"Oh, Erik! This is beautiful!" The dress was not exactly black; it was like a "black" rose--such a dark, rich shade of red that it looked black until the light hit it. It was trimmed with jet beads all over the bodice, and a black lace panel over the deep décolletage protected the wearer's modesty. The matching mask was trimmed with feathers. "I shall be delighted to wear it." She turned laughing blue eyes on him and asked, "Now, where is your costume?"
"Should I show you? Or should I surprise you?" he asked, catching her hand in his.
"Oh, show me! Do show me, please?" Christine coaxed.
"You understand that I shall be attending in my official capacity," he warned. "As the opera ghost, I mean."
Christine blinked. "So, what does the opera ghost wear to a masked ball?"
"This," he said, pulling out a dark red outfit made of satin and velvet. It was gorgeous, with gold embroidery on the red velvet waistcoat and gold trim running down the back. The accompanying cloak had a long train and was embroidered as well; Christine spread it out to read what the golden letters said.
"Do not touch me; I am the Red Death passing by," she read. "Erik, what does it mean?"
"It's a message to the new manager. If he leaves me alone,Death will pass him by. For everyone else, it's a reassurance that I shan't be claiming anyone that night."
"Except me," Christine added with a blush.
"Yes, but in a very human way rather than a ghostly one," Erik clarified, bending to kiss her hand.
Christine enjoyed the week before the Bal Masque very much. She stayed with Erik in his home, getting daily music lessons that often lasted for hours as they both lost track of time. Erik had never sung much during their previous lessons, and she felt privileged to hear him so often now. He had the best voice she'd ever heard, high, full, and strong—a perfect match for her own. She reflected often on how unfortunate it was that because of his face, he'd never be able to sing in the opera. He played the organ for her, and the flute; its gentle, piping sound complemented her voice well, too.
Evenings they spent in his sitting-room, reading or talking. She ended up telling him about her childhood, when she and her father had been servants in the Chagny household. She told him about befriending the boy Philippe over some music, and about how much fun they had after that—racing around the gardens laughing together, running through the house when her work was done, having water-fights near the fountain in the garden. The most fun of all, though, had been when her father had taken her and Philippe to the fairs, and played the violin for her to sing to.
Her face fell when she told about Philippe's parents finding out about their friendship and sending her and her father packing. But even then it wasn't so bad; she loved her father dearly, and was overjoyed not to have to share him with anyone else. Without any domestic duties getting in their way, they were free to spend all their time together and they had, until his death a few years before she had come to Paris.
"It is the greatest gift a parent can give a child," Erik told her. "A happy childhood."
"Was yours unhappy?" Christine asked, expecting him to say yes.
He shrugged. "Only because of my face, and having to grow up down here."
"Weren't you lonely?"
His mouth took on a rueful expression. "Gerard never allowed me to be lonely for long. Whenever he found he lonely or unhappy in any way, he concluded that I was bored and his solution was to give me work to do."
"He did?" Christine was surprised.
Erik nodded. "Oh, yes. I have worked every job in this opera house at one time or another. The ones I most enjoyed were when he set me the problem of special effects—how to make it look as if the dragon were really breathing fire, for example, or how to make someone disappear onstage without a trapdoor. Those were the ones I liked the best."
"Ah," said Christine with perfect understanding. "Magic."
"Precisely."
"What was your least favourite job?"
"Cleaning the opera stables."
Christine laughed at the image of her elegant and refined maestro wielding a pitchfork and mucking out the horse stalls. Erik merely shrugged.
The clock struck eleven, and Erik rose. "It's late, my dear. We should get some sleep if we expect to be able to sing tomorrow." He held down his hand and helped her up off the footstool.
Erik was a stickler for singers getting enough sleep. Ever since Christine had been staying with him, he had always declared bedtime to be no later than eleven (he preferred ten).
During the day he was formal and gentlemanly in his behaviour; he did not shy away from her displays of affection, but he rarely initiated them himself. He had, however, taken to always kissing her goodnight before they parted. Her heart pounded in anticipation.
He escorted her to the doorway of her room and then tugged her around to face him. He cupped her face in both his hands and lowered his lips to hers.
The first kiss was gentle, tender, and Christine's hands slid up his chest to go around his neck and hold him closer. Her hands unerringly found the ties of his mask, and she backed off a little to ask him a question with her eyes. He hesitated an instant and then nodded, and she untied the ribbons and gently pulled the mask from his face.
Without the mask getting in their way, the second kiss was fiery. It went on for some time, and left them both gasping in its wake. Christine leaned back against the door-frame and took a deep breath, her dark blue eyes locked on Erik's. He reached for his mask and began to lift it toward his face again, but Christine stopped his arm.
"No, please. Let me look at you."
Erik swallowed nervously, but allowed it. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him on his cheek, right on one of the blackened patches. Then she kissed the raised bridge of his nose (what he had for a nose), where the mask pressed down on the ridges; the skin there was swollen and red. "Your mask doesn't seem very comfortable," she said. "I wish you would leave it off, sometimes."
He shook his head, taking a shaky breath. The light touches of her lips on his face were nearly his undoing after their passionate kiss. "I do, sometimes, when no one else is around. When I have a guest, though, it seems more polite to cover my face. No one should have to look at it."
"But Erik, I don't mind. Truly I don't. Would you leave it off tomorrow, at least for a while? I don't like to think of your wearing it for my sake, when it hurts you and I'm getting used to your face." She smiled a little and kissed him again, quickly. "You're really quite handsome, you know, aside from the top half of your face. You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
"Thank you, my dear," Erik replied humbly. "That is… kind of you to say."
He started to turn away, but Christine reached for his hand and pulled him back. "I like your mouth, too," she told him, just before she met it with her own.
Lost in the kiss, Erik was seconds away from doing something ungentlemanly. He had to stop. He ended the kiss and backed away. "Good night, Christine," he said, sounding hoarse, before turning to flee down the stairs. He made it to his own room and shut the door; then, on an impulse, locked it. The extra second it would take to unlock it might make him pause long enough to think better of rushing back to her right away. That girl had no idea of the effect she had on him.
No man could sleep in this condition, he thought ruefully. He waited till he had caught his breath and then unlocked his door and went out, down to the edge of the lake out of sight of Christine's window. He shucked his clothes and waded into the icy dark waters of the lake. A long and chilling swim was probably exactly what he needed.
Christine, watching from her window, saw him go and heard the splashing. After a long while, she saw him coming back up from the lake unmasked; he hadn't dried off before he'd redressed, and his shirt clung to his wet torso. She swallowed and backed away from the window, crawling beneath the covers. She might not have known what effect she had on him, but she was beginning to be aware of the effect he had on her. She lay awake for a long time until her heart had slowed down enough to let her sleep.
The next morning was the day of the ball. Their music lesson took up the whole morning, but after lunch Erik brought Christine back up through the mirror to her dressing room. "I shall meet you before the start of the ball," he said, bringing her hand to his lips. "I look forward to the pleasure of dancing with you."
"Lisewise, monsieur," Christine replied playfully. She took her costume from him and hung it up; when she turned back he was gone. Smiling a little to herself, she hummed a few bars of the song they'd worked on that morning; Erik's disembodied voice joined hers for the next few measures and then faded out as he retreated back to his house.
Author's note: "Red Death stalking abroad," is actually an error in the original English translation. It should more accurately read "I am the Red Death passing by," with the idea of his bypassing people, rather than taking them.
For those who've said the plot is beginning to get in the way of all the fluff, I hope this chapter placated you a little. -g-
