Her confusion vanished—it winked out like a snuffed candle. She had worked hard as a dancer, but her heart had never been in it. Her greatest joy lay in the music, in bending her body to the demands of rhythm. When the Angel first began to teach her sing, a fire lit in her brain, in her soul. Just as Papa had always said about himself, it was the music she was made for. They had sung many duets together, she and the Angel, but it was not until the night of her debut that he had sung to her, expressly for her, like a gift.
It was strange to her how few people seemed to share her physical experience of music. Sound caressed her skin like an invisible hand. In the hands of a master, it could be any instrument, but voice was best, followed by strings. Oh, but his voice was better than them all. It had always been so. Even though she could tell that he had not sung in a long time, his voice still had power. Her eyelids fluttered heavily, and her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled over her knee, and the room did seem to be alight. If she hadn't been so entranced, she'd have laughed at herself for feeling such pleasure, of all places, in her ears.
How long had it been? Since the night of the opera. She had very nearly chucked the whole plan and gone with him, just to hear that gorgeous voice rolling over her, embracing her, until all other thought receded. She tried to breathe, but her corset was too tight, and the skin of her neck ached to be touched. She shifted in her chair. It was too much like Raoul's hands on her, his mouth at her throat. The difference was that she could lose herself in this song, as she never had with Raoul.
Was this the danger, then, that she would be lost? There would be no disturbing mannequin to shock her to herself. Christine fought to bring her mind to order, and she realized that the song was familiar. His inflection was all wrong, and she smiled to know that he must be singing phonetically. How many years had it been since she last spoke her native tongue? What a marvel that he would sing this to her.
"Erik," she said, and heard the sigh in her own voice. Clearly, he had watched her closely—his eyes were wide, dark with intent, and he was leaning toward her. It would be so easy to fall, to go back into those depths, and let him inform her world. And yet. Yet. She made herself remember Mme. Giry's story of his childhood. She made herself remember the expression in those eyes when she had unmasked him to the crowd. "I cannot hurt him again," she thought. "Even if it means that I go away forever."
The lullaby was done, and she met his eyes with a frankness that made him blush and look away. How had she never seen how much of his menace was bluster? He was like a wild creature, wanting to be tamed but so wary. The way he moved, he would be some great cat. This thought, and that of his voice purring with pleasure, brought her own blush. She wanted to smack herself. This silence was going on far too long.
"I must be a romantic," she said, and his sidelong glance told her nothing. "I don't know whether I should feel foolish, that your voice affects me so."
He frowned at her. "Don't," he said.
"Don't what?"
"Do not feel foolish," he said after a pause. "It is who you are."
She reached for his teacup and refilled it, though the tea in the pot was barely warm. She needed something to busy her hands.
"I suppose that is true," she said. "I learned that from my father."
He nodded, then stared down as if some answer was to be found in a cup of cold tea.
"You are very lucky to have had him."
Her heart twisted in sympathy.
"Do you remember your parents?"
The muscles in his neck clenched and relaxed.
"I never met my father," he said, and when he looked up at her his eyes were so bleak they were nearly white. "But I remember my mother."
Had he known any joy in his life? That she had added to his misery made Christine want to cry, or to rail at herself—to do something. How did one apologize for breaking someone's heart? Especially this heart, already in tatters, but capable of such beauty. Don Juan had not been beautiful—the music was too weird, and Christine had known that the plot's indictment of women was a direct comment to her. But she had heard the music he wrote when he was transfigured by inspiration, and it was the sort of beauty that broke her apart and put her back together in a new way, a beauty that made her feel as if she could be noble, could be something bigger than herself. If not for that face, he could have changed the world. And at the bottom of it, the face was not so very bad, not when coupled with such a spirit, even wounded as it was.
She reached for his hand, took it both her own, ignored his shuddering breath. Had anyone ever comforted him? She stroked his fingers gently. Surely no one else in the world had such long fingers, finely tapered but strong. She smiled over the ink stains. The more she looked, the more she smiled, for he must've been a very untidy composer—he had black splotches on his fingertips, on his palm, all the way to his wrist. When she touched the thin skin there, mapped with veins, he made a small noise in the back of his throat.
His eyes were wide as he stared at her, mouth parted, and the stiffness of his back made her think that at any moment he would tear himself away and disappear. Christine laid her hands more firmly over his and squeezed a little. Fractionally, he relaxed. She wanted him to know that she understood, that she was no longer the ignorant girl who had found it so easy to hurt him.
"Madame told me yesterday of how she found you," she said, and she did not let go when he tried to pull his hand away. It was as if one of his great iron portcullises had slammed down over his face.
"I cannot imagine how horrible it must have been." He tugged at his hand, but she held on. "I know how miserable I was to become an orphan, but how much worse for you."
He gave up pulling, but his stare was fixed on the wall, so all she could see was impassive leather and stone jaw.
"There is so much I didn't understand," she said, finally letting his hand go.
He turned from her, still staring at the wall, and it seemed like years before he spoke again.