Trigger warning: Mild swearing

Her Routine - Chapter 19

France! France.

She was going to France. The place with the Eiffel Tower, the fresh smell of pastries in the air, the fluid language like the trills of a waterfall – she could even practice the bits she had learnt…

France, the place with the grandiose architecture and Les Gardens Tuileries and all the wonderful tourist spots. All the shopping and gifts she could bring home –

Oh. Oh.

It wasn't – of course it wasn't going to be like that. She wouldn't be allowed by herself to roam the sweet little cafes and wonder in the evenings just taking photos for her to refer back to when she drew. She wouldn't be buying supplies or a beret back for Meg. Christine heart clenched; Meg had a thing for collecting traditional hats and they had made a pact that whenever they'd go somewhere new, they'd buy one for each other.

Erik wouldn't allow her to send it.

He wouldn't allow her to contact Mama Valerious, so there was no way she could even get something to Meg.

Erik was smart enough to know that an innocent looking gift could be dangerous. Enough to convey her location, when the object was traditional from that country or countries nearby.

Clarice had come to her room earlier with a sleek black suitcase; annoyingly boring to her. It was as almost as if Erik was wanting her to be unnoticeable even in travel attire.

Christine had looked up from her book, eyes ogling the suitcase. There was something dreadfully nostalgic about it. The mute stood there, green eyes expectant as Christine set the book down on her bed. Uncurling her folded limbs and sliding off the covers, she approached the case.

"Thank you Clarice," her fingers brushed the leather handle. How long had it been since the last time she had seen one? When she rolled up her clothes, stashed in toiletries, thrown in belongings in a hurry – always in a hurry.

Had she ever truly had the luxury of two days just to pack? And it was not even forever, only for a mere week; it seemed almost fantastical. There would be no midnight stops at some motel, or vending machine bars that tasted of cardboard, the smiles she would give as she saw the faint light of dawn peeking through the car's windows. In fact, it would be on a plane.

It had been years since she had flown on a plane.

Christine shuddered; no, when Erik had taken her there had been a plane involved. Only smudges of memory, with a faint rumbling drone, a flash of a red-blood blanket and a cold seatbelt buckle that had found its way onto her skin.

The harsh burn of something wrong in a honeyed drink. And honeyed words to match, which convinced her it was all a dream of an Angel's whim. Other than that, a headache and darkened bliss.

"Will you ask Erik what the weather is like at this time of year?" she asked, meeting the eyes of the girl who was just a bit taller than her.

Something sank in Christine's stomach at the sight of her; always so well kept, in check. Who was she? Why was she here? In that dark dress and white overalls – horribly reminiscent of a time no longer alive, yet brought to live with Erik's touch and command.

The girl nodded obediently, turning to go.

"Wait,"

Clarice stopped.

"You could also ask if Erik will let me have a phone to look it up, it will save him the trouble," her sardonic tone was both scathing and desperate.

Clarice merely sent her a disproving frown; it sent a jolt through her when she realised that it reminded her of Mary. Eyes full of knowledge Christine had never known. The furrows between the brow were the same, the glimmer in the eye that was both wise and wearied.

The sign of endured suffering.

What had made Mary's (her full name was Mary-Anne, but Christine had chopped and changed with each one, never quite knowing which to call her), manner so harsh towards others, a clinical refinement to those she didn't know, was hardened by the world. This meek creature before her wore the same gaze, though her demeanour was reserved, still had that same likeliness.

Christine let her go, only to stumble back and sink down onto the bed, resting her head in her hands.

What was happening?

Glaring at her assorted outfits, Christine crossed her arms over her chest. She wanted her little blue blouse that went so well her skirt, but both of them were locked away in her wardrobe at home. The faint unhappiness in her heart grew at the thought of them all gathering dust, never to be worn again and she had to school her expression to cling on the ounce of excitement she had earlier.

Nevertheless, it was difficult now.

Clarice had arrived a while ago, with a printed screenshot of weather temperatures predicated in France, with a note on the end in Erik's scrawl,

"Dear Christine,

Should you require other attire, there will be plenty of opportunities in France to replenish your current supply,

Yours always,

Erik."

