Not sure if I'm entirely happy with this chapter, but here it is!

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Chapter 3: Wall of Masks

There was little to do but mourn the loss of her father as Christine sat confined in the room Erik had left her in. She hardly slept and only consumed small amounts of the food he would leave outside the bedroom door. He repeated the process three times a day for nearly a week, though not without attempting to coax her into speaking with him. It wasn't that she didn't want to interact with him, but that she felt terrible for how she treated him the night of her father's death.

Erik had saved her life as she clutched her dying father in her arms, welcomed her, a complete stranger, into his home, and had comforted her when she behaved like a sniveling child in his arms. He was far too kind-hearted to be treated that way and she needed to apologize as soon as she could, after all, she knew he wasn't lying about her father's debts.

The evidence was so clear and she had completely ignored it in lieu of giving all of her attention to Raoul. She didn't even question it when her father would come home hours after rehearsals ended smelling of liquor. She hardly fought him when he informed her that he couldn't send her to a music school in Rome due to a lack of finances when they were never a problem before.

It was her fault really. He wouldn't have even known the de Chagny's if Raoul hadn't been courting her for the past year. The Vicomte de Chagny who so easily sat across from her father just two weeks prior and spoke of horse breeding over a meal she spent hours preparing. Little did she know, her suitor had ordered a hit on her father. It was pitiful how he still planned on taking her to the park after Sunday mass knowing her father would be dead. The gal of that bastard!

Christine had never felt hatred in her life, though if she were to even attempt to explain the feeling she had for Raoul, it would surely be the most unbridled loathing the world had ever seen. Perhaps Erik would–no, he had done enough already, besides, what kind of being would she be if she committed the same sins as the man she despised the most?

With a sigh, Christine sat up in bed, intent on apologizing to Erik for being such a horrible guest. Though she hardly knew him, he was all she had left in the whole world and she didn't want him to come to hate her, nor did she want to be alone any longer. When her mother passed away, she spent as much time with her father as she could which made coping with her loss easier. She could only hope that Erik would be willing to dedicate some of his time to her.

Christine looked to the left of the bed and spotted a small oakwood vanity positioned next to a matching dressing screen. She had to admit that Erik had a great sense of interior decoration as all of the furniture in the room was made of the same oakwood, even the massive bed frame. The room was far larger than the one at her townhouse. The periwinkle paper adorning the walls combined with the simplicity of the decor reminded her of her childhood home when they still lived in Perros-Guirec. The coverlet she laid on was cream-colored and the matching sheets felt much like the silk she had slept on when she and her father visited Florence. She would be forever thankful that the room wasn't trimmed with gold and silver as she had seen in most chateaus.

Christine clambered out of bed and crossed the room to sit at the vanity. She opened the single drawer and found only a comb, handheld mirror, and a lavender hair ribbon. If she was staying, she would need to ask Erik if she could be afforded a hair brush. It was already a chore maintaining the wild mane of curls that she had been "blessed with", as her father would tell her, and a comb would not suffice.

Despite the prospect of breaking the comb, Christine decided to at least fix the top layer of her curls and tie her hair back with the ribbon. There was no possibility she would present herself to Erik looking like she had just returned from a day of horseback riding. Unfortunately, she had nothing to correct the splotches of red on her cheeks or the light swelling of her eyes from the endless hours of crying. She quickly replaced her sleeping gown with one of the few dresses she brought with her and she finally felt ready to speak with Erik.

With a deep steadying breath, she rose from the chair and left the room. As she stepped into the hallway, she faintly heard the sound of a piano. It had to be downstairs, so she followed the path Erik had taken when he brought her up to the room. She examined her surroundings as she walked, noticing that there were dozens of lovely vases and paintings that looked to belong in museums. It must have cost a fortune to furnish his home.

Christine came upon the stairs and slowly descended. The music grew louder and at the bottom of the flight, she realized it was coming from a closed door across from the parlor. She stood by the door and listened for a while, closing her eyes and smiling. It was mesmerizing and strangely, it soothed her and for the first time in days, her mind was at peace.

