From the records of Erik, l'assassin politiques, l'architecte, et le musician:
Juillet 21, 1675
"Your pitch is perfect; though you knew that—but you have never formally learnt to sing, have you?" She made a little movement that might have been to the contrary, and I felt the faintest bubble of mischief rising inside me. "Ah, non: as I thought." I turned to pace. I can be patient when necessary, but now was not necessary, and I was more restless than I even usually am. "Christine. Have you ever read from the Greek myths? No? Then you will not know of Cupid and Psyche. She was the daughter of a king...it was that one of Cupid's own arrows cut him and drew blood...and he saw her. She was young and lovely, and he took her to be his own. He married her, on the condition that she never look upon his face..."
Then came the self doubt, in a crushing wave. I folded myself into the armchair farthest from her. Now I am uneasy. What in Heaven or Hell possessed me to tell her this? I know how the story ends, but she does not. He leaves, and she searches to the ends of the Earth to find him again. What do I think that I am asking of her? Why? I cursed myself a thousand times silently for an utter fool until her little-bird voice cut into my brooding—"Monsieur…?" She looked to continue, but I stopped her. Something is changing in me, and at that moment I was further possessed.
"No. Call me Erik." Thank God I trusted myself to meet her eyes. "Mademoiselle, we were at "Larmes sur la Rose", no?" She sang it. Why, why, why?
He came back several times in the weeks following the time he spoke to her, and listened, but each time he left without speaking or leaving anything behind. Each time Christine dared look at no more than the scuffed black of his boots. (She later tried to fathom as much as she could from this, but didn't get very far: his voice and manner insinuated money, and a great deal of it—but why did he dress so differently from most men?) Each time, her breath caught in the back of her throat, and fear and curiosity played havoc with her nerves until she sang.
Finally, on the fifth such time, raw curiosity forced her to raise her eyes to meet his midsong, only to falter with a breath of shock before forcing herself to continue. He wore a mask. Doubtless, this meant nothing; many of the noblesse, men and women alike, wore masks when they did not wish to be recognized. But this? Black, and velvet, as to soak up the light? She continued at the glimmer of command in his eyes, now without falter, and he dipped his chin in the barest of nods. This time, he left a scrap of paper with the gold coin in her hat.
Christine stared at it. Who was she to take notes from strange men? And then she remembered the few brief, endless moments when had spoke, and a hot blush swept across her cheeks. With all of the rude suddenness of crows in the dusky, midsummer silence of the hayfields that she had once known, the street boys that clustered about her laughed raucously. She jerked up, wide-eyed. Their lewd comments that did nothing to quiet the crimson that spread now over her ears and down her neck. Where had they come from? Panicked, she stuffed the little piece of parchment into her pocket before they could take it.
Christine found herself the next Sunday picking her way down dirty, unfamiliar boulevards to a place that she had never been before. Unfortunately, this meant the inevitable misstep, and then another, until the only thing to be done was find someone to ask to make all right again. She looked up at the sign above her head—an apothecary's; perhaps not the most respectable, but she didn't care. She had the sinking feeling that—whoever he was—she was going to meet would not appreciate being kept waiting.
Once in the store, Christine was immediately struck by the odor. The metallic, permeating intensity of the smell clawed its way down her throat, and she gasped as her voice seized with the initial shock. All apothecaries' shops seemed to smell oddly, as if they were so full of the feel of magic and arcane knowledge that its aura took form in smell—and like most shops in general, it was dark, but some thing about it seemed sinister in a way beyond the ominous things preserved in jars and lurking in barrels. She began to regret her decision to have ever come here—of all places!—but the woman behind the counter had already seen her. "Ma petit, what can I do for you?" the old woman cackled in a more or less friendly way, as she made an admirable attempt to slide on a sympathetic face. Inwardly, Christine winced.
"Er, madame, I have a problem…"
Previously reticent, the woman's face cracked into the broadest of smiles. "That's what we do, mon joli! Longueval!" She shouted to the dimness behind the counter. "Assuredly, it won't be a problem much longer. Come, come, come here, and we shall discuss business—" she reached out with a bony hand and clamped down on Christines's arm, not unlike a dog with a bone.
"Non!" For the moment, embarrassment, and then disgust, drove out the nervousness that had been bubbling inside her. An abortionist's. "Madame, I need directions. I am lost." The woman's face went oddly pale, and she swayed.
"Oui; oui. Where do you need to go?" She said, her friendliness suddenly desperate, and she regurgitated the required information as if what she said at this moment could buy her life and happiness in the future. Avoiding her eyes, Christine fled with her hard-won knowledge out into the white, brutal sunlight. She looked back once, to find the woman's eyes still on her. Such places were very, very illegal. There were rumors on the streets of babes procured in such a way, the Black Mass, abortionists in league with poisoners, dead women stacked in alleys. Witches. Safely out in the street, she shuddered almost imperceptibly and continued on, but the metallic burn in her throat remained.
