(a/n)As always, thanks to all my reviewers, I really appreciate you guys, you keep me motivated: Crying Wasteland, forever in a bottle, LostSchizophrenic, Leesainthesky, Golden Lyre, unseenhope18, Ziroana.
I just wanted to say there is a straight up Kay quote in here, if you recognize it I will get Belle to give you a kiss, I don't think it will be that hard if you have read Kay(a/n)
London, 1890, Christine
Lungs heaving, I watched the broad expanse of Erik's back disappear through the doorway. I just stood there, trying to fathom my emotions. My body hummed with need, still reeling from Erik's kiss of moments before. He aroused me as no man ever had. I had been playing with him, determined to be the courtesan he had bought with his money, but the game had turned painfully real.
I should have known better than to play with Erik. He would always win.
The evening had started out well, or badly, depending on how you looked at it. Erik had been charming, smooth, breathe taking—paying me compliments with his eyes, his words. He had seemed in earnest, the sincerity in his voice causing my heart to beat painfully against my chest. It frightened me. I knew I would have no fairytale ending, and didn't want to let my mind believe otherwise, I could only be disappointed.
Then Reggie had spoken to me. Erik, in an almost comfortingly familiar manner, had been jealous, angry. At first I had tried placate him, about to explain that I could not avoid this man, but he interrupted me, reminding me once again that I was rented property.
Oh God, I had been angry, hurt. His words had brought me back to earth with a painful thump. This was how he thought of me, and it would never be any different. Swiftly I had taken refuge in my rage. Erik had paid for a mistress, well he would get one. I had been truly horrible, vulgar and coquettish, my performance exaggerated and provocative.
In the carriage when I had asked him in, my heart had been painfully tight, torn between my desire for this man and the fact that his acceptance would only prove I had been right all along. He had accepted, and I had hardened my heart, a whore was all he wanted after all.
But then he had left. He had kissed me and left. What did it mean? I laughed bitterly. Was my world so twisted that I looked for affection in a man paying for my services? But Erik was no ordinary man.
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Paris, 1882, Christine
The pain coursed through me, and I vaguely heard an urgent voice in the distance.
"Push, just one more push."
No! I was in pain.
"Come on Christine, push."
Fine! I pulled strength from some unknown resource, and pushed with all my might. More pain, and then, abruptly my body relaxed, and the tension started receding.
"Good job Christine. You have a beautiful baby girl."
My baby, my soul, my salvation, the very beating of my heart, had finally arrived.
The angel's raucous cries filled the room, the sweet sound filling me with happiness.
I felt a hand on my forehead, and my misted gaze took in the face of Madame Giry. My hand reached up for hers, and grasping it I asked, "How can I ever thank you?"
Madame Giry smiled down at me, the expression softening her habitually serious face. When she smiled she reminded me of the Madonna—a beatific glow radiating from her visage. Over the last few months she had certainly resembled that hallowed lady, intervening in my life, caring for me like a daughter.
Returning the pressure of my hand, she replied, "No thanks are needed Christine. You are as a daughter to me, and your child will be like my grandchild. Now you need to rest."
Weakly I asserted, "I want to see my daughter."
"You will in just a minute, she must be bathed and clothed first. Now relax."
Obediently I leaned back against my pillow, awaiting my angel. I was softly dozing when they brought her to me later. Eagerly I reached out for my child. I took her in my arms, treasuring the feeling of holding her precious body. Gazing down at her pink little face, I once again felt a surge of protectiveness wash over me. I would do anything for this child, anything.
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London, 1890, Erik
Moodily, I rose from my piano, I could get nothing done. Thoughts of Christine plagued me endlessly; both my music and my architecture eluded me.
Looking out the window, I saw the soft glow of the setting sun. I would go for a walk.
As I strode through London, I gave into the thoughts of Christine. The woman was so damn confusing. One moment she refused me, the next she gave in. She was self conscious and sincere, and then abruptly turned brazen and artificial. But the passion, surely I had not mistaken that. Had she truly responded to me in that manner, seeming just as needy as I was, or was it her practiced artifice? After all she had years of experience.
I turned a corner, and realized I was on the little street behind Christine's house. Thankful for the distraction, I remembered miniature Christine from days before. As I drew near her house, I could hear a sweet, childish voice singing the nonsense lyrics children so often create. Soon the garden came into view, and I saw Belle running around, arms outstretched singing her little song. I smiled to myself, whatever was the child doing?
