Gracie pulled off her gloves and unbuttoned her travelling coat with a sigh of contentment in the dim light of the foyer. She set the gloves on the side table and hung her coat slowly. She stood in front of the mirror and undid the ribbon that held her hat, stalling. Papa had crossed the foyer in two strides and was already waiting for her in the sitting room. She had managed to reassure him somewhat in the cab, by telling him over and over that nobody had insulted her, no one had offended her. She had had a good reason to come back, but it was a long story, and she'd rather speak about it in the quiet of the apartment. And now she would have to face him and give him the explanation he wanted. Lying wouldn't do. She had been so agitated that he would be able to read her like an open book.
She came into the sitting room. Papa was sitting on his armchair. He had unbuttoned his coat and was looking at her questioningly. The openness in his eyes touched her heart. Gracie felt her knees go weak. Why did she have to be the bird of ill omen? Why did she have to be the one to bring him heartache?
"Gracie? What's wrong, love?"
His quiet, concerned whisper was her undoing. She started crying. Immediately, he was beside her, taking her elbow and gently guiding her to his armchair. He made her sit down, knelt beside her, gave her his handkerchief, held her hand and caressed her cheek making hushed, comforting sounds. That was more than Gracie could stand. She clung to him as if to life itself and buried her face on his shoulder. He hugged her, traced slow, gentle circles on her back, and called Françoise. A moment later, when she had calmed down a bit, he was disentangling himself from her arms and offering her a cup of tea, urging her to drink it. Gracie sniffled and hiccupped, took the cup from his hands and had a sip. He remained by her side a little longer, making sure she wasn't going to throw herself at him again, and finally sat on the couch. Gracie dried her eyes and blew her nose in a very unladylike manner.
"I'm sorry, Papa," she mustered when she was able to talk again.
"There's nothing to be sorry for, tot," was his quiet reply.
He didn't say anything else, waiting patiently for her to be ready to tell him.
"I. . ." started Gracie. "I had a very good time at the Calmettes, but. . . They had this guest, Papa, and I just couldn't stay there."
"What? But you were their guest! How could they throw you out? They should. . ."
His eyes were now glaring with barely contained wrath.
"No, Papa," Gracie lifted one hand to appease him. "They didn't throw me out. I didn't want to stay there anymore. You see. . ."
Gracie sighed. There was no way to phrase this tactfully. Better to say it at once then.
"Their guest was Christine Daaé."
She heard his sharp intake of breath and then nothing. Gracie waited a moment, and then she grew alarmed. His face had grown pale and he was still as a statue.
"Papa? Papa?"
He didn't answer. His eyes were glazed, as when he was lost in some painful memory. She darted towards him, sat beside him on the couch, squeezed his hand. He took a deep, shuddering breath. At last, he looked at her, but his eyes were somewhat unfocused. He disentangled his hand from hers and stood up abruptly, went to the mantelpiece and leant against it. His hands grasped the marble until his knuckles went white.
Gracie stood up and laid a hand on his back, trying to assuage him.
"Papa?"
He flinched from her touch.
"Damn it, Gracie!" he snapped in the angriest voice she'd ever heard.
He walked towards the window. With a jerking movement, he threw the curtains aside and opened one of the panes with such a force that the frame crashed against the wooden shutters. Gracie was surprised the window didn't break. Papa stood there, in full view of the whole neighbourhood, taking deep breaths. At last, he rubbed the uncovered part of his forehead. He turned around, head lowered.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. . . I shouldn't have yelled at you."
His voice was but a raspy whisper.
She gave a step forward, craving his touch, but he raised a hand, effectively stopping her.
"No, my dear. I'm afraid I need. . . some time by myself."
Gracie nodded, shocked by this new, unusual formality. It was even worse than his rudeness. She bit her lip and made her way out of the sitting room. She stopped when she was about to close the door.
"It's all right, Papa," she whispered.
She closed it quietly and leant her forehead against the wood. At last, she was able to unstick herself from the door and went down the hall, towards the kitchen.
It spoke volumes of Erik's consternation that he didn't hear her daughter's words and didn't notice she had paused on the other side of the door after she had closed it. Despite having opened the window, the air in the sitting room was still stuffy. He paced the length of the room, trying to overcome the bout of claustrophobia. He got rid of his coat and cast it on the couch, loosened his cravat and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. He loosened the cuffs, fighting against the tiny golden cufflinks. One of them fell to the ground and he stepped on it. Cursing, he bent down to pick up the broken cufflink and threw the pieces on the coffee table. He rolled up his sleeves. It was still too warm in the room, he was still suffocating. Nothing seemed to help. By sheer force of will, he stopped his wandering. He leant heavily on the mantelpiece and tried to take deep, controlled breaths. After a while, he drew a trembling hand through his hair.
Erik was stunned at his own inner turmoil. How could Christine's name still, after all these years, cast him so completely into havoc? He forced himself to sit, surprised at the way his hands were shaking.
He looked at the room around him, where most of the good things in his life had happened. The low coffee table, which had held his books and the newspapers he'd commented with Nadir, the chessboard over which they had spent so many hours in companionable silence. The same table which had held the first blueprints Louis had brought for him to study, where there had extended so many of their drafts. The piano, where he had taught Gracie to play, where they had shared so many hours together, enjoying the music they made. The same piano he had started to use to compose again, only a few years ago, battling against blanks in the scores, feeling accomplished when he finally came across the right notes. Work, music, reading, the company of Gracie, the friendship that Louis and Nadir offered. That was his life. His days were full and he shared them with the few people he cared for, and who, he knew, also cared for him. A loving daughter, a couple of good friends. It was all a man ought to ask. The thoughts of what he had lost underneath the Opéra due to madness and desperation were not that painful anymore. He didn't even have to force himself to change their course when he came upon the image of Christine. After so many years of trying to gain some emotional distance, when he thought of her it was abstractly, serenely, as one might think of some imaginary beloved in a book or a picture. So why was it that her name, that insignificant word, upset him so much?
Author's notes: Sorry, another short chapter. I hope the increased update rate compensates for that...
A couple of sentences have been borrowed from Edith Wharton's novel Age of Innocence… See if you can guess which?
