul said, folding his arms over his chest. "Do you realize in how much danger you are?"

Less than you are, dear Raoul. But she could not say that, not without having to explain far more about Erik than would be safe for either of them. "Don't be ridiculous," she said instead. "I'm in a public place, surrounded by friends--"

"Not that kind of danger. Not yet." Raoul took two quick steps toward her, his arms falling to his sides. "Christine -- I tried to tell you before. I believe that your Angel is no angel, but an imposter, someone who wants to take advantage of you."

Oh, is he. You are several weeks behind the news, Raoul. "If he has, that is my concern," Christine said, keeping her voice even with an effort. "I am sorry, and I appreciate your concern, but the only man with the right to so fret over my well-being would be my husband, and I doubt I shall ever marry." She gestured to the door, hoping he'd take the hint and leave her be. "Please, Raoul." He didn't move. "If you will excuse me?"

He crossed the distance between them with three strides and caught up her right hand. "If you will 'never marry,' mademoiselle, why are you wearing a wedding ring?"

"Wedding rings are worn on the left hand, not the right--"

"Somebody had to give you this ring, Christine," Raoul persisted, his grip tightening painfully on her hand. "What promises did you give him in return?"

"Raoul--"

Raoul let go of her hand, as if realizing what he was doing. "I don't want to see your trust abused by this…'Angel of Music'."

Christine sighed and shook her head. "There is no Angel of Music, Raoul."

She'd intended to reassure him, just a little, that she was not such a fool as he seemed to think her. Instead, he stiffened and looked down at her with narrowed eyes. "If you know it's a deception, why did you follow the voice?"

"…I beg your pardon?"

"In your dressing room, the night of the masquerade," Raoul said impatiently, turning on his heel to pace around the room. "A voice, coming from…the wall, another dressing room next door, I don't know -- lured you out of the room. It wasn't the Angel of Music, but you followed it as if it were an angel, a devil, witchcraft, I don't know…why did you follow the voice if you knew it wasn't an angel?"

Christine looked away, twisting at the ring. I followed Erik because…because… "I told you, Monsieur le Vicomte, my actions are my own business," she bit out. "I might ask why you condemn a man you've never met, and about whom you know nothing!"

"Because he's tricked you," Raoul retorted, words coming just as sharply, as he spun on his heel to face her. "Because he lied to you, and manipulated you. For God's sake, Christine, because he put his ring on your finger and heard promises from your lips that I would die to hear! Who is he?"

Christine folded her arms over her chest and bit her tongue.

The silence lasted too long. At last, Raoul shook his head. "His name is Erik," he said quietly.

"What?" Christine's hands tightened on her arms. "Why do you think so?" Had the Persian told him? How dared he!

"You told me so yourself." Raoul went back to his pacing. "You came into your dressing room after the masquerade, and you murmured, 'Poor Erik.'"

"You were listening outside my door again?" She was trembling, Christine noticed distantly, fine tremors that shook her down to the core. She'd wanted him never to know. She'd wanted to keep them apart. How was she to keep Raoul safe if the man persisted in listening at her door like a naughty child?

"No, I, er…" Raoul hesitated. "I was hiding in your inner dressing room." It came out in a muffled rush.

"In my --" How dared he. How dared he. He might have ruined what fragile reputation she had, and gotten himself killed into the bargain -- she could not doubt that Erik would have killed him, if he'd attempted to follow them through the mirror. How much had he seen? How much did he know? "Do you want to be killed?"

"Perhaps."

No. Not if she could help it. Mary mother of God, that she should have to be sensible for both of them! "Raoul, please, promise me -- forget what you heard. And never visit me again, especially in my dressing room, unless...unless I invite you."

Raoul shook his head thoughtfully, looking at her with wide puppy-dog eyes. "Will you invite me, then?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" What did he think he was doing? This was no time for games! "Only swear!"

"I swear on my honor as a de Chagny." He crossed the room to her, took her ringless left hand, and kissed it. "Until tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Christine agreed after a moment's hesitation. Forgive me, Erik.