She wondered if it was Erik who was playing, or even his wife. Did he even have a wife? By the way his house was so well organized, he had to be married. It would be a lie to say that she didn't feel envy for the woman, after all, Erik was very handsome from what she could remember from that night.

Suddenly, the music halted and there were approaching footsteps. The door swung open and Christine realized she was pressed closely against it. She lost her footing and reached out, grabbing onto whatever she could so she wouldn't fall. Her hand found fabric and she pulled, but instead of catching herself, she fell onto her back on the hardwood floor.

Unfortunately, the fabric she had tried to use for stability was Erik's shirt and she had taken him with her. His weight landed on her and when she opened her eyes, he was hovering over her with a hand on either side of her head. More than half of the buttons on his shirt had been popped open and she could see his entire chest.

It was broad and well-defined. He was most definitely sculpted by God as she imagined him to be. She was sure if she were to touch his chest, it would be warm and firm and the sparse hair would be the softest she had ever felt.

Christine quickly realized that she was ogling him and met his eyes. He was staring at her as if he had seen a ghost and maybe she was from how long she had stayed in the room.

"I'm sorry," she breathed shakily.

"It's quite alright," he said as his eyes darted across her face. Was he staring at the splotches or maybe she had something on her face?

Christine felt heat envelop her cheeks and she turned her head away from him. "Can you help me up?"

Erik seemed to break from a trance. "Yes, my apologies." He rose to his feet and offered his hand.

She accepted and marveled at how warm his skin was, unlike when they were in the carriage. She also noticed that he had large hands and wondered what they looked like as he played the ivory keys of the piano or what they would feel like caressing her neck.

"Thank you," she said as he lifted her from the floor.

He nodded slowly and refastened the buttons of his shirt. "I'm glad to see you out of your room. I was worried you were never going to come out. Now that you have, is there anything I can get for you? Breakfast, a book?"

By God, he was worried for her though he knew little about her? She felt as if she would faint right then and there. But if she did, would he catch her in his arms and hold her again?

Christine, pull yourself together! This is a married man!

"Breakfast would be wonderful, thank you," she said, attempting to keep the fact that she was trembling at bay.

Erik smiled. "Of course."

He turned and she watched as he walked past the stairs and disappeared into another room. She quickly followed and found herself in a large kitchen with far too much counter space.

Erik was standing in front of the open ice-box, his hand on his hip. He glanced over at her as she moved closer to him. "I baked you some raspberry pastries yesterday, but if you would like a warm meal, I will gladly fire up the stove. I–I have some eggs, and–" He rifled through the ice-box and produced a large piece of unidentifiable meat. It looked to be hacked up, as if someone took a knife to hit haphazardly. "I have ham or I can even prepare–"

"The pastries are perfect, thank you," she said, trying to suppress a giggle. His willingness to please her was endearing and once again she had to remind herself that he was already married.

"Your wish is my command."

He placed the meat back in the box and closed it before turning his attention on a platter of pastries that sat on the counter. Christine took a seat at the small table by a large window and glanced outside. There was a small field and a stable housing a black stallion. At the end of the property were the first few buildings leading into the city. She recognized the area and noted that they were close to one of her favorite restaurants.

"Here you are," Erik said, drawing her attention back to him. He set a plated pastry and a cup of tea directly in front of her. "I don't have any cream but I have a sugar bowl there next to you."

Christine smiled at him and said, "Thank you."

He nodded and started to walk away, but she caught his hand. "Are you not joining me?"

"If you wish, then I will."

"I do wish it," she assured him, gesturing to the seat across from her.

He stared at the chair for a few seconds before hesitantly settling into it and clasping his hands atop the table. His eyes wandered to the window, the morning sun illuminating his blue irises.

Christine took careful bites of her pastry as she examined him. Part of her wondered if he was uncomfortable sitting with her as he was bouncing his leg beneath the table or if he had been busy and was itching to get back to his music.

After she had consumed nearly half of her breakfast and Erik hadn't attempted to strike up any type of conversation, she decided it was time for her apology.

"I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other night. In truth, I wasn't prepared for what you said and that is not your fault," she said.