Squeezing back the thoughts threatening to bring her back to tears, tears she couldn't deal with right now, she refocused on the charts. Cloudy, sunny, sunny, cloudy with a bit of sun, cloudy, sunny and sunny with rain. Erik had written out the Fahrenheit underneath as the website had only given the UK degrees Celsius. The cloudy days would require a couple of layers and she reasoned the sunny would allow her to wear a few dresses she had spied in the back of her wardrobe.

The ones that were not so meek.

Yet, as she dragged them out, all she could think of how Erik bought them, Erik expected - what did he expect? How the bold red would fit snugly on her cleavage, hug her waist and flare out at the end – positively dangerous.

Had he splurged? Had he intended for her to wear this? Gone too far in the fantasy that she would be his willing what-ever-it-was, on his arm, wearing the shawl and prancing with him in one of the most romantic places on Earth…

She hoped to God that it was a twin bed suite – she would refuse to sleep in the same bed as him. It was too close, too easily to get out of hand, to not be able to stop him.

Those hands had killed, had they also taken another's – a woman's –

No. No. No.

Who was he? All those times she had stayed under the earth with him, even now, he never once stepped over her boundaries. Asked even to touch her; and she remembered how soft his fingers were. As delicate as lace. Skating along the edges of her cheeks, curving upward to trace her nose, a reverence that reminded her of an awed artist. A creator admiring his own, yet a touch that was not possessive. Not in the sure leading way Raoul had. Not invasive, how Erik's caress how they asked for so little. How they had caressed her like his ivories, as if she were an ever-flowing music that he wished to know how to play.

How for one fleeting moment, his thumb brushed the edge of her bottom lip before retracting – a fear so great that she felt rather than saw, as the man shuddered and backed away. Her eyes had fluttered open as Erik retreated to the door; wide amber eyes almost wet. His chest heaved, breath puffed and was wet against the inside of his mask.

"Erik thanks you, but must bid his Christine adieu,"

He escaped the room without another word. Not even a 'Goodnight'.

Christine blinked, rubbing her face absently from where it tingled from the memory. Raoul's touch had never tingled, yet she couldn't remember another time that her heart had pounded so fast.

She looked at the dress again, running the fabric through her fingers as it lay on the bed like a stain. It seemed too pretty to put away, to pretend that it didn't exist. To pretend she didn't want to wear it. It was almost the same shade as the little teddy bear's scarf that she had sitting on her bedside table.

"What do you think?" she asked the dull-eyed bear, "Yes, or no? Take, or do not take?"

Would there even be a chance to wear it?

A soft knock rapped on her door, "Come in, Clarice. You can help me decide on whether or not to take this dress –"

"I believe that you shall have opportunity to, should you wish," Erik's sotto voice made her squeak and twist around, legs bumping into the side of the bed. Crossing her arms, she glanced up at Erik, who was carefully studying her mess of clothes, toiletries and shoes all sprawled around the room.

"You seem to have created quite the chaos. One could believe that you have never packed before," he observed, moving a pair of sandals that had become a tripping hazard and entered the room.

She couldn't move as red burned her cheeks, "Is there anything you want?" it was sharp, sharper than she had meant it.

If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it, "Lunch is being served, would you like to accompany me?"

Christine nodded, happy to have a break from making choices but halted when she saw his proffered arm.

Fear twisted in her gut, the remembrance of the uncomfortable thoughts she had earlier swarming her mind.

"What is wrong, Christine?" his question demanded an answer. Erik came closer, closer, closer.

She shook her head, unable to speak with the way her lip was trembling. Oh, she was scared. So, terribly afraid. Raoul, Christine wanted Raoul. He would never make her feel like this; never knowing where she stood, what was expected, what was required. They had never covered rules. Not like this!

Back in his underground cave, yes. But this place…She knew it was different here. It was real. This was the point of no return. All she did would be held against her, taken as a sign, some sort of emotion that said 'love' when all it could be was misplaced compassion.

How could she delude herself? How could he delude himself?

"I can't love you, Erik," she rasped, pleading with him, "Not here. Nothing will change in France, or Spain, or Russia, or wherever the hell you take me. Nothing has changed. This isn't some dream!" she gestured to the windows, belaying the serene outer world, with the invisible shell.

