Chapter 26 – Their Cadenza

Dazzling. It was much more than what Christine expected, especially from a theatre that Erik claimed he had no ownership of. Though perhaps it was more to do with the fact that she could pretend the dress she wore was one of a princess, the ruby resting on her upper chest sparkled like no other and Erik was her…Her chaperone.

However, Erik had already shown his displeasure at the squat building, its minimalistic style apparently one of the first of the Art Deco movements in France, leaving it rather drab in appearance in comparison to the Opera Garnier, which had a grace that this one lacked.

What Christine gathered from Erik's spur of the moment art-history lesson, was that he disliked buildings that was less than 'grandeur' and had an uncanny bias to ones that held a similar style to those he'd designed. It was by her own will that she didn't laugh at the sneer Erik gave the building, as if by its mere existence offended him, as ifit were a blight on the world he sincerely wished to bulldoze.

Oh Erik, I had no idea you were so dramatic. You are like a child, sometimes.

However, as the marble steps beneath clicked against her heels, it did little to stop the shudder that went through her at the sight of it. It was through an elopement and running off a theatre's steps in another continent, which had delivered her into the hands of someone unwilling to ever let her go. A slight sadness dampened her thoughts, unable to bear for a moment the sight of Erik's hand over hers. An ownership that left her feeling like a china doll that had been haggled over. Biting her lip served enough pain to push the dark cloud of guilt away.

I am not at fault and he is different! He's always valued me… He is kind now. And he's smart - God, he's so intelligent. Far more than I can ever be. He knows at least five languages: the two I've heard over the phone, English, French and he obviously knows Greek. Probably even more than that. No, it must be more because he's taught me bits of both German and Italian and he's quoted something in Latin before. Not to mention when he replied back to me in Swedish after I insulted him. Oh, that was bad. The smug look in his eyes didn't leave until the next time I saw him.

"Erik, how many languages are you fluent in?" Christine's murmur interrupted their walk to the doors as he halted and levelled a suspicious gaze at her.

"Why do you inquire?"

She gave a mirthful smile, "We're going to an opera, so I just wondered how many you would know," she paused, feeling Erik's fleeting doubt, "And I heard you talking on the phone before, so I was curious," she allowed the shy innocence to leak away, looking up at him with truthful eyes, "You can't blame me for that, can you?"

The lips of his mask twitched, "I don't suppose I can," he held open the door for her and as she passed, added in a begrudging undertone, "After all, your curiosity is simply too easy to ignite,"

She shrugged, swallowing a smile and allowing Erik to reclaim her arm, gently covering her hand with his. The delicateness of the touch reminded her of the way a butterfly would land on a flower.

He cares about me. Despite everything, he really does.

An unknown emotion filled her heart.

As she looked up, however, she noticed the dregs of the crowds were being ushered inside.

"Are we going to be late?" she chewed her bottom lip.

"You doubt me?" Erik quipped in reply. It was followed with a pointed look, Christine released her lip immediately, with a mumbled apology.

A soft smile graced his features and it made him seem almost enchanting, "All is forgiven," he murmured, "Now allow me to lead us to our seats, otherwise we will be late,"

Erik was serene as he guided them through the building, as if he had already roamed the halls. He had timed it so they would not have to fight the rabble to get past.

It's probably wise.

After a day of moving through lines and interaction with waiters, Erik was less robust in dealing with the general public.

Not that with her experience with serving in a restaurant she couldn't agree. People were exhausting. For a man with little patience and an even smaller tolerance, it was better to avoid the matter altogether.

Christine kept to Erik's pace, relying on the fact that he showed no alarm if the show had already started. Thankfully, they were able to get their tickets checked by a lingering usher and were directed to their box.

Christine almost snorted when she saw which box they had, "You couldn't help yourself, could you, Monsieur Fantôme?"

Erik gave a slight incline of his head, "Every theatre needs a ghost, my dear," the hand across hers untwined to open their door. The muttering of the crowd died just as the lights started to dim and Christine plopped down in her seat.

It felt more like a throne.

Erik glided to his, folding neatly into it, with his long legs stretching onto a strategically placed footstool.

How long has he been going to the theatre?

"What are we watching?" Christine asked in a hushed voice, noticing that there wasn't a programme lurking nearby.

"Aida, by Verdi. Do you remember when we briefly covered an aria sung by the character Amneris?"

She nodded, smiling that was a half grimace, "You made me sing the aria about how jealous she was,"

"Yes," he paused, "You did not particularly enjoy singing about jealousy," his voice resonated through her head as he continued, "This opera, if you do not remember, is set in Egypt. We see the story of princess Aida and Radamès, Captain of the Guard,"

Christine nodded, though the lesson on the opera was several months old, the recap was enough for her to remember the premise of the story.

