Her Defiance - Chapter 3

Something wasn't right. Something bright fluttered around her. There was the certain scraping of the curtains being pulled back, allowing the sunlight filter through the large panel of windows. Subconsciously, wishing to remain asleep and away from the disturbance of light, she gave a loud disgruntled groan and rolled so that her face was planted into the pillow. A bustling was heard: a clatter of cutlery on a tray against the mahogany, her own paper thin drapes around her bed being pulled back, the small rhythmic plumping of the chaise lounge cushion, that was in fact part of the windowsill. Distantly, she heard the bathroom door open (the knob gave a small grinding noise reminiscent of it's Victorian origin) and the sound of water hitting the bottom of the bathtub. Moaning into the pillow, she took a breath of air before raising her head to plant the pillow on top of her face. As much as she disliked having no pillow and the mattress beneath her, she hoped her resistance was noted.

A stern tapping of china altered her that the mute maid was aware of her message and apparently was not having any of it.

"Go away. Tell Erik to go to hell. It's a blooming Sunday. I'm having a lie-in." she grumbled, turning over on her side.

There was a moment of stunned silence before she shrieked as her duvet was whipped off. A hand patted the bed, hoping to find a corner to latch onto but gave up on the attempt. Sighing, she feebly surrendered it to the maid, she wrapping her arms around her pillow instead and clung to it, shivering in the chill air.

Clarice cleared her throat meaningfully.

Christine only squeezed her eyes tighter, "Go ahead. Go and call him. I don't care. Just because he's up since dawn doesn't mean I have to be." she paused, feeling triumphant as she delivered her last line, "And he can't make me get up. And neither will you." As much as she pitied the creature and her brethren enlisted to Erik's service, she harboured a certain dislike to the servants that obeyed their master's whims. It reminded her of how the Nazi's obeyed Hitler, even when it was wrong.

A grunt of annoyance was heard, the shuffling of the maid's dress and a door slam. Seconds later a bell was rung which rattled just outside her door.

In her mind, she weighed out whether it was worth fighting over when to get up – to get scolded from Erik from being a lay-about – or to just give up her Sunday morning lie-ins. No. It wasn't about the lie-ins really, it was the principle. The fact he was entirely in control of when she ate, slept, even breathed. Yes, he had previously shown that in the fact he was a master in all things. Taking a life was certainly one of them.

"Really, such a simple task of rousing yourself hardly warrants such an undisciplined display, Christine." Erik drawled, his royal phantomness appearing once again to her on his silent tread.

She didn't reply, pretending she didn't hear him. Her fingers clutched the pillow to herself, shielding the view of her.

"It is also quite rude to ignore your host." Erik hissed, quickly loosing his good humour, sending shivers down her spine. Christine winced at the venom.

"Go away," she whispered weakly, burying her face into her pillow and trying not to be distraught in being caught in her nightwear before a fully grown man.

"Not until you start behaving like the lady I know you to be." he retorted, before continuing, "This is rather childish, Christine. Here I was, hoping I'd be able to show you the house today." His voice gave the impression that it was fading mercilessly in the background and heading towards her door. Panic overrode her original intent and she sat up quickly, hair falling into her eyes as the pillow was forgotten, "Wait!"

Erik's thin frame turned around, his golden eyes hardly concealing his triumph, "Yes, my dear? Was there something you were going to say?"

She took in a breath and swallowing the sharp sting of her pride, bowing her head slightly in defeat, murmuring bitterly, "I'll get dressed. Eat breakfast, bathe, whatever you want."

While her own brown orbs focused on the sheet's pristine colour, she missed the slight curling of his lips, "Very good my dear, I shall be waiting downstairs for you."

He made it to the door, nodding to the shifting maid, unsure if such a calling would earn her a stern reprimand, and said lightly to his ingenue, "Now, don't cause any more trouble to Miss Bernette. She has already had the misfortune of clearing up your mess the first time you decided to dabble in the art of redecoration."

The door swished shut, clicking elegantly behind him.

Christine's eyes rose to Clarice and her ginger braids, which hung limply out of her kerchief on her head. The girl's ordinary green eyes gazed at her at a mixture of pity and sadness, as if Christine were the one who did not understand.

Understand what, was the question.

Christine had managed to send the maid away, after she had forced herself to eat a piece of toast with goat's cheese spread delicately on top, promising that she would not waste the bath water from earlier. Satisfied with her clemency and submission to her whims, the maid bid her farewell, but not without a parting look that only told Christine not to keep Erik waiting for too long.

Unable to know whether Erik had installed eyes and ears in her living space, she followed on her promise and stripped only in the safety of the bathroom. Though his conduct had only been honourable around her – he rarely ever touched her – she did not for a minute trust anything she couldn't see. Not now. Slinking into the crystal marble tub, that was more likely worth more than she could bear to imagine, she once again replayed the fantasy that she was merely staying in a five star hotel before dipping her head under the water.