"Will not, or cannot?" he asked quietly, interrupting her before she had the chance to say anymore.

He stepped closer, so that only a few inches remained in between them, "Will has no direct path. One cannot will a waterfall to stop, because the gravity is too strong, the current has its course. Will cannot choose not to love, nor stop the effects of time," his words were so gentle that it made her heart ache.

"However, cannot is a variable that depends on will. For example, a will to escape is only a 'cannot' when there are no other ways for a will to follow. Do you understand, Christine?"

She shook her head, shrinking back. Words failed her. No, she did not understand at all! Is what she wanted to scream at him. How was it that she always failed to grasp his riddles, his words so twisted that they were hardly recognisable at all? How did he become to be like this? This shell, this man so hideously deformed – that had no liking to humanity at all?

Someone you'd find on a case study and thank the Lord that they were either all dead or locked behind bars.

Yet, a living progeny stood before her, looking so desperate and yearning that she had to shove down all the fear and uncertainty, to then take his arm, let him lead her out of her room, down, down, down, to the dining room. Meanwhile shivering in terror.

One step forward, two steps back. A dance that was destined to repeat until she either submitted or ended it all.

She didn't ask about where they were staying, the living arrangements, or if there would be windows she could look out of, over their lunch. Well, her lunch to be exact, because the statue on the other side of the room was doing a valiant job of not consuming a morsel, swirling the wine in the goblet while pretending he wasn't looking at her.

It was soup, something like leek and potatoes, but she couldn't be sure since she didn't often elect to eat such a thing. Swallowing thoughtfully, Christine could liken the taste of the times where her father would find left over ingredients in the cupboards and a make a sort of stew out of it. It had never tasted particularly good, yet she had always found it brimming with comfort. Whenever she truly fell ill, it was what she always went for, especially on the anniversary of her father's death. A ritual of sorts.

Finishing, she pushed back her chair, getting up and walking to the door – unwilling to get into a conversation with the shadow, lest he tail her back upstairs.

"Christine,"

She halted, grimacing, "Yes, Erik?" her voice dipped into meekness, all the times of his temper being raised by her defiance flashing before her eyes.

"Do you truly wish to go France?"

Christine sighed, before turning around. His stare penetrated her uncomfortably. Shifting, she shrugged, "I was told, not asked," just like everything else, she mentally added.

Erik tilted head, before leaning back nonchalantly in his chair, "Very well," he set down his glass sharply, "Do you wish to go to France or not?"

Christine felt the surge of frustration coil and had the sudden urge to scream, before she gritted her teeth, forcing herself to calm down. Erik would get upset if she didn't handle things appropriately.

"What does France mean?" she blurted, recognising the confused look in his eyes and hurried to explain, wringing her hands, "What does it mean in terms…Of – what – what is this supposed to be? This trip –" she fumbled, trying to desperately find the words she was looking for –

"What is this trip's significance?" he purred, with a softness that shook her core. No, not that voice again. The one that allowed guilt, shame, mortification weigh her head. Out. Out. Out. She wanted to escape.

Christine didn't look up from the floor as she nodded. The carpet was red. Too red. A black shining shoe stepped into the image and a line of shivers ran down her spine.

"My beauty, it is a mere business trip. A new place for us to enjoy away from our home," he murmured softly, "Please, do not bow your head to me, for you will never be lower than Erik," a lone finger raised her head, her chin resting on top.

"I promise for as long as you are above Erik, he shall always ask his Christine if she would like to travel. That is acceptable, yes?" he was still lifting half the weight on his finger, yellow eyes boring into her.

Christine moved her head in a tremoring nod, eyes dropping from his and going to move away, before she caught sight of a reverent finger tracing a ringlet as it hung past her cheek. Freezing in place as a deer would in headlights, she waited, but the finger dropped, leaving her.

She wanted to know why the gesture stung.

Her packing was completed quickly after lunch, wanting to get the clothes that weren't hers out of sight and feeling the mess crowd her senses. Could someone even develop claustrophobia? She didn't know.

