Erik paged idly through the book for a few minutes after Meg Giry left on her errands.
Damn the meddling, insolent girl!
How dare she simply remove his mask like that? And to walk away with it, to leave it somewhere beyond his reach!
Damn her for being so bothersome and stubborn!
What did she want from him? Who did she think she was, this little ballet tart who scolded and nagged and nursed him.
He let the book fall shut, heard it tumble to the floor with a thud as he pushed back the blanket.
He knew now…he forced himself to admit…that he would have died if Christine had stayed with him, if he had not sent her away with that boy.
She would not have had the strength to help him, to clean and bandage the wound.
She only found the courage to kiss me…to save him…it was a sacrifice…nothing more.
He sat up, unsure where the line between physical pain and agony of the soul was drawn.
I would have died in her arms. I would have been happy…for the first time…and the last…if she had stayed with me.
He forced himself to stand, knocking the rest of the books from the chair as he steadied himself.
Damn that girl's compassion…I don't need it.
He'd lived so long without compassion…he didn't want it now.
No woman had ever touched him willingly or without revulsion once she knew what lay beneath the mask…not even Christine. That kiss…for all its truth and passion…had been forced from her.
He found a shirt and put it on, feeling the muscles of his arm strain against the tight bandage. The discomfort increased as he drew a wig from the armoire and put it one, smoothing dark hair carefully out of habit.
Using the furniture and walls for support, he made his way slowly to the outer room.
His mask lay on the throne, white on black. It seemed like an eternity since he had left it there. And it seemed to take him an eternity to reach the chair.
Since when was the mask so heavy in his hands and on his face?
He pressed the mask to his skin, slipping the almost invisible wire over his head with swift dexterity. Then he sank down, grateful for the sturdy comfort of it as he leaned back into the black cushions.
Across the room, he saw the organ…the violin case on the stand nearby.
Little Giry, it seemed, had straightened the endless pages of music he had written.
Pages he had scattered in rage and grief.
All too far away…he could not walk that far in his weakened state.
Music was now like a lover just beyond his reach.
He had no choice. He could only close his eyes and wait for the little dancer to return.