She knew the offer of viewing the rest of the house was something she could not resist now. For too long had she been shut away, wandering aimlessly within her prison. Though, it had been her own fault for refusing his company. With his rage he had shut her away, using a lock system to effectively lock her in one hallway of the house of which had been marked 'solely hers'. Of course, her set of rooms sat right above the music room (she assumed), because he had filled the floor above with his music. Punishment or reward? Agony, sweet agony. Beautiful, often destabilising melancholy had reached her at all hours; she had once screamed at the walls for him to stop or so help her. His music had fallen silent, vanished without a trace for most of three days until she had almost begged for it to return. His presence with had been her few and far between, leaving her to become desperate enough for gratefully accept his company whenever he came to visit, listening with bliss for the mere pleasure of hearing his voice. Clarice had never spoken, mutism of which Christine did not know if it was by choice or medical reasons.

Never once, however, had Erik unlocked the door that lead to the other rooms of the house. Christine had spent hours scrounging around to find things that could be an equivalent to lock pick, however, instead of becoming angry when he found broken hair clips stuck inside the locks, he had merely found her attempts amusing. He had been in a surprisingly good humour that day, even teasing her that if she could continue to behave, that it would soon become a very likely possibility. And like a dog starved of affection, she had bowed to his whims, desperately hoping that the stick her master would throw her would be the key to escape.

Christine had been able to manage her solitude, by fervently day-dreaming, scouring her shelves for good reading material, drawing in the studio that had been waiting for her and cursing Erik repeatedly in her head whilst going over the events for the last six months leading up to this point. The first moments since she had awoken had made things feel somewhat of a nightmare. Erik had been aloof in his regard for her, only inciting more rage that had been boiling within. His conduct had, in the last half a year, become increasingly possessive, a word Christine had only read in fictional love triangles. Erik had managed her life is if she were no more than a disobedient doll he wished to control and bow to his every whim.

She didn't even know why she had taken lessons from him in the first place! Oh, but there had been something about him, damn her curiosity. She shouldn't have been a child fascinated by a mere shadow, unaware of it jumping further and further away from her to lead her away from the light. Her father had taught her better than that. But, his aura had been so intriguing. His eyes, a direct link to something otherworldly had enchanted her as much as his voice. Christine's heart had trilled at being near such an enigma that filled her with the most amazing adrenaline. But then his voice – dear God! It couldn't more match that enigma that had watched her from the back of the restaurant where she had worked once a week. Fascinating. Thrilling. Mysterious. The child within had not been able to resist drawing nearer to the flame. Too late, his voice had snatched all rational thought from her. All attempts of escape had been futile.

Christine's shift had nearly ended, most customers had already left, leaving virtually none in her section. There was only an elderly man who looked like he needed an old battered pipe and two lovebirds that seemed to gaze deeply into each other's eyes – with enough sickening love to make her gag. A cynic on the outside, she had refused to participate in the bets of what the staff made secretly about couples and marriage proposals. The staff called her Loveless Lotte, the last half sneakily found out when her colleague had spied her email address and she had been forced to admit her once-common nickname. Though her father had been head over heels in love with her mother, that idea gained when one could see the forever heartache in her Papa's eyes, she refused to be a similar victim to that sadness. Love could only break you later in life and she blatantly refused to fall victim to it.

However, that did not save her from almost coming to love a voice.

Wincing at her cramping fingers and burning feet, her hand rose to wipe off the sheen of sweat beading on the back of her neck. Glancing around and seeing no one in her immediate line of sight, she allowed herself the pleasure of humming a piece of music that she had recently listened to. It was a Broadway tune admittedly, for she was more of an opera fan, it had been a certified ear-worm and she had been silly enough to listen to it. When she was lucky enough for the last customers to leave, her humming mellowed into words which only stopped when Steph the manager came around to shut up the place.

"Come on, enough work for tonight Chris. And," Steph paused, eyes narrowing slightly, "If I wanted to pay for a concert, I'd pay someone who'd truly be able to sing. I hope you don't serve all customers with just a bunch of lyrics, otherwise you should rethink about your current stay here with this job."

Christine shook her head wildly, "No! Of course not. Please forgive me. I won't sing again. I promise." she vowed, the thought of quite possibly losing her job for a measly little habit rather terrifying.

Steph regarded the girl thoughtfully. Though initially shy, Christine had been a hard worker throughout the couple of years she'd known her and had only heard praise from her colleagues about her attitude. Never discussing things more on a passing basis, Steph had only seen glimpses of the girl. She was about to reassure the girl that she did not really believe what she had threatened, but when a shadow distatched from the background, suddenly Steph could only know fear.

"M-Mister- "

A sharp arrow of a hand cut her mid-phrase and a deceivingly beautiful voice came from behind an ebony mask, "Miss Debienne, do you assume that your knowledge of music is superior to another?"

His spine-shivering voice reduced Steph to give stuttered 'No' to his veiled warning.

Unblinking yellow orbs stared at her, "And when a mere girl interrupts the peace while singing a tune, you must flaunt the fact you ignorantly assume that she is untalented and unworthy of displaying such a talent?"

"N- no of- of course I would never dare to-"

Her backing up was stopped by a deadly glare, cold with burning fury.

"And you would have me believe that I causally made up your reprimand of such an act?" his voice dipped into an exceptionally beautiful snarl that Christine could only listen to in awe. With one step, his figure towered over the manager.