Picking up the forgotten Romeo and Juliet copy she had left out and gathering the other books she had finished, she left the room. The all-but-castle was still so ornate to her, where gold seemed to drip from the walls and the grand staircase winding its way down to the bottom floor. Padding in slippers, as if to not disturb the perseverant quiet of the manor, Christine made her way to the library. If only she knew where Erik was now, she would to be able to make a choice whether to avoid him or not.

Oak doors slid open, hinges oiled and the smell of brass imprinting itself on her fingers as Christine walked inside. Descriptions did not do it justice. Sounds of her muffled steps only made Christine feel smaller as she hugged her books.

Walking to the shelves and flicking over each of the tapestries declaring their section, she slotted the books back into the fantasy, adventure and romance section, before heading over to where the classics and playwriter's tomes resided.

Humming softly to herself, her eyes scanned over the other titles. The Odyssey, numerous Dickens' novels, works of the Bronte sisters and other writers of the twentieth century resided on these shelves. Her heart twitched when she saw a worn copy of Frankenstein's Monster: The Modern Prometheus lurk betwixt two fat novels. Wedging her fingers in, Christine eked the book out, being careful as she made sure no pages would fall from it; a skill she had learned while working in Mama Valerious' bookstore and they had a rarer edition come in.

Her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the book. How often had he read it for the wrinkles to become etched into the cover, the binding weak and pages slightly yellowed? She swallowed the yearning to ask him away. It wouldn't do for her to fall into the trap of civil conversation.

Yet, she was so lonely. The craving for company was a hard plea to deny when it came from her own mind. Empty walls, empty rooms, waiting for life and beauty.

Choosing another fantasy book as she passed the shelves that lead back out to the world, she stepped into the corridor. Brow furrowing, she bit her lip as she weighed out where Erik was.

Office, his own bedroom, or the music room? No music echoed, so she knew that he was not there. It was not night-time, so it was unlikely he would be in his room. His office, then.

Erik was usually around and had made a habit of turning up where she was if she was outside of her chambers, but it seemed today Erik was locked in his office. Hoping that they were not matters too important, she travelled quickly up the three flights of stairs. Pressing her ear to the door, she could hear the tapping of keys of a computer. A thrill ran through her.

A computer! Her ticket home? Or even information about his domain? Exit strategies galore. However, before she got caught standing outside like a lost lamb, Christine gave the door a tentative rap.

"Wait a moment," he answered hurriedly. Christine had to stop herself flinging open the door open then and there, desperate for the taste of freedom.

With a few shuffles of paper, the lid of a laptop being shut and the grate of a drawer being closed, Erik appeared, looking mildly perturbed.

"I wasn't expecting you, Christine," his mask shifted fractionally, pale lips revealed this time. His masks seemed to constantly shift; one day he was wearing one that is full faced, the next a beard hanging on the bottom and today, one revealing his lips.

They were frowning. The fact bothered her more than she cared to admit.

"I'll go if I'm bothering you," Christine winced; when did her voice become so needy?

Erik huffed, crossing his arms, "Nonsense. You are always a pleasure, have I not made that matter clear?"

It was odd, standing in the hallway, talking to Erik as she had done so with Meg a dozen times in their dorms. Meg had always leant on the doorframe, often curling her blonde hair between her fingers, a giggle ready if an opportunity arose.

However, Erik's straight-backed pose with his arms folded neatly crudely mimicked such a memory. The sight jarred her.

She shrugged, brushing away a curl that was drawing near to her eye, "What were you doing?" it wasn't hard to fake the almost bored curiosity. Erik had made her become a better liar, though she wasn't sure if she was exactly happy about the advancement.

In the name of her 'once' career, if you could lie well, it meant you were a good actor.

In real life, it meant you were nothing but a liar.

But here, where fantasy and reality was so blurred, what became a story and what became a truth?

"Nothing important, my dear," his smooth reply made her wonder if he was telling her another spun tale, "I see you are holding The Hobbit. Have you read it before?"

Christine looked down at the book, feeling a surge of embarrassment at the expectation in his voice.

"I saw a dragon on the front cover," she mumbled, faintly aware of the heat circling her cheeks.

Erik chuckled and there was a smile in his voice as he replied, "You have much to enjoy," he paused and his voice dropped, "Do you judge all books by their cover?"