Christine found the house several more missteps and ten streets away. On the paper he had left were only a few words: the address, and a sentence that was both welcome and ominous. "You require training beyond what you have available to you. Be here after the noon bell in one week." All that week Christine had not seen him, and now here she was.
The house was in a modest quarter. It had been very fashionable once, before some rather undesirable neighbors had moved in and made their presence noticeable, and anyone with the money to do so moved out. She stood on the street, and looked at the lodging in question. It was couleur de chocolat, with a red door, brass knockers…utterly charming, and entirely beyond her means. Staring blankly at the little brass angels that twined their way passionately across the door front, she wiped her hands on the front of her skirt, and wished very strongly now that she had something better to wear. "Fichue pauvreté," she thought furiously before dropping the little knocker that uncomfortably pierced the amorous celestials.
Shadows threw the face that opened the door into sharp relief. From what she could see beyond the figure before her, the interior seemed alive with moving, writhing shadows. "Mademoiselle Daae, I presume?" The woman's voice cultured, elegant, and surprisingly warm, an almost violent contrast with what she had expected. The woman opened the door and stood aside just enough to let Christine through. She pulled her quickly into an antechamber beside the door.
As her eyes adjusted, Christine caught her breath. The still-imposing figure beside her watched shocked little smile of delight play across the girl's face with the light that pooled and danced through the sepia and emerald green glass arches of the windows; any thoughts of shapes in the shadows were chased from Christine's thoughts with wonder at the delightful things contained in cabinets here—a cunningly carved African monkey, an Araby miniature set with rubies. For the first time, she noticed the softness beneath her that welcomed her weight and depressed in little footprints where she had walked, and awed, she knelt to finger the Persian rug.
The woman cleared her voice with an emotion akin to amusement. "We have no time to make you presentable; that is unfortunate." –Christine blushed, and the man listening almost smiled—"He is waiting. You are a lucky girl; I have never seen him take an interest in anyone like this before. Watch yourself."
"But who—"
"That is not for me to say. If you please him, he may give you a contract to teach you. That English banker of his always likes a big transaction." If it were possible, Christine suddenly felt her eyes go a little bit wider, and the woman softened, almost imperceptibly, the girl was younger than she looked—and gave her a gentler push than she had first intended in the direction of the big staircase.
From the stairs, the gentling puddling green and yellow light from the little room fell away, and from the corner of her eyes the increasing dimness swirled with a life of its own. Looking back, the woman was nowhere to be seen, and Christine irrationally felt herself dropping now to the mercies of the watching dark…Now trembling, she continued up, slower and slower, until she reached the landing. There was a hallway of doors, but the one before her was ajar. She refused to look to either side and whispered, "Monsieur?"
"Ah, Oui. Christine." His voice seemed cold with perfect control. After the hallway it was almost too much, and she exhaled very slowly, as if she had just been lowered into ice water, and stepped softly into the room. He stood in the corner, with his hand on a violin. She closed her eyes for just a moment and swallowed. A violin? When he turned, she was not surprised to see he still wore the mask. He was dressed in the style of the provincials, that is to say, far more plainly than is the aristocratic taste, but executed in dark fabric rich enough to make any lady gasp. His hair and eyes are both black, she thought stupidly, before he locked eyes with her the barest moment. If she had been in any position to notice, they betrayed a depth of intelligence and interest that would have further unsettled her, but she didn't. He flicked his eyes over her and nodded, barely.
"We really will have to get you some new clothes, won't we, mon ange?" He said softly. Christine flushed, and nodded. His voice was too perfect. That was what had her so off balance. No human vocal cords could produce a sound like that, only an angel—or a devil…
He correctly interpreted the sudden flash of fear and fascination in her eyes and suddenly laughed long and low, a warm, intimate, friendly chuckle that suddenly reminded her of picnics in the country, and singing with her papa walking down a dusty road...It was totally disarming and completely familiar, and Christine fought the sudden urge to laugh along with him. His eyes grew dark at her unexpected restraint. He stopped sharply, and grew deadly serious with a blackness that swirled, filled the room completely, and seemed to throb with unspoken displeasure. "You must never be afraid to laugh with me; I will never punish you for it." His voice slowly warmed again to a near semblance of camaraderie as he turned from her, and muscle by muscle, his voice languidly released the tension from her body, until she stood wide-eyed and relaxed before him. "Now...your scales, mademoiselle?"