"Do you think you could teach me to fly, mademoiselle?"
She stopped, and looked around, startled; when she saw me she gave a little smile.
"You wish to fly?" She shook her head, a twinkle in her eye, "I am afraid I cannot help you. Only angels can fly."
"Oh," I said, "And are you an angel?"
"Oh yes," she replied in a secretive tone, "but I am not just any angel, I am the Angel of Music."
A little shock ran through my system when I heard those words, memory upon memory invaded my mind, and were swiftly banished. Although not common, this was a tale parents sometimes told their children, and there was nothing unusual about the fact that Belle knew the story.
"The Angel of Music?" I queried cautiously, "And just what, oh great angel, are your powers."
"Why," she said, her voice filled delight, "I come to good children and give them the gift of music. After I have visited them, they are so talented that everyone knows they must have been visited by an angel."
I gave a laugh, "Do you believe in this angel Belle?"
She looked back at me seriously, "Oh, of course not, I am just pretending. Mama is very careful to tell me what is real and what is pretend. She says it is dangerous to think that make-believe is real."
I returned her solemn look, "Your mother is very wise. It could be very dangerous."
I regarded her speculatively. Just who was this child who resembled Christine and spoke of the Angel of Music?
Curious, I asked her, "What does your father do child?"
"Oh," she answered, "my father is with the angels, he died before I was born."
"I am very sorry," I said sincerely, my father had also died before I left my mother's womb.
"It's alright," she answered, "my mother tells me all about him. He was a great man."
"Indeed," I encouraged, "What was he like?"
Her eyes lit up as she began to tell me, "He was a great musician. He composed marvelous songs, even an opera. Mother says that he had the voice of an angel. She says they used to sing together."
My heart tightened as an eerie feeling started to settle around me.
"That's very nice," I replied, "he sounds like he was a great man."
"Oh but there is more," she assured me, her pride obvious, "He was a great architect too. He designed beautiful buildings. He even built a palace once. Not only that, but he could do magic, and make things disappear. It was all a trick of course. But he could make it look real." She sighed, her gaze wistful, "Mother says that he was very strong, and that he could have protected us from anything. She says even now he is watching us from heaven."
My mind was whirling and my stomach felt very strange indeed. I broached one final question.
"What was his name?"
"His name was Erik."
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Paris, 1881, Erik
The
mirror shattered, and I disappeared into the welcoming darkness, the
need to escape the mob too great for me to give in to the anguish
crushing my soul. Blindly I walked down my escape route, my muscles
mechanically moving me towards safety, my mind numb. Abruptly, my
brain was startled into thought as I felt my legs meet with
resistance. Blankly I stared down into the darkness, my eyes slowly
interpreting the crates that blocked my progress. Recognizing my
supplies, I walked around them and collapsed upon the ground.
I wanted to die, there really was no further point to life, but yet I had evaded the mob and sought safety. My bloody instinct for survival didn't care what my heart was feeling; it only knew the business of physical preservation. Oh God, why did my body fight to live, when my soul had withered up and died within me?
Christine had left me—rode away in the boat with that damned boy. I could still feel her lips upon mine, the gloriously new sensation of her mouth moving against mine had shocked me to the core. I had been deprived of human touch all my life. No woman had ever kissed me, touched me like that before. Yet Christine had done so despite by exposed deformity. Unfaltering, she had joined our two bodies at that one tenuous point. I had been too shocked to respond to the contact I was receiving, and Christine had drawn away, her eyes tenderly looking into mine. Then miraculously, she had kissed me again, this time with something I hesitatingly identified as passion, and if I had not know better, longing.
That kiss had disarmed me. I knew then I could not force this girl to stay with me. I did not want her unwilling company, but she could choose to stay.
Yes, I had shouted at them to leave, but she must have known I would have joyfully accepted her if she had chosen . . . me. But that would never happen, no, she had not protested, gladly fleeing the darkness with her perfectly formed Vicomte.
I should have known that kiss was only artifice designed to buy her freedom. No woman could actually wish to touch me in that fashion.
For as long as I live, no woman will ever look on me with love.
God, how I wanted to die.
Angrily I fought my body's demands. Stubbornly I lay upon the floor for three days, struggling against the instinct to reach out and eat the food that lay close by, enclosed in the crates.