Her stomach turned at the double meaning, "No! How dare –" Christine stopped, aware of Erik's amused eyes surveying her panic.

A bubble of irritation rose; surely, he was not teasing? Yet, when she looked back up, those eyes of his had not lost their amusement.

In fact, his thin pale lips were curled up at the corners.

The frustration upped a notch. Since when was Erik developing a sense of humour? And how was it he caught her out with it!

Swallowing down the indignation, she replied stiffly, "I heard about it a lot in school," she hugged the book to her chest, "People were always talking about the Lord of the Rings and Tolkien, but also The Hobbit. So, when I saw it in your library, I thought it might be worthy of a browse," she jutted out her chin instinctively.

"It is, as you say, 'worthy of a browse'," Erik glanced down at the copy, "You would enjoy the illustrations as well,"

Her mind twitched. Art? Illustrations?

"But?" she raised an eyebrow, feeling protective of the copy.

"You will only find those in the private collection of my finest book editions,"

She pursed her lips, "And that copy is not in the library, correct?"

If Erik could beam, he did then.

The sight of the lips peeling back from his thin teeth was almost grotesque. Bile stung her throat.

Poor Erik, her mind whispered, as Christine struggled to contain her rolling stomach. Was his entire face that way? A bony nose and limp, pale skin clinging to his cheeks?

Stop it! She forced herself to not imagine it. Of course, her over-active imagination was entirely creating a monster when really, it was only a man in front of her. Obviously, he might not be the most attractive man, but she was just being rude to judge him on one little smile.

Shameful, shameful, shameful.

"Christine? My dear? You've gone quite pale, perhaps you should go and lie down?" Erik's voice cut through her haze of thoughts and she his glove being slid off. A clammy back of a palm, that smelled faintly of dust and leather, pressed itself to her forehead. She froze, until the palm retreated and fresh air clung to her skin.

"You're not running a temperature, yet there is little flush to your skin," Erik murmured thoughtfully.

Christine shook her head, focusing on the present matter, "It's ok. I was just feeling a little wobbly, alright?"

Erik's gaze flittered to her, lips curling in worry, "Perhaps you should rest, child,"

Child? She hadn't been 'Child' since she was twelve years old.

Erik continued, hands almost fluttering, "If you are faint and pale, it either means you are running low on glucose and other sugars, or have not eaten nor drank enough today,"

"I'm not going to 'lie down', Erik," she replied, peeved that the rest of her afternoon would be spent tossing and turning in her bed.

Erik's lips pursed in annoyance, "Dear girl, did you think that I was joking?"

"What I think is that I'm old enough to decide for myself," she snapped, twisting away and trying to plan her escape route. It was either to the Observatory, or outside.

"Christine, do not move. You will not endanger yourself in my home - our home," he corrected, softly enough that she almost didn't hear it.

Our home.

The guilt stopped her from moving, though she loathed her own weak resolve.

Erik stepped nearer. In the corner of her peripheral, she saw his hand and she squeezed her eyes shut. Gently, she was turned towards him once more.

"My dear, I do not do this to punish you. Only to protect you from harm,"

She nodded, resigned, but knowing he was right, "I don't want to go to bed. I won't rest or sleep. There's no point," before Erik could cut in, she gave him a counter proposition, "Can I rest downstairs then, instead, on the couch in the lounge? You could read to me, like you did when I was ill,"

Christine could tell the compromise surprised him, yet she was more gobsmacked that he was actually considering it as his eyes flicked away to a random point on the wall.

"Do you promise to eat what Heather gives you this evening?" he shrewdly examined her.

"Every last bite. I'll even have a blanket over me on the sofa, if it makes you feel better," she all-but chirped.

Erik narrowed his eyes once more before sighing, "Very well, we have an accord. Let us descend, yes?"

Offering his arm as per the norm, Christine took it as they walked down the stairs, knowing he would not feel at ease if he wasn't there to catch her, should she trip.

An unlikely event, yet, she never knew in the world of Wonderland what might happen.

