Four
"Will I play?" he repeated. His voice broke. "Will I play— will I play— answer me this, Christine, my Christine— will you sing for me?"
She took a deep breath and steadied herself. "I will sing for you, Erik."
He smiled, he laughed, suddenly giddy as a child, so pleased to have her back again. He took her hand and led her to the organ that sat moldering and half destroyed against the far wall.
He seated himself before it; he smoothed down the legs of his trousers; his fingers twitched and hesitated above the ravaged keys. Christine bit her lip, looking at the thing. It would not, it could not play— not anything worth hearing, anyway.
Erik brought down his fingers on the keys, softly, gently as a father to a child—
There was no air in the bellows. He did not pump the pedals. But somewhere in the hulk of the ruined instrument the music's spirit lurked still— under Erik's coaching fingertips, the organ produced the ghost of sound, a sound as soft and sweet and lonely as a violin.
Christine stifled a sob.
He was playing for her.
The music called to her—
"Christine, Christine—"
The music knew her as no one did. It knew her name, her mind and her soul, it wrapped warm fingers about her heart and held on. It beckoned to her and toyed with her and tossed her into the air and caught her as she fell. It was comfort, an embrace she dreamt about, it was everything, it was love.
It was Erik's voice calling to her now.
The dulcet strains of the violin disappeared and in its place the organ was moaning with Erik's sweetly seductive tones, as his fingers danced deftly over the keyboards and his mouth did not move. Christine stood still, hearing and understanding every word. It was pure pain to hear and not respond, pain of the most exquisite sort. Erik's voice whispered over her body and groveled at her feet and begged her and begged her and begged her—
She wished he would stop, and she could return to herself.
She wished he would never stop, and she would become someone else.
He stopped.
He turned to look at her after a long moment of silence, while the ghost of the music lingered like dust motes in the air. The mask was a travesty, she thought— he should never hide himself.
He looked at her with his ancient eyes.
"I'm sorry, Erik," she faltered. "I know I did not sing with you— I got caught up in the music—"
He sighed.
"I heard you, Christine," he said. "I heard you singing."
She dared not ask him what he meant. It didn't matter anyhow.
She knew already.
It crept quickly into her heart, the thought that perhaps an eternity of Erik and Erik's music and only Erik would not be such a bad thing.
She tried to banish the thought quickly. She did not want to stay here forever. She had a life to live back on the surface, things to do—
Though for the life of her she could not remember what they were—
Raoul.
That was it.
Raoul.
Raoul would not know where she was, he would worry, and if he worried she would worry. He had done so much for her, and their friendship ran deep and strong after all these years.
She had to convince Erik to let her go, to let her free.
But not now.
Now she could stay with him and enjoy his company, listen to that pleading, commanding voice and beg him and beg him and beg him—
She swallowed.
"Please," she said, "won't you play again, Erik?"
He stared at her for a long moment, then slowly shook his head. "It is late," he said. "You should be in bed, my child." He stood from the organ and walked towards her— once he was in her reach she grasped him by the lapels of his coat.
"Erik, you don't really think of me as your child, do you?"
The look on his face made it clear that this, also, was a mistake.
"I beg your pardon," she murmured quietly. "I only wanted to know. I felt I had to ask. Erik—"
He had detached her hands from him now and was leading her, leading her without ever touching her, in the direction of her bedroom, where she used to stay when she slept down here. He turned towards her now in attentive response.
"Erik— I do not think of you as my father."
She shivered with the confession.
Again his face suggested that this was not a good thing to say, but also she sensed that he knew it quite well.
"I should suppose so," he remarked airily. "For after all, one does not kiss their father as you kissed me, Christine— or does one? I would not know. I never knew my father."
"No," she breathed, as he stood aside to let her into her room, "one does not."
He followed her to her bed, reaching for the candle to take it out of the room. He did not look at her as she turned down the blanket and lay down.
She reached up from where she lay on the musty sheets and grasped his sleeve.
"Erik— you don't think of me as your child. I know you do not."
He looked down at her small hand, holding his sleeve.
"No," he whispered. "I do not."
"Erik— you should not have to wear a mask."
"No— I should not." She made him feel, in that moment, that almost anything was possible. Almost anything. Almost.
Certainly not what she did next.
She sat up and wrapped him in her arms, pressing her face to his chest, holding on as though for dear life. He allowed her to embrace him, feeling as though he was waiting something out— surely she would release him from this beautiful torture— her touch her hair her body her voice her love— in just a moment. Just one moment more. Just one moment—
She did not. She pulled him forwards and down, down beside her, her arms still clasped about his back. Warning bells went off in his mind but that was just the insanity speaking and he managed, by great effort of will, to ignore it for a time.
They were silent together, like children playing a game in which they do not wish to be disturbed.