A tale of doomed lovers.

Her attention was drawn away as the conductor stepped onto his stool and polite applause filled the air - Erik did not raise his hands but merely watched the man with a contemplative gaze, his judgement pending.

It was enough for her to quirk a smile.

Christine observed the conductor once more as the man flexed his fingers, followed with the subtle rolling of his shoulders. It was fascinating to see the routine he had. Though it was similar to how Sorelli jutted her chin up and gazed up at the rafters before she stepped onto the stage, or how Meg bounced on the balls of her feet at least three times in quick succession just as her number arrived. Piangi had always dabbed at his neck with a hankie and nodded to his fellow actors with a smile. Carla had always swallowed a liquid concoction she believed enhanced her voice.

How queer to think that musicians and conductors could have the same mental rituals as we did.

Christine was drawn out of contemplation as silence descended once more. Patient expectation settled over the audience, as a joint intake of breath. Her fingers curled in anticipation around the armrest.

This.

This was what theatre truly was, in all its glory.

Actors and musicians all one with their art and the people there to receive it. The tingling of your fingers as shadows breathe around you and your heart thudding in your chest.

This is what I had always wanted, but now it's time I enjoy it, sitting as part of the audience.

The conductor's baton sliced through air, as he readied his orchestra. Soft strains of music began.

With a flutter of velvet, they were swept into the sandy plains of Egypt.

Christine was moved by the music, shift of scenery and flawless performance of the actors. Jealousy indeed, she watched as the professional sang what she hadn't been able to, in awe of the actress' performance. A smile didn't leave her mouth as she leant forward in her seat, not caring how her back started to ache, her eyes were unable to leave the stage. Though she required the use of the translation screen that was situated at the top of the theatre's stage and was able to translate the French mostly to herself, it was as if she was in a trance, watching the magic unfold before her.

Ridden with passion, lingering glances, anger, despair, jealousy and a deep underlying sense of doom, Christine felt filled up to the brim from all the beauty.

She hadn't realised so much time had passed until the voices of the song echoed and the protective stage curtain was moving down for the interval. Voices murmured, most filing towards the exits to linger by the bar for the twenty minutes they had to spare, but she stayed rooted to her seat.

"Are you enjoying the performance, my dear?" Erik's inquiry made her jump back to reality, her mind still so focused on the performance, she had all but forgotten about his presence next to her.

"Still reeling from it," she admitted, looking to see the velvet curtains were back hovering on the stage, "It's beautiful,"

"It is a wondrous thing, Opera," Erik replied and she nodded, before looking back over the crowd. There was a moment of contemplative silence before he spoke again, hesitantly, "Do you remember any of the performances you attended as a young girl?"

Christine pondered on this, staring out to the auditorium and catching sight of a group of elderly men and their wives returning, with plastic cups of alcohol, to their seats.

"I remember flashes," she started quietly, "Sometimes melodies of the symphonies Papa played in, but never the name or composer. I remember something about a fox, once. And a… Chicken? It was sad, I remember that. I always had a little seat to watch from the sides,"

"You may be thinking of the Cunning Little Vixen," Erik supplied quietly, his tone curious still.

"Oh, that does ring a bell…Somewhere," Christine laughed, thanking for a moment that she had the world's resident genius sitting at her side, before sobering, "I never had the chance to question Papa about it before -" her words stopped abruptly as her heart squeezed painfully.

Christine dropped her voice to a low murmur, "I thought it would get easier, but I still find it hard to talk about him,"

She looked back at Erik, knowing tears weren't far away, yet seeking refuge in someone who knew pain.

"It is not a weakness to find it difficult to talk about someone who you loved dearly," Erik whispered, with a pain so acute it cut her that Erik did know. Those orbs met hers with similar glassiness.

"There was once a man who never spoke of where he'd been, or who he loved. He was tied down by grief, for many years. It is not my story to tell as to how or why, however I can tell you this," he looked at her now, and there was no hiding from the longing in his eyes, "He spent decades avoiding what you are so bravely attempting now, and I believe, Christine, that is what makes you so very strong,"

It took all her will not to crumple and dissolve into tears at the power of his words, heart breaking and heating at both moments.

Erik's reserved compassion was what she needed, as an arm stretched out before her and a white handkerchief hung from his fingers.

Christine took it without a word, knowing that with her gentle touch, Erik would understand her silent gratitude.

It was only a few moments before the lights began to dim once more.

The Night's silver eye watched her pace before the set of windows. One would think the adrenaline of that day would have sent her to dreamland for the rest of the night, however, she had been graced with hours of tossing and turning, until she'd given up on having any true sleep at all. Not to mention that the prospect of being haunted by a ghost of a stagehand would make for pleasant dreams.