Who was this being, Christine thought. Why did his voice overtake her so? Was this man really an angel in disguise?

The manager, on the other hand paled at the phantom's words, her jaw coming to flap uselessly while trying to think of words to answer.

Though Christine suddenly wished to help the floundering woman before this man's wrath, something in her gut told her it was wise to keep her mouth shut. After all, she had no idea who this man was and there was something about his voice making her mind go numb just listening to him.

"Do be quiet and close that ghastly mouth of yours. If this is any way you treat your staff, perhaps I should demote you to a mere person who washes the dishes here. Perhaps that would make you learn respect." Disdain was added to his tone and from his looming height, he had the ability to look down upon the lady, who now shivered with terror.

Somehow Christine must have made a sound, because swiftly those complex eyes swivelled towards her and if she was not imaging, partially softened. Without understanding how, her eyes must have conveyed her helplessness within the situation, as just as quickly, the spectre tore his own eyes away from her and settled on the figure before him.

"For now, I will be merciful, if only on Mademoiselle Daae's behalf. You may keep your position here, but, be aware to give the girl the respect she deserves." The unbidden tone of 'I'll be watching you' was not unnoticed by Christine.

Steph was already nodding fearfully, eyes darting towards the frozen party from her corner. Christine glanced to meet the eyes of the shadow, just noticing the dark blur on his face and believing this to be the shadows of the ill-lit restaurant. The man before her then gave her a courteous bow of farewell and brushing through the entrance without so much as a word of goodbye to the still teary-eyed Steph.

There was a moment of silence between the two that almost became awkward, if Christine hadn't asked out loud in a sort of wonder, "Who was he?"

Without realising, Steph gave a shudder, "Pray you'll never know." she whispered, eyes anxiously locking on the door and the shadows beneath the streetlamps.

In the following days she had merely pushed the occasion away, thinking that the man must had been the owner of the restaurant she had been working in. That of course he must know her name surely because of that. The way that frightening man had observed Steph as no more than a bug he happened to merciful not to step on, was not unusual in the slightest. That a man with stunning yellow eyes, that hid within the shadows, was not as dangerous as what she associated with a mobster or could soundly imagine him featuring in a movie as a crazy madman organising crime behind the scenes. That in fact, he had merely defended her singing while terrifying her and Steph in the process.

However, there had been a few changes in the way Steph had been regarding her. It was her wary darting eyes at the corners of the restaurant when Christine was nearby, the slight respect to ask her how her day was and if she needed anything, the sudden flexibility of Christine's schedule, being able to swap sectors when things became too rowdy – she had always hated raucous noise - and generally being noticed half a lot more, which unfortunately had garnered the attention of the other staff.

"So, how did you make Steph all spooked Chris? I've never seen her more emotional than a rock." Sarah tried asking her discreetly, dragging her to the corner of the bar on their small break.

Christine shrugged, "No idea." Glancing around, she was relieved to see no spectre or Steph lurking nearby.

However, Andy the barman, sidled up to them, depositing the glass he had been wiping in the cupboards, whilst obviously overhearing Sarah, "Yeah, what's up about that Lotte? In the five years I've been here, I've never seen her as freaked out as this. It's only when the owner pops in suddenly is she all stressed. But never like this."

Once again she was prepared to deflect the accusations, when she titled her head at him, "Who's the owner of this joint anyway?"

Andy shrugged, a hand brushing his half ginger – half brown fuzz on his chin, "I don't know much but, apparently, this guy's a ghost. Never really seen, only manages from behind the scenes and wants an excessive amount from anyone who wants to manage this place. Jeff had to try three times to please 'His Majesty' with the menu and still he got criticised. Man went ballistic over something, what was it?" he bit his lip, thinking, "Oh yeah, it was that the tray his food was reflective and that there was to be 'not a single reflective material' in sight. Man's a nutcase."

Sarah giggled, "Sounds like it. Glad I've never met him. Probably wet my knickers if he so much as looked at me."

Andy leaned forward, ever the gossiper, "Apparently, this dude's eyes glow. Like actually glow. Wonder what thing he takes." Andy gave a snicker.

"Do mean he has yellow glowing eyes?" Christine asked in a soft voice.

Both co-workers came to stare at her, Andy with one brow raised.

"Do you mean you've actually seen him?" Sarah squealed, lunging forward to shake her.

Shaking her head, Christine disentangled herself, "No, but I wondered if Andy actually meant glowing eyes. I wouldn't think he'd be some sort red-eyed demon, right?" she turned hopefully to Andy, who cleared his throat uneasily.

"Yeah. I mean, what I heard from things he wore yellow contacts. So maybe that's where the whole 'glowing eyes idea' came from?"

"Probably." Sarah agreed, tugging on a dirty blonde piece of hair, "Anyway, back to work everyone! It's half past six and the night hasn't even started."

Andy gave a dramatic groan at this, causing Sarah to giggle even more, before she gave Christine a wave and heading over to her sector. Giving a half-hearted 'Yay' herself, when she turned, she did not expect to see the man from before, sitting calmly at table five and yellow eyes staring directly at her.

