Ch 6 – Do I Dream Again?

That night, my dreams were sweeter than any I'd had since the fire. And in that place, in that bed, I slept more soundly than I ever had on the down mattress in the gilded bed at the chateau.

In sleep, he sang to me again. But he appeared as the comforting, protective angel of my childhood, for the first time in a great while. No fire, no nightmares, just peace and joy and stillness.

I slept long and deeply. And woke with my heart no longer empty, but filled with a strange delight and an unnamed yearning – until I remembered that he was gone. It was a dream, and nothing more.

But – I looked at the rose which had been withered and faded before I fell asleep – and it was gone. In its place was a freshly blooming deep red rose, tied with a new black ribbon.

What miracle was this?

I burst out of the bedroom, raced down the stairs, and ran to the main room. Candles were burning. I had not left them burning.

And there – at the organ – with his back to me –

I must have made a noise, though I do not remember speaking, for he turned around – and immediately turned away, smiling.

"Christine."

"Yes?"

"…Trousers."

"Oh!" Blushing furiously, I ran back up the stairs and resumed the lower half of the male apparel I was so unused to wearing. I scrubbed ineffectively at my face with my dry hands, but gave it up as hopeless, and made an attempt to comb my disordered hair with my fingers.

Finally abandoning my futile attempt at a toilette, I exited the bedroom at a more sedate pace, and walked towards him. My heart was hammering in my chest. I was afraid to breathe, lest he should turn out to be a dream after all.

At the organ, he was writing, as I'd seen him before, but it appeared to be text rather than music. His appearance surprised me – not because he was so changed, but because he was so unchanged from the way he had appeared at our first meeting. I suppose I had expected him to be in disarray, as he was at our last encounter, but he appeared calm and composed – if slightly more tired and careworn. He had resumed the mask and wore his familiar dressing gown over shirt and trousers. This time it was I who was in disarray. Our positions had reversed.

I could not think of a single thing to say.

He broke the silence.

"It's good to see you again," he said, finally, without looking up.

"And you."

There were a million questions I wanted to ask him; a million thoughts racing through my head, but I was half-afraid that if I spoke he'd disappear; shatter into pieces like the mirrors. I wanted to touch him and dared not, afraid he'd push me away.

"How is married life treating you?" he asked, calmly, as if we were taking tea in a society drawing room.

"I'm not married. Yet.."

He looked up at that, and those eyes that seemed to look into my soul met mine again, at last. I wondered what he thought of what he saw there. His gaze was like an arrow straight to my heart, and my knees buckled.

"I'm sorry," I said. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I believe it was yesterday." I was babbling. "It was foolish of me."

"Foolish to come here at all," he said tersely, providing a chair, for which I thanked him. I felt like an errant child being scolded. "The Opera House is no longer what it was. And this place – I no longer live here. I have not been back here since – " he left the sentence unfinished.

"What made you come?"

"I heard singing. I thought I was imagining it. I wanted to see."

"I'm glad."

He looked away again. "You slept a long time."

"You watched me?"

"Mm. Let me get you something to eat." He disappeared for a brief time, and came back with food and water. I broke my fast while he regarded me, and afterwards, I felt a bit better.

I was still at a loss for words. I blurted out the first thing that entered my head.

"There's something I've always wanted to ask you…"

"And that is?"

"What's your name?"

He smiled, that rare half-grin of his.

"Erik."

"Erik what?"

"What?"

"What's your family name, your surname?"

His face shut down again.

"I have no family name, just as I have no family. I came by the name Erik by accident. I no longer remember the name my mother gave me – if she even bothered with one." He'd spoken of his mother once before, and just as bitterly.

"I'm sorry."

"It's long in the past."

We looked at each other, and that look seemed to last lifetimes. I realized that he still had not touched me, and I wondered why I had noticed. But then I seemed to be doubly aware of everything about this man – everything he did, every word he spoke. I was surely in the grip of some strong emotion – fear? Anxiety? Longing? I was unable to put a name to it. I only knew that, despite everything that had happened, I wanted desperately to break down the wall that had grown up between us, and I couldn't think of any way at all to do it.

Or any reason why I should want such a thing.