It was so easy to get lost in his voice. Melodious, commanding, yet soft, it read Tolkien's words as if in song itself. Images danced before her eyes, unable to keep them open as she imagined Mr Bilbo Baggins and his hairy Hobbit feet, long bearded Gandalf or the dozens of dwarfs that appeared later in the chapter. Erik read in his armchair, but would come over to the sofa each time an illustration appeared and allowing Christine to absorb the image with all its textures and tones.

Her heart gave a small pang of how it reminded her of her father. How he had also done similarly, while she was perched on his lap and he allowed her to look at the illustrations of the giants and faeries, goblins and other wicked creatures of those northern tales. Big hairy hands would tip the book 'just so' for her to gobble up the picture. A child who found life in the tales of wonder and thinly veiled morals.

That when she grew up, she would still give him the book to read the tales again once more. She never lost that love. Thankfully, they were some of the few memories she had of him that weren't clouded by grief. With everything else swept away, she had clung tightly to those few, refusing to lose them to the current of misery.

While it hurt now, for her father to be almost 'replaced', there was something almost cathartic about hearing Erik's voice float around her, rather than her Papa's. As if, rather than losing control, Erik was merely taking over the role. Christine couldn't compare the way they told a story, for everyone's take was unique, there was certainly something about Erik's majesty that took her to another realm.

When it came to the song later on in the first chapter, she was entirely surprised that Erik began to sing it; Christine had always assumed Erik's controlled and dignified manner would not allow him to burst into song when reading something like Tolkien's work.

She was not disappointed and clapped enthusiastically at the end.

Erik nodded elegantly in return, preparing to turn the page.

"That was amazing! It was like you knew the tune off by heart," she gushed before he could do so.

Erik shrugged in his seat, where one long leg was slung over another. It was the only habit she had seen Erik submit to. There was something very endearing about it. As if he was a gentleman reading the morning paper, reposing casually in his seat. An epitome of masculinity, yet feline prowess. Christine repressed the urge to shake her head at the paradox, there were often too many things to describe Erik, yet paradox served one of the nearest summaries of the being that was Erik.

"It was not a complex set of lyrics nor a complicated tune. Tolkien studied both English and various languages at Oxford University, not the composition of folk tunes or music," Erik replied, looking down at the page.

Christine tilted her head slightly, amused at the very sudden thought that Erik might be embarrassed.

Ha! Now that was a hilarious notion.

"Shall we continue? We'd better not leave old Bilbo Baggins waiting for us to continue his story," Erik remarked, eyes flicking to her, revealing nothing.

But Christine knew what she had seen. Something about discovering that sent another thrill down her spine.

Not wanting to leave Erik waiting for her reply, she allowed him to continue with a delicate hand gesture.

What things she was learning today.

Christine was feeling less 'wobbly' after dinner and she knew the colour in her cheeks mollified Erik's earlier worry. Guilt gnawed at her stomach, regret at her physical repulsion earlier humming around in her mind.

When she left the dinner table, excused by Erik when she was unable to eat another bite of the crème brulee that Heather brought in, she found herself gazing out the lounge windows. There was something so calm with the sky darkening, a flurry of colours sweeping across the rolling hills and silhouettes of corpses of trees that were scattered across it. A patchwork of fields and the couple of houses that were given to the workers of the estate. Amber eyes winked open as the lamplights returned to their sentinel guard.

"Shall we take a stroll, my dear?"

Christine turned abruptly, feeling faintly embarrassed at the shadow that hovered in her peripheral. Hidden within the doorway, he seemed almost human. A shy boy, that was playing at a man.

Though the mask gave away only the impressions of his face, the face she might be seeing for the rest of her life, Christine vowed that she would be better in accepting it.

No more wobbles.

I can do this, she thought to herself as she came to rest her hand on the crook of his elbow.

Christine let Erik lead her outside, into the domain that was truly his.

What time was it?

Her first thought sauntered into her mind, eyes blinking in the ever-present darkness. Scanning the room with her limited vision, she saw the outline of the wardrobe.

HIS wardrobe. For her.

A shudder crawled down her spine and she shrunk into the bed. The memory foam dipped under her weight. Christine hated to admit that she was surprised how she didn't wake up from a spring digging into her spine.

But of course, she was trapped her, forevermore. Or, at least until the masked douche allowed her to leave.