At least, she thought, she did not wet her knickers.

Her days came interspersed with the strange man's presence, for every evening he would appear at table five right at six thirty precisely. What dumbfounded her was that what she had mistaken to be shadows upon the man's face was a uniquely constructed ebony mask, of which hid everything of his face apart from his strange eyes and thin lips. Each night his voice took place of rational thought and she found herself stumbling over the neatly rehearsed script in her head, cursing herself of acting so unprofessionally in front of what she assumed was the owner. How he hadn't fired her yet was a miracle to her eyes.

What confused her the most however, was that he appeared at the table without walking through the entrance. Of course, there was always the back entrance, but the table backed a wall and sat in the recesses of the restaurant, which was also hidden from most people's line of sight. No one could possibly sit there without walking through all the previous tables. Christine hadn't resorted to checking the walls for a hidden entrance, but if another week came without the mystery being solved, she would not be able to contain her curiosity.

He unnerved her.

His eyes seemed to spear past her outward chivalry and politeness, burning a hole through her façade. Though her rational brain was a part of this world, the busting, clattering, chattering and screams of knives and forks on plates that had always managed to make her weary, with orders spinning past her ears, the smile she donned and costume she wore – she felt herself a day-dreaming actress. That any moment she would break out into song and start dancing about a poor waitress who did not belong in this world.

Flash! Those eyes would stop her day-dream, would revert her to the stumbling muttering girl that had not learnt the skills to survive. But she had! He infuriated her and intrigued her, that calm wave of a voice washing her into another world and depositing on his kingdom's shores. Then she would fight tooth and claw to return, even if she looked like a fool, she knew she had triumphed his illusion. And yet, even as she knew that this was a ridiculous way to see a man and his voice, when she dared to meet his eyes, his head would come to tilt slightly, as if he was a curious spectator to her great battle.

After one particular night, tired after the day's work at college and a particular restless sleep featuring something none other than golden eyes, she decided to use her leeway with Steph to her advantage.

"Steph, do you mind if I swap with Chloe's sector tonight?" she asked casually while Steph was busying herself with the register.

The woman looked up, and suddenly Christine saw the state she was in. Dark circles hung underneath her eyes, her hair had not been dyed in a long enough time to see the grey roots. She swore that a few more wrinkles donned the woman's crow feet, her shirt was rumpled and Christine spied a food stain at the corner of it.

"Are you alright? Can I do anything to help?" her brow furrowed and a hand went to touch her arm before Steph shrugged her off, "Oh no, you've done enough helping," she practically spat, gazing at the clock her eyes shifted to her, suddenly wary, "And no, you can't change sectors."

Christine frowned, "But you said-"

"What I said does not matter now," she all but hissed, a hand coming to rub her temple, "Look, things have changed. You will stay in your sector and that's that. New rules."

Stifling a bout of helplessness, she quickly rethought her strategy.

Observing that the restaurant was devoid of Sarah, she quickly exited to the smoker's zone. Sarah stood there, a soft breeze rustling her blonde hair and dispersing the white smoke whilst she puffed on a cigarette.

Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she swallowed her inner abhorrence for the habit and stepped to Sarah's side.

"Hey Sarah?"

She pulled out an earphone, her hazel eyes glancing at her, "What's up?"

"Can we swap sectors tonight? I really need the change."

Taking the cigarette from her mouth and exhaling the smoke, she raised an eyebrow, "Come on, I know you hate change. But, I'm willing to make an exception this time on one condition."

Eyes lighting eagerly, she looked at her, "What is it?"

"You'll accompany me to a work party next week. My boyfriend bailed on me and I wanted to have an evening out, the tickets are payed for and all. All you'd have to do was turn up and have fun. Of course, help me fend off all the guys drunk enough to start hitting on us," she added with a grin.

As much as it wasn't Christine's idea to have 'fun' so to speak, she couldn't bear to face the man in the mask again, even if it was to go against Steph's 'New Rules', "Deal. Shall we exchange numbers after our shift?"

Sarah nodded, a relieved smile breaking through her façade, "You won't regret this, I promise. Who knows, you might even catch the eye of someone." With this Sarah gave Christine a well-meaning nudge and put out her cigarette, wandering back inside.

She was half-way into her four-hour shift when she met a frazzled out-of-breath Sarah. Christine barely had time to set down the drinks she was carrying before she was dragged into a 'Staff only' storage closet.

Sarah's baleful eyes set on her, "You didn't tell me that creep was here again!"

Christine winced, full well knowing of whom she was referring to.

"Look honey, he almost lost his marbles when I arrived, but you've just got to tough it out. He only wants you to serve him, period."

Christine bit her lip, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

At this Sarah gave a laugh, but it was hardly covered by a layer of fear, "Lord no, but man, that man has a creepy way about him. He actually made shivers run down my spine and break out in the sweats." She shook her head in odd disbelief.

"I hate it." Christine whispered, even knowing that her case was a lost cause to her friend.

Sarah gave a half-awkward pat, "Well, I won't go back out there to him, I'm sorry. I don't want to have my head bitten off."

Christine shook her head, resigned, "No, I wouldn't expect you to. Thanks anyway. Don't worry, I'll still come to the party with you. Did the man order the usual?"