My mind raged inside my motionless body, disunity filled my thoughts. Why, why are you doing this? I questioned one moment. For some woman who never loved you? I loved her, I replied defiantly. Without her love I might as well die. Don't be stupid, she isn't worth it. All she cared for was for money, position, and appearances anyway. She abandoned you to rot in this dark dungeon. How can you mourn such a creature? Feebly, my love for Christine fought back; how can I blame her for wanting to live in the light? I argued. She just wanted a normal life.
But the human being is perversely resilient, and in order for me to survive, my love could not. Mercilessly, my mind abused Christine, until I was convinced she was faithless and shallow. My love was buried deep in my mind, locked in a trunk and sunk to bottom of my ocean of thoughts.
Eventually I ceased fighting the hunger that ravenously demanded satisfaction, and sought my food. I ate.
Now the worst of my despair had left me, I was denied the numbness that had allowed me to ignore my uncomfortable surroundings. I had to leave here. I shuddered at the thought of going above, of living in that cruel world, but I knew there was no going back.
I got up to leave, wondering what I would do with myself. My restless thoughts provided the answer, I would travel. I needed no home right now. I would acquire a horse, and ride wherever my fancy took me.
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London, 1890, Christine
I was abruptly jolted out of my dreams, as the weight of a small body landed on top of me. I shrieked indignantly and reached out for the source of my rude awakening. It giggled and squirmed away from my grasp, but I managed to grab its ankle and hauled it atop me, before turning it over and ruthlessly tickling it into submission.
"Stop," Belle gasped out, laughing helplessly. "I give, I give."
"That's what you get, you little imp, for awakening your mama from her blessed sleep."
"Sorry," she said unrepentantly, before snuggling up close to me on the bed.
Lovingly I looked down at my eight year old daughter; already she was growing too old for my comfort.
She began to excitedly tell me about various things she had done and discovered—Informing me that she had found evidence of a fairy at the bottom of the garden, and fully intended on laying in wait for it.
Indulgently I listened to her, Belle and I loved our little games of make believe.
Suddenly she was quiet. Then she said haltingly, "I saw a very strange man the other day mama."
"Oh?" I queried.
"He was wearing a mask."
I sat up abruptly, "What! Where did you see him?"
"He walked past our house, that's all."
"Did you speak to him," I asked sharply.
"No. . .no, I
didn't."
I gave a sigh of relief.
"Listen Belle, if you ever see him again, you must not speak to him. In fact, come back into the house immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes mama," she replied in a small voice.
"Good," I said, "Now I think its time we had some breakfast. Now go help your Aunt in the kitchen and I will get dressed."
She obediently arose and left. As I dressed I reflected on the close call we had almost had. True, even if she spoke to Erik, he would have no way of knowing I was her mother, but I did not want to take any chances. Erik . . . it had been two days since I had heard from him. Two days since that night.
I firmly put him from my mind, and prepared to go downstairs to enjoy my breakfast. As I was leaving I saw a little pile of letters on my dresser; I had brought them from the other house the night before without looking at them. Oh well, I would read them after breakfast.
After I breakfasted and dealt with a few household chores, I came back up the stairs to read my correspondence.
The top letters were a few trifling bills and some invitations. As I reached the last letter I saw the script with a sinking heart. Reggie. I had hoped the blackguard had just been trifling with me, playing with my emotions, that night at the theater. It seems he had had more concrete plans.
I nervously opened the letter and read the contents.
My darling Elise,
It amused me to see you at the theater with another man my dear. Have you jilted poor Perry already? Whoever was that strange man you were with? Well, whoever he is I am sure he is very rich. He must be very generous indeed for you to change partners so quickly. I would love for you to share some of that wealth my dear. A couple thousand pounds will do.
Please don't be stingy. I might find myself being a little too generous with the information I know about you. We would never want that to happen. Don't make this unpleasant my dear. And I absolutely insist you meet me for dinner. I really won't be denied. I do so love to hear about your life. How does Friday next sound? If there is a better time do write and tell me.
Your Obedient Servant
Reginald Grantham
Rage and helplessness washed through me. I had thought he was done with his blackmail; he hadn't contacted me in a year. But it would seem I was not free of him yet. I felt so pathetic, but there was nothing I could do. I would just have to give in to his demands.
(a/n) Now listen, Erik is NOT Belle's fathershe is a result of her mother's rape. I just wanted to make sure that was not in doubt. Please R&R. (a/n)