"Christ, when did this get so messed up?" she whispered to herself, the sweat of her hand pressing against her forehead as she wiped her eyes once more.

Squinting, a hand fumbled around for that switch which hung off the lamp on the bedside table…It was not presenting itself.

Wrist banging helpfully against the side of something, she grunted as her fingers followed a cable until they finally reached the switch.

Click.

Shutting her eyes to lessen the pain of the brightness, the lamp flickered on, scaring away the harsh contours of the room.

A decorated prison, really, her mind added snidely.

Christine grunted at the voice to shut up. Rolling over, her feet thudded onto the rug, keeping them away from the chill of the floor.

At least he had the decency to put rugs and wooden panelling down. That must mean he cared somewhat, right?

She supposed it might be better than being killed and dragged into a ditch by the side of the road. Just the everyday consideration when trapped with a slightly deranged music teacher who wore a mask to conceal his identity. Who kidnapped you when you bailed on a lesson…

She paused.

And lied to him about it.

But it wasn't her fault, really. She just…She was a good person. When she committed to something, she did it with all her heart. But when someone blackmailed you into doing something, like committing to constant singing lessons, Christine was perhaps less inclined to take it as seriously as she would normally.

And for once, she had been doing something FOR HERSELF. She was right, right? She had been planning on seeing Raoul. She had been planning on letting off some steam before she settled down and did work for the weekend. She never did that. Not in the way of attending a music festival or doing it with a friend like Raoul.

Had she been right to do that?

Christine sighed, moving towards the bathroom to attend to her daily needs.

Her old clothes were starting to get stinky, she could practically smell the mud clinging to her. The grass stains couldn't be removed, either. She had slipped her bottoms off to scrub at them in the sink, but to no avail. It only made the dark patches grow.

Scowling, she resorted to her last option, walking half dressed to the wardrobe. Arms crossed, she surveyed her possible outfits, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she remembered how each was tailored to her size.

Asshole.

Nonetheless, she couldn't help but like the options before her. Some of them were truly hideous. One thing looked like a glorified binbag and another a transformed curtain, yet the rest had certain – she found it distasteful to say – taste. The man actually had taste.

Another thing that was unusual about him. Did he spend a long time gazing at female clothes?

Part of her hoped not.

Picking out one of the less glamorous options, since she noted that all of them were a bit to 'high-end' for her to pick out normally, she slipped the silken shirt from the hanger onto the bed.

She needed new underthings too. Her bra could hold out another day, it was at the moment tucked under the bed from when she had slung it off last night, but it had been sweat-drenched. Christine didn't entirely relish the thought of putting it back on again. Not when it was underwired and she knew the wire was starting to tear through the fabric on one cup. She was surprised that it hadn't burst from all the rough handling of the previous escapade.

Female problems, ugh, her mind grumbled.

Partially resenting the need to rummage around in the drawers again, Christine pulled out a pair of loose trousers to match the top, soft yet comfortable.

Then she browsed through the top drawers again, still flinching at the sight of all those neatly laid out panties, (and thongs!), and other unmentionables, each slightly different in their colouration or style.

It was like he hadn't known what to choose, so he'd buy the entire store's worth.

Christine shuddered violently and tried not to think too hardly on how all the things came to be in that world.

After donning the new clothes, pulling on a pair of 'bamboo socks' to keep her feet warm and shoving her dirty clothes under the bed, she finally made her way to the door.

But not before forgetting to rush back and quickly brush her bed-hair.

Christine groaned at the thought of Erik seeing her in that state. He'd probably run at the sight of the monster that had frizzed all over her face. Grimacing at a particularly tangled knot, she called her mane done and strode to the door.

"I'd better make the most of it," she told herself before she stepped out into her strange new world.

Christine's stomach betrayed her the moment her footsteps touched the floor of the lounge.

She could smell something good. No, something excellent.

Her stomach agreed with a loud gurgle. Christine bit her lip as she quickly scanned the room, thankful that Erik hadn't seen her mortifying display.

At least he didn't starve her.

Padding towards the kitchen, that was through a door leading out of the lounge, Christine stopped when she saw the shadow of Erik by the skillet.