Sarah gave her a nod and exited the room, giving her lingering sympathetic glance.

Well, so much for her plan.

Christine could already feel the tension gathering in the eyes that observed her carrying his glass of freezing water to him. There went her day-dreaming self. Her heart squeezed impatiently and the muscles in her begged herself to run, she almost did, when she made the mistake of meeting his eyes. They beckoned to her louder than any shout or order and without realising she had made it to the table. A hand shook as she set down his drink on the tablecloth.

"Your ice water, sir," she breathed, eager to speed away and was not expecting a reply when his melodic voice murmured in her ear, "Were you so eager to not serve me, Mademoiselle Daae? Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?" his voice was softer than the night. Hair on the back of her neck rose and she swallowed, the sound that was bound to alert the keen ears of the phantom lurking before her.

"Of course not sir, have you decided on your meal of choice?" somehow she had managed to grasp the role of distant professionalism once more, fingers coming to clench her notepad. The restaurant followed the days when technology had not been invented, hence the notepad rather than the modern tablets used for orders. Christine secretly preferred it.

The man made an effort to browse the menu before him, his spindly hands covered in black leather gloves. It was unusual to wear gloves in June, but she had seen plenty more unusual. Take, for example, the mask the man wore. However, she was not going to be one to stare – undoubtedly he had the same reaction wherever he went – however, it was the rapid movement of his fingers as if controlled by a piece of music swaying in his mind that truly fascinated her. Suddenly, she was aware of his knowing stare and she shifted back a step, "Sir?" she questioned, indicating to the menu.

"What do you like to sing?" his question caught her off-guard for a moment, his voice soft as sensuous as midnight that seemed to swirl around her. Transporting her. No! No! Already she could hear that violin in the background, tempting her to recite those Swedish melodies that brought only pain to her. There was that blurry face she could barely remember now. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched herself, the sharp pain bringing her back to reality. Harsh lights of the restaurant, the chatter, the rumbling of chairs and reunions of families and friends. Life, reality, home, the world of living. Regaining herself once more, she regarded him coolly, "Would you like to hear the specials, sir?" her voice had a hard edge to it, as if daring him.

He merely laughed, with a warmth she hadn't heard before, "No, I believe I shall decline on the food, my dear." His endearment almost warmed her before her crossed arms gave her skin another pinch, focusing on the pain. Pain was an effective tool around him, she'd learned. Each night was the same dance, the same routine, as if at one moment his voice would break the ice around her heart.

She was not a fool. She would not fall victim to that voice that seemed to get his way with all that he came across. She would not know him.

Usually she would say, 'Enjoy your meal' to a customer, however as she glanced at the barely touched water, she all but drawled, "Enjoy your ice water." With that she spun around and walked away. His laugh only followed.

Only was she alone in the lady's room did she rest on the toilet seat and bury her face in her hands, façade shattered.

"I don't think I can take much more," she whispered, before coming to the only decision open to her.

She could not survive another week with that dreadful man haunting her. Christine would get rid of that beautiful voice if it was the last thing she would do.

She quit next week, on the Monday she sent in her resignation and then she was a free woman; she had never earnt that much from the snobby restaurant patrons anyway. The only patron that had paid her well had been the masked man, which only made her give the tip to another after briefly wondering if he had stolen it.

After she exchanged numbers with Sarah, she had only sent a brief apologetic text that she would not being seeing her until the Friday, which was the date of the party. Though she had never been truly shopping as a child, a friend of hers she had met in College and shared mostly everything with, had taught her the real joys of shopping. Meg was a dancer which wished to dance in the Met in the day and at night was a total shopaholic. Well, after school that is. When Christine had told her the things she remembered being given was things from the second hand store, Meg had dragged her and her credit card to buy a whole new wardrobe that was right for a College student. Christine hadn't minded, she had a small stash of savings she had secreted away from her collective amount of jobs. It had been bugging her that her clothes had more holes than were fashionable in the modern world. Christine had a range of clothes, from casual to more formal and though she browsed her wardrobe for her favourite dress (a lovely black number that Meg had said any girl should have in their wardrobe), she fancied the idea of leisure and searching the sale racks. Perhaps she would be able to find a new job as well.

After making arrangements to shop on the Wednesday, time passed quickly. Her grades on her English Major were rewarding for all her studying, for after singing, writing, literature and art was one of her passions. She would have chosen art, however, she wanted to scrabble together a living from both writing and her art. Music did not feature in her life and for that she was grateful. As much as she longed to hear the strains of the orchestra and voices rising in the arias she heard from her playlist, singing opera was something she rarely did now. It hurt too much. That shattered dream, that shattered life seemed so long ago, like the debris of the shore of the sea receding.

Her plans once she graduated was to save enough to travel, hoping that the sights of the world would fill her with buckets of inspiration for her passions. What worlds she could experience, what lives she could see! Though that depended on her savings and her living economically.

Wednesday came and with that a Meg bounding to her dorm rooms, ready to spend the rest of the afternoon shopping.

"Ready to go girl?" she all but squealed.