Erik focused back on her and shook his head. "It's quite alright. There is nothing to be forgiven."

Christine furrowed her brows and turned her face towards her plate. "I don't usually speak like that to anyone. It was uncalled for and you didn't deserve it."

He reached out and placed a hand over hers before quickly retracting it. "Don't worry yourself. I understand."

She peeked up at him and he had his head tilted as he tried to catch her eyes. Her face bloomed with heat and she rubbed her arm nervously.

"Since we have that settled, I would like to meet your wife. She has made a beautiful home and I'm sure she could use some help while I stay with you. I will feel better if I am thoroughly distracted."

The statement gave him pause and he sat straight up in his chair, opening and closing his mouth several times. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, "I do not have a wife nor do I have a fiance."

"Oh," was all she could think to say. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of living alone with a man who was not spoken for. Perhaps in time...

No, don't think like that. He is your father's friend, besides–

"Of course, I have never–I have never had any interest in anyone until–" He stopped talking and his face blanched.

Christine felt a pang of disappointment and wondered who the woman he was referring to was. Part of her wanted to believe he was speaking of her, as it was every woman's dream to fall in love with a compassionate, handsome man, but it was ridiculous for her to even think it. He would want a beautiful woman on his arm to attend masquerades and dinner parties at huge estates.

She quickly finished the rest of her pastry, wanting nothing more than to stop thinking of the other woman.

"Thank you for breakfast," she muttered, daring a glance at him. He was staring at her with the most quizzical expression.

"Are you alright? You look like a tomato." He covered his mouth with his hand and tapped his forefinger against his mask, and by the dimpling of his exposed cheek, she could tell he was smiling. God, could he read her mind?

Christine nodded. "Yes, I'm alright. I was only thinking of my stay."

Erik removed his hand from his face. "Your father told me it would only be for a few days, but–" He paused and blinked rapidly before swiping at his eye.

Tears formed in her eyes at the remembrance of her father's death and Christine dabbed at them with the sleeve of her dress.

Oh Heavens, now I'm going to be a wailing child in front of him again!

One would think crying for nearly a week would be enough. She felt as if she would never come to terms with her fathers death even though she had attempted to prepare herself for it after the doctor delivered the news that he only had a month or two to live...

"My father was sick. The doctor said he had a short time to live and–and I knew I was going to lose him, it just wasn't the way I expected," she whispered, attempting to keep her voice from wavering.

Erik leaned forward in his chair and narrowed his eyes. "He was sick?" he asked.

"Yes, something with his lungs. The doctor gave him two months at most. I was to take care of him." She dropped her eyes and couldn't stop the tears. "I failed him. I–I was supposed to keep him alive and I had specific instructions and–and the doctor told me not to allow him to leave the house by himself, but I was stupid! I was stupid and I let him go to the opera house alone because I was to meet Raoul–"

"Stop. I need you to breathe and listen to me. Can you do that?"

"Yes," she shakily whispered.

He rose from his seat and crouched down next to her. One of his hands rested on her shoulder while the other grabbed the hand she held in her lap. "None of what happened was your fault. Your father fell into a bad habit and the men that came after him are to blame. The de Chagny's could have had the decency to speak with him first, but they did not. If I had known sooner, I would have paid his debt in full but I had not a clue until he told me."

Christine nodded and looked down at their joined hands. Erik was right but she still felt terrible about not being able to save her father. If they had taken him into the carriage, could they have gotten him to a doctor in time? If she had only been quicker packing or obeyed immediately when her father told her to wake up, then he would still be alive.

"I didn't even know he was sick," Erik said absently.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze to comfort him just as he had with her. "We didn't know until three days before his passing. He wouldn't have had time to tell you," she assured him.

"I suppose not."

Christine watched as Erik dropped his eyes to the floor. The sadness behind them was devastating and she wondered if what her father said about Erik being his business partner was true or if they knew each other a different way.

"How long have you known my father? Did you meet at the opera?" she asked. They had to have met in the Opera Populaire, after all, Erik was an excellent pianist and would be a great addition to the opera house.