"Good morning, Christine," Mr Yellow Eyes greeted her, cordially gesturing her to a seat – well it was technically the only seat in the kitchen.

When she settled onto it, she could feel the cool leather beneath her trousers. Thankfully, there was a small back to the highchair that supported her.

Christine had always found those high stools infuriatingly hard to balance on.

"It's morning, then?" she queried, narrowing her eyes as she watched what Erik had in the pan be flipped over.

Erik seemed to shrug, though with his tall stature it was almost impossible to tell, "It is morning now that you are awake and it is the start of your day. I thought we had already discussed the relativity of time yesterday, Christine,"

She scowled, feeling the faint lines of a headache forming. Dehydrated, that's what you are.

"Do you have juice?" she all but grunted, changing topic.

"Forgive me, I had all but forgotten," Erik turned down the stove slightly, before moving his way to the fridge.

His eyes glued her to the seat, head inclining slightly, "We have many juices, what is your preference? There is: cranberry, apple, orange, apple and pear, passionfruit and pineapple-"

"Just the apple, please," she muttered, fingers traveling through the grain of the marble table.

"Clear or cloudy?" he questioned once more.

Christine shrugged, "Whatever's easier,"

She wondered who was going to drink all the juice. Surely, he couldn't drink it all before they expired?

Strange man.

Erik sighed, picking one out seemingly at random before moving to his other cupboards to collect a glass.

She didn't see where he stored the knives. Unfortunately.

You'd think it'd be kidnapping victim rules 101 to find out where the knives were, but Erik refused to let her move an inch from her assigned place in the room.

The nearest thing she saw to a knife was when Erik used the rectangular spatula to lift her omelette onto a pristine plate.

Christine raised an eyebrow at him, forgoing her usual manners, "Where's the knife?"

Erik shrugged nonchalantly, "Must you have a knife to eat a mere omelette? You were quite content to eat your fish and chips with only a tiny wooden spear at the music festival,"

Deep within something tremored.

Christine forced herself to take a measured sip of her apple juice, hoping the thickness would disappear along with it.

"Can I have a knife?"

Erik made a sound between a huff and a snort, not leaving his post in the corner of the kitchen, "And that knife will not go missing suddenly? Do not insult my intelligence, my dear,"

She shivered again. "Well, I wouldn't underestimate you,"

Liar, liar, liar.

This time Erik laughed, a sort of monstrously dark cackle that sent goose-bumps running across her bare arms, "You do so amuse me, Christine," his eyes shone alarmingly, "But your capabilities at lying are truly appalling. If you would even call into your precious school, I'd be inclined that they would not believe one word,"

"There's no need to insult me," she frowned.

Erik puffed, "Oh indeed. Then, until you promise me my cutlery is not going to suspiciously disappear the moment I take my eyes off you," he paused momentarily, eyes gleaming, "Then you shall have your precious knife to eat with,"

"Deal. I promise not to steal your cutlery,"

Her need not to make a fool of herself rather than gather a weapon was more important right then.

For a moment, Christine swore he smiled from under his golden lined mask, as with a wave of his hand a silver knife appeared. It danced between his fingers, before she saw it down by her plate.

The little bit of magic was both exhilarating and terrifying.

It was a threat and a promise.

OK! Hey everyone! In order not to be too late with the update, I am uploading this chapter now! :)

I hope everyone enjoyed the last chapter. Thank you to Lorelorelei and TenthMuseSappho for your lovely reviews! They made my day and kept encouraging me to write for you guys! :P

And to the lurkers, please come and say hello! I don't bite! :D Any bit of feedback is appreciated! To my new followers, thank you for coming on for the ride! ;)

I'm not the most pleased with this one, but it was important for certain for areas of growth and development. I know my innate need to go in deep into writing routine and tasks these characters have, but sometimes the most ritual things we do tell the most about someone! And allow them to grow from that..I think… I really do know what I'm doing here… ha ha.. :P

Erik is so hard to read sometimes, isn't he? Such an enigma..ahaha. Sorry, it's late and my brain finds lesser things funny.

Short AN today. Mostly because I'm being driven by my midnight muse and my oil is well and truly burnt! XD

Merci,

Enigma