Giving her a good-humoured eye roll, she shrugged her bag onto her shoulder and gave a parting glance to her mini lounge and kitchen she followed Meg out the door and locked it behind her.

Their venture was a successful one, for Christine had gained one cheaply priced, but very nice looking dress, a few accessories needed like a pair of flats, a clutch with a thin chain strap and a petite silver choker necklace. While Meg found a jeans in the sale, along with a summery crop top and a flashy, but well suited, dress.

Christine eyed Meg who was beaming with her new find, moaning, "How the hell do you look so good in figure-hugging dresses? I look like a worm in a second skin."

Meg giggled, "Christine, if you'd try one, you'd find that your figure looks as good as mine does."

Christine raised her eyebrow sceptically, "Yeah, sure Miss Tiny Dancer. I think you'd have to pay me. I'll stay safe with flare out skirts thank you very much."

Meg shook her head, mock-resigned, "One day we gotta work on your confidence girl. Anyway, I'll be five minutes. I need to squirm my way out of this one." She headed back into her dressing room and closed the door.

Later when they sat in Starbucks, munching on their late lunch/dinner that equivalent as heated sandwiches, Meg leaned forward.

"So what started this shopping spree?"

Christine winced, "A deal I made with a co-worker. Just to attend some party with them."

Meg's eyes widened, "Are you saying my hermit of a best friend has seriously made a deal to go to a party? My baby is all grown up! Mama Meg is so proud." she gave a melodramatic fainting gesture.

Christine laughed, unable to deny that she had rarely ever attended any College dances or events that involved a crowd.

"Yes, you should be proud. I'm finally a member of the human race, ha ha ha." she drawled, unable to help her grin.

There was a short silence as the finished their sandwiches and sat back, sipping their drinks.

"So what did you exchange for this almighty payment?" Meg persisted, her curious eyes gleaming.

Christine shrugged, not wishing to think about the man that had been haunting her for around three weeks now and gave a more general excuse, "I needed my shift covered and there was a price."

Meg gave her a look that showed she did not quite believe what Christine was saying, but let the matter slide, more overjoyed about the occasion.

"So when's the party?" she said, tapping her straw with a neon pink nail.

"Tomorrow," she slurped down some of her mocha, "If I wasn't able to get something new today, I was going to wear my black dress, but now I get to wear navy. I did need some navy shoes to be honest. I've got black and brown, but never navy. Wonder why?"

Meg shrugged, "Somethings happen for a reason," she smiled teasingly, "Now, tell me how your current Byronic hero is faring in that story of yours."

The bathwater was slowly growing tepid and she knew that it was about time she got out. Whoever had decorated her bathroom – though she had no doubt that Erik was also the culprit – had managed to leave a clock inside of which informed that her twenty minutes was long enough. Stepping out of the water, she pulled around her one of the plush towels and retreated into the bedroom, uncaring whether she dripped all over the upholstery.

Her eyebrows rose at the sight of which greeted her, a now neatly made bed, with several options of clothing layered on top. All of them slightly more formal – a nice white blouse and smart trousers, a flowing green dress and a flowery pair of a skirt and matching top. Frowning, she recognised that they were all new 'presents' and gave them all a very indignant sniff. She'd be damned if she gave in to wear those for the 'special day' of currently viewing the prison she was in. Fat chance Erik, fat chance, her mind rebelled. Swishing to her wardrobe she pulled out a pair of very casual clothes, a deep green turtleneck of the finest wool and a dark pair of jeans which conveniently sported no rips. As much as Erik protested, he was 'old fashioned'; he did remind her of how Mama Valerious had often commented the 'battered' state of her ripped jeans. But Christine hadn't the opportunity to be picky. Or particularly the money too, either.

Finally, she sat at the dressing table, which held one mirror. Fortunately, it was one that was big enough for her to see down to her chest when she sat down. Combing through her curls and reluctantly using the argan oil that awaited her appliance, she then tied back the hair that often became a nuisance to her with a good old-fashioned ribbon. Christine had had to get used to those, tying one's hair was quite tricky without the usual invention such as a hairband; it had been quite the difficult adjustment. Plus, while as much as she hinted at the difficulty and un-modern use of it, Erik had only gazed fondly at such an article of accessorising. Infuriating it was for her, since it was either his way or can you bear it being loose and get in your way for the rest of the day?

Yet, while she had at first refused to bow to his whims, she only realised that having her hair down had caused his gaze flitter over her curls, as if mesmerised. Suddenly, she been inspired to endeavour to learn the art of hair-ribboning. In her desperation, she had asked Clarice the method of how to do it and with the most humility, the mute had taught Christine several ways to tie her hair with a ribbon. Christine had felt like they had bonded in that moment, though the truce had been quickly broken on later occasions, one like this morning.

Swiftly, Christine felt her time running out, a succession staccato beats below belaying Erik's impatience. In that way only, was he an open book. Hurrying, Christine gave her complexion one last glance before rising and stepping out into the corridor.

It was a marvel to open the corridor's entrance. To her dismay, she had quickly lost count of the days she had spent in this secluded part of his home and with an impatient anxiety, her fingers twisted the door knob that lead to the spiralling staircase that lead to the ground floor, she believed.