Erik stiffened and removed his hand from hers. "Twenty years. We met in Toulouse."

Twenty years? Erik couldn't be more than ten years older than her, but if that was the case then he met her father when he was still young.

"How old are you?" she asked, taking his hand again. He protested for just a moment before giving in and allowing her to hold it in her lap. "How did you meet him?"

"I entered my thirty-fourth year in August and how I met him is a tale for another time, I'm afraid." He once again reclaimed his hand and rose to his feet before returning to his chair. "Now, I do believe we were discussing the details of your stay."

"Yes we were," she agreed. "I don't wish to be an intrusion longer than necessary. I'm sure—"

Erik chuckled. "You are far from an intrusion. I don't want you to see yourself that way. As a matter of fact, I am willing to offer you permanent housing—as a safety measure of course. After all, your father entrusted me with your care."

"You can't possibly be willing to provide me housing long term. I will not—"

"I want you to stay with me. Even if it's not your fathers wish, I can't have you living on the streets. God only knows what happens to women who are without homes," he argued.

He was right. If she didn't accept his offer, it was more than likely that she would wind up working in a brothel or be left for dead on a street corner. She also didn't know if the de Chagny's really wanted her murdered so she couldn't give them a chance to find her.

"Are you certain?" she asked.

Erik nodded. "Quite certain, and I have already scheduled a consultant to redesign your room. You will have full reign on furniture and—"

"I can't accept that, Erik. The room you have provided me is perfect."

"Christine, I insist. You will need more dresses as well. You couldn't possibly live with what you carried in your case alone."

By God, did he look at her dresses? Her undergarments? It had to be when he brought the case inside before carrying her to her room. She was at least happy that she brought only her laundered items.

"I prefer the room I have now. It reminds me of my childhood home so I wish to keep it the same. And please do not spend your money on me. It would be better used elsewhere."

"Fine, I will cancel with the consultant. In regards to money, I have plenty. As such, it would please me greatly if you would allow me to at least purchase dresses for you. Your father placed you in my care and I will provide you with the means to live a healthy and happy life." He leaned across the table and caught her eyes. "Anything you need, ask for it and it will be yours. I swear to you that I would not be offering this unless I meant it."

Christine was captivated by him and she nodded. "Alright."

Erik grinned and rose from his seat. "Excellent. Now, I have some designs I need to finish so please, make yourself at home and familiarize yourself with the house. If you find anything that you would like changed, let me know immediately." He turned on his heel but didn't advance any further and glanced over his shoulder at her. "Would you—would you like to join me for supper this evening?"

Christine offered a coy smile and agreed. "If you would have me, then yes."

Erik said nothing else before rushing out of the room.

Christine watched after him and wondered if he would allow her to sit with him while he worked, but knew it was an inappropriate thing to ask. After several moments of silence, she decided to do exactly as he instructed and become acquainted with the house. Mostly she wanted to see his piano as it was the one instrument she always wanted to learn how to play.

She brought her plate to the sink and quickly washed and dried it before setting it back into the cupboard. Then, she walked back to the entrance hall and to the door of the music room which was left ajar. She hesitated for a moment and wondered if Erik would mind if she touched his piano. Surely he wouldn't, after all, he did say "make yourself at home" so she slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside.

The piano was quickly forgotten when she saw the far wall of the room. There were dozens of different masks of all shapes and sizes, painted in a variety of bright and dull colors. Each one was beautiful and she wondered if Erik had one for every occasion.

She wandered over to them and trailed her fingers along the nose of black and white checkered full face mask. It was beautiful and definitely hand crafted. Gently, she lifted it from its hook and turned it in her hands. It was porcelain from the feel of it and very heavy. She wanted to try it on so she slowly brought it up to her face while turning to see if there was a mirror in the room.

Just as she had the mask set on her face, she noticed movement in the corner of the room. Standing near a wall of sketches, pen and whisky in hand, was Erik.

Christine's heart dropped and she shrieked and the mask slipped from her hands. Before she could catch it, it fell to the floor and shattered into dozens of pieces.

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Thank you!