Erik had seen a production of Mozart's Don Giovanni. The idea of a pit opening up and pulling him into Hell was suddenly appealing. He should have known that she would hate him, but to see her cry was misery. Meg and Giry seemed to be at a complete loss, and Christine simply stood where she was with tears running down her cheeks. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but not if the very sight of him caused her so much pain.
"I will go," he said. He gathered up his score and tried to hold himself straight as he left the room. It seemed like an impossible effort—the weight of his heart was immeasurable. Meg laid her hand on his arm as he passed. When he got to his room, he very deliberately shut the door so that it would make no sound, although every nerve in him screamed to slam the thing shut. Then he sank onto his bed with his hands over his face, and it was a long time before he moved again.
How easy it was to fall again into that sense of emptiness, of the certainty that for always he would have only his miserable self for company. And yet. Too much had healed in him; too much had changed. He could not break apart into madness, which had been a solace of sorts, because there was no thought to it, only reaction and feeling. Certainly he was miserable to have been the cause of that radiant face dissolving into tears. But he could not rage at himself for it. He knew too well all that was different He also could imagine what she was thinking—a novel sensation. She had no idea of all he had discovered, these past months. To her knowledge, he was still a madman, violent and desperate. There was no reason for her to think otherwise. She obviously had no idea that he would be here, which only compounded the shock.
"I must not be hopeless," he told himself. There would still be time to speak to her. He did not allow room for thoughts of friendship—all he wanted was one conversation. And to love her, to possess her, beyond the limitations of one lifetime, into forever … no. That was not a fruitful line of thought. That he would always love her was without doubt. Erik could not imagine that his battered heart would ever open to another woman. But in any case, he loved her now, and if he had been selfish in the past, he would not be so any longer. If his presence hurt her, he would not inflict himself on her.
The confidence he had been slowly building had disappeared. He again wanted to hide. He did not think that Meg and Giry would abandon him, but if Christine wanted to stay with them, where would he go? He could find an inn or hotel, if he upset her so. He started to make a list in his mind of what he would take with him. "Damn it." He jerked up off the bed and paced the room. No. He would not slink away like a dog. If she asked him to go, he would, but she would have to ask. He marveled at himself, his stubbornness. It was a different creature from that of old. He did not feel entitled or want to fight for fighting's sake. But this was his home, and he would not make assumptions. Was this hope? Or even good sense? He hardly knew. He felt that he did not know anything anymore, least of all himself.
Further work was impossible. Despite his outward calm, his mind could not focus on the notes, nor on a book. There were no sounds of hysterics from down the hallway, at least. Erik wore himself out with pacing, and when he finally laid in bed, he ached in every bone. As always, darkness was where sadness lived, where hunger crawled under his skin. Mere feet away, the woman he loved was sitting, perhaps, in a chair where he sat every day, and she was hating his presence. Christine. The minute his mind began to quiet, all he could see in the darkness was her face. She was more beautiful than ever. When he had passed, he had caught a whiff of her perfume, the same as it had always been. For all that he had wished to cover her with roses, the scent she wore was jasmine with a hint of vanilla. It was a strange choice for such a young woman—deep and shockingly sensual.
Erik groaned. To wind himself in blankets and to bury his face into the pillow did nothing to comfort him. These past weeks, once he had crawled up out of the dullness that had clouded his mind after the fire, he had been too occupied to dwell much on Christine. To have seen her brought everything back, and it was as if, having lain quietly in his mind, his desire had grown in strength and fire. His mouth burned—the memory of her kiss played over and over behind his eyes, and he could practically feel her slight form pressed against him, the silk of her hair tangled around his fingers. The memory of her taste was a whisper, pervasive, and it only brought to mind more restless thoughts of the sweet pressure of her mouth and the stunning, unbearable miracle of her probing tongue. Such memories tormented him until deep in the night, but sleep finally released him.