Even though she had heard a series of notes just a few moments before she descended the stairs, he stood smartly at the bottom, yellow eyes regarding her with an emotion she couldn't read. Christine did her best not to start with a habit to betray her nervousness, such as clenching and unclenching her hands, biting her lip (of which she had been scolded on that before) and fiddling with her hair. Still, with each step, did she feel sweat coating her hands and to her mortification it once became stuck on the wooden rail, jarring and creating an awful squeal. Erik did not comment, but she still made the mistake of meeting his gaze. What made her heart squeeze like a vice, was that she witnessed slightest narrowing of his eyes.

With that, Christine knew she may as well have easily shouted that she was terrified.

A feeling of deja vu overcame her and she blinked, remembering the night she had gazed at the black shadow that had emerged from the darkness as if it's king. Here was the same regal authority, the posture impeccable, indestructible as the teacher, ghost and phantom she had come to know. This was not Erik; this was the man she had and still feared.

If he were donning a guise, so would she.

She would not fear him. But that did not mean she would play the loving doll he wanted.

As if noticing her inner defiance, he titled head, gazing at her curiously. She clenched her jaw.

Yet, as she stepped into the foyer of his ground house, all her previous thoughts were washed away.

Marble pillars that reminded her of the imposing Romans surrounded grand oak doors, mahogany wood and plum coloured furnishings, a domed roof with coloured glass hanging over the entryway. It was beautiful. A house she had always imagined herself living in when she allowed herself to indulge in her imaginings. Lovely fine furnishings, marble floors, a sparkling chandelier. Roses claimed a crystal vase on one windowsill. A window! Gasping, her feet sped herself towards it and her fingers were already struggling to open the latch.

A snarl sounded behind her and she found the shadow beside her to wrench her hands away from it. The grip released her as soon as she cried out, but her knees buckled, as too quickly the support had been snatched away. Her backside landed cruelly on the marble and she crawled into the corner, glancing fearfully at the spectre before her.

"I only wanted to feel fresh air on my face." she cried mournfully, burying her face in her hands, chest heaving with silent sobs.

She heard a sharp intake of breath, but silence met her.

Her eyes rose, to look at the shining black shoes before her. She swallowed and did not need to be a genius to know her voice would tremble as she said, "My windows were locked. I knew I would not escape so easily through a window down here. How naive to you believe me to be, to doubt how clever you are?" though she knew he adored flattery, it wasn't her goal to soothe his unquenched need for adoration.

She sighed, "I have never lived without an open window Erik. Having no choice in the matter – well can you blame a swedish girl who ran in fields as a child for wanting fresh air? A true freely blowing breeze?" she gave a bitter laugh, closing her eyes with the cold of the marble seeping through her jeans.

"I thought-" he rasped, beauty far from his voice.

She raised her head sharply, not allowing his behaviour or assumptions slide. Rising to her feet, Christine gave him a glare of her own, "You thought I would just run. Run while you have been so meticulous in everything else, I would be idiotic enough to assume I could escape, just like that?" she gave a snap of her fingers in disgust, "I may have been stupid enough to let you into my life, but I know sure as hell you won't leave it just as easily. Do give yourself a favour and assume I'm not a complete nitwit." With that she left to search what the next room's secrets were, leaving him to regard her with silent shock.

Erik did not comment much while she gazed at his house in silent awe. He made no attempt to lead her, or make her follow, of which felt unusual somehow in their dynamic. Perhaps her words that morning had truly surprised him enough to forgo or forget about his leading role of their opera. But she was allowed peace to roam as she wished inside. Shadows resided in corners in his mansion and once or twice she saw a scuttling critter in a nook or corner. But, everywhere, somehow retained its immaculate beauty. The rooms Christine particularly found interesting on the first floor were the library and the observatory. The observatory reminded her of a posh women's tea room, with a pavilion with glass panes all around them, comfy furniture with a rather lovely coffee table in the centre. She could almost imagine a resting in a hammock and resting quite peacefully in the sun. What she had loved most was that it seemed to lead out to a brilliant garden, that would be bursting with flowers in the spring and would carry the scent of honeysuckle in the air. The garden stretched as far as she could see, however a large unscalable wall surrounded the perimeter, the dark shadow just peeping above the trees. Her next set of boundaries, she assumed.

The library filled her with the most wonder. One she had only fantasied about suddenly took place in reality. Dazzling cases of novels with leather bindings, the fresh scent of wood and musty paper-toned air, a faint brushing of lavender sprigs in a vase on the mantelpiece of a grand fireplace. Before it, a hearth that was decorated by the plushest rug she had ever seen. Christine had to rebel against the instinct to go and rub her face against it. At odd interventions she noted tapestries that hung before a bookcase, that Erik explained were sorts of markers for a particular section, i.e the Anicent Greek one with a bust weaved on it meant historical texts, the one with Pegasus meant fairy tales and fictional novels and so forth. When she then remarked how clever that system was, it was the first time that she saw the preening pleasure glance his eyes.

After these spaces, she discovered his music room, of which she had been expecting to be a replica of his old one. The old music room she had discovered at his home in America. However, as much as it was a replica, it was also a couple times larger, with even an organ at one end. Though it wasn't church size, as she knew that would be what Erik would have preferred, it would have been tight for size. His old one back in the states had obviously only stored some of his instruments, as she learnt while gazing at the stands of all of them in their glory.

However, she wasn't surprised that she saw no electric guitar.

Her tour was briefly stopped by lunch, but then resumed after she had finished and had examined the current dining room to her heart's content. The only other room on the first floor was the kitchen she saw an elder cook washing up in. Only Erik's stern glance did she realise that she would be met with the same silence from her as she did from Clarice. Any help she would receive would not be from the staff, it seemed. Erik ushered her away from the kitchen, obviously uneasy with Christine meeting another one of the staff. Christine did not resist his re-directing, however and allowed him to guide her towards the stairs. Christine's rooms actually took up most of one layer, apart from another lavish guest bedroom and suite. Her actual rooms consisted of a bedroom, bathroom, sitting room with a writing desk and a room she once believed to have held a TV and computer that then became a beautiful art studio. The hallway she once believed to only be a small part of the house made her reevaluate her assumption. Across the landing that it lead to the replica of her rooms – minus the studio – was another set of stairs that lead to a third level.

An office, for that was what it was, looked a complete mess and Erik quickly shut the door before she could step inside. Two rooms were locked to her and she did not try to open them. She knew that if Erik wished to show her them, he would. Terrible consequences would occur should she step inside either one, she knew, without his permission.

The final door she went to open he stood in front of her, shaking his head, "I do not trust you will not faint at the sight of my room." his lips twitched, "One day, perhaps I will show you. But not now. You have no wish to see a personification of eternal death."

Her brow furrowed, trying to make out the meaning of his words. Alas, the meaning was either far too complex for her to understand or it was a hidden concept known only to himself. Nodding her acquiescent not to go in, she looked towards the last staircase.

"It leads to an attic my dear," he explained, nodding to the ceiling.

"Oh. I used to love attics," she murmured distantly, remembering Raoul's daring voice for her to go and conquer the ghost which resided in the one they were going to search for treasure in. How she had squealed and practically jumped into his arms as a spider dangled on a silver strand of it's woven web. He had laughed and let it crawl in his hands, depositing it out of the nearest window that would open. Then she had dramatically knighted him with a piece of discarded cardboard that came in the middle of wrapping paper, proclaiming it her hero. How they had both torn it in half in a tug of war and duelled as hero and villain in a sword-fight with the two halves.

"Christine," Erik snapped sharply, making her turn around and shaking her head in a daze.

"Sorry Erik," she mumbled, knowing he only snapped at her when her attention was elsewhere for far too long.

"And what is so fascinating about attics?" his words seemed to drip with consternation.

Undeterred, she gazed at him, suddenly feeling a bit of pity for the man who would have never experienced such joys of childhood, who felt the need to possess her in every way. Who never rejoiced with childish glee when one was rescued from the Dragon's keep.

"Why they are filled with treasure, of course," she giggled lightly at his befuddled expression and almost skipped the way downstairs, once again leaving a dumbfounded Erik trailing in her wake.

Hello again! Ironically my chapters are getting longer and longer, so I do hope you are enjoying them; please tell me if you want me to break it up. I don't want to bore my readers. *Looks around suspiciously* if there are any readers and I'm not just talking to myself.

Also, I seriously can't decide whether this Christine is blonde or brunette. I'm half fancying the former, since it's Leroux inspired and she's rather adorable. But damn, she's a bit sassy too that makes me wonder if she's actually brunette. I don't know why I wrote this and still haven't decided this major factor, but don't kill me ok?

In this one, this Christine is quite different to the ones I've ever written before. She's sassy, strong willed and stands up to Erik in every way possible, while also not spitefully, like she's just trying to show him he could not dictate her or her heart, mind, or spirit. I know that in one way, Erik is attracted to her optimism and 'lightness' and innocence, but in the same way, he's drawn to that fire that doesn't flinch before him. There's that defiance. (Yes, I know that's the name of the chapter, I'm not stupid. Don't answer that, I can feel the answer you're undoubtedly thinking right now haha.) But he loves a challenge and he loves her for that spirit, at least, that's how my Erik is telling me he feels.

This story also slips back in time a lot, and if there's any continuity errors, please bear with. It's because I'm making up as I go along and it's basically all unplanned. It's just when my muse strikes. In one way, this is an experiment for me because I am trying out new techniques, ideas, ways of showing and not telling (brownie points for those who've heard about that writing technique). It's why I'm so happy to receive any feedback at all.

On another note, big thank you to all who have favourited and followed so far! I hope to see a review one day, *sighs longingly*. One matter to address, is that I don't live in the states, so I am not all aware of their education system so if I make a booboo, please just bear in mind that I'm a nincompoop.

Also, I love that word too. Nincompoop. Funnily enough I learnt that one from Christine, and poppycock from Mr Birling in An Inspector Calls.

Just random info for y'all.

Anyway, I'll try and shorten my AN's for the future becuase I doubt my ramblings are hardly entertaining. No promises though.

Merci,

Enigma