It was comforting to hear Raoul's snoring and incomprehensible mumbles, his body sprawled on the bed. Originally, it had been a twin bed, but it had been pushed up next to hers to make one double. From one look of her pleading eyes, Raoul had conceded to hold her hand until she fell asleep. Ironically, it was her who had done that for him. Still, it was worth it. The comforting weight of his ever-present heat and surety had kept her from sliding backwards into a panicking heap. Kept her attached to reality.

Though it was oddly rebellious to finally have the freedom of doing such a thing. How long had she spent wanting to stay the night at his, but knowing his life was on the line if she gave into her own fantasies? How she felt like a young teen, sneaking out with Meg to the park down the road in order to chug down a cider and talk about girly things - while having that delicious thrill of danger and fresh wave of independence. Even though it happened only once, due a stern lecture the next day from their guardian, Christine had clung onto that feeling of defiance.

Part of her wanted to leave the hotel room, unable to bear her fear of the world outside, wanting to demolish that paranoia, but truly, she shuddered in fear of doing so alone. It had been so odd to see how Raoul walked confidently to the receptionist for their midnight booking of their hotel, as she hovered by the windows, to make sure they hadn't been followed. The strong way Raoul had held himself had never made such an impact, the height difference had yawned so much wider, that she somehow had stood out being by his side, clinging on his arm with the frightened alarm of a child. How immature she had felt! As if the world had rocked underneath their feet and now she stood on a lower plane from him, her bare hands clinging onto the bedrock of his. Yet around them was swooping maniacal laughter, ready to catch her when she fell and take her screaming to the depths of hell.

Needing to reassure herself, Christine glanced back at Raoul, feeling her chest flutter as she took him in. God, how many times a week did he say he went to the gym again? Her eyes scanned him, admiring the strong calf as one hung out from the duvet, the almost-perfect proportions of his arms as one lay splayed on her side of the bed, the rising of his white tee that flashed the toned beginnings of a six-pack, even the silvery scar of an adventure that spread along his side that did nothing to stop the appeal. The lopsided, golden sheet of hair mussy and yet still fell in the most appealing way; had she a camera, she would have taken a photograph and tried for many hours to recreate the vision before her. 'Sleeping Adonis' is what she would inscribe her piece with.

He was a God.

And there were two Gods that fought over one measly, ungrateful mortal.

They were reaching the crescendo, and they watched the two lovers who had been cast into darkness, bar the two spotlights highlighting their sprawled figures, clutching each other in a way that was all too familiar. If Erik was moved at all by the display in front of them, Christine could only tell by the way his ever-moving hands had stilled and rested with a rigidity on the armrests. Too still to be casual.

The stakes had never been higher, the poor Aida having chosen to throw herself into the darkness to die with her lover and Radamès, who had been condemned of treachery to the Egyptian crown. Christine didn't want to admit that there were tears collecting at the corners of her eyes, nor that she used the handkerchief from earlier to dab them away when her vision started to blur. Despite it all, Christine was enraptured.

When the curtain fell in a final sweep, she rose with the crowd in a standing ovation, not caring if she drew attention to their box, ears hurting from the raucous noise.

Finally, after several rounds of boisterous applause and actors bowing, they were graced with light and a kerfuffle of people leaving. Christine didn't need to ask as she sat back down, knowing that Erik was waiting until the general populace had left. It seemed almost sad; why was Erik so averse to rising with others? Didn't it draw more attention that they left after everyone else? Her gut told her it couldn't be to do with keeping their presence low-key, why if Erik was a wanted man, then wouldn't they be hiding in some remote safe house? Now that was a thought, had his mansion been a sort of grandiose safe house?

The idea wasn't an appealing one.

With the cluck of Erik's tongue, she knew with a reluctant pang, it was time to leave. Casting one last glance at the theatre, Christine left the stage behind.

"We will come again," Erik assuaged, patting her hand gently that rested on his elbow, noting her leaden footfalls as if they were nothing but a wilful child's sulk.

Christine nodded mutely, studying the marble flooring as Erik led them out of the theatre. He eyed her carefully as they left.

"Christine, tell me what bothers you. Would you feel better if we stopped by a patisserie and I bought you some sweets?"

"I'm not a child, Erik. I don't want sweets," feeling particularly daring, she took back her arm and walked ahead.

In less than two strides, he had caught up, features tight in confusion, "You enjoyed Aida, but you are upset now, why?"

It would have been funny for any other person to see a grown man become frustrated over something so simple, suddenly once more the child in an adult relationship, the slight frowning pout he wore so ignorant.

It's not funny though. It shouldn't be like this - no one should be this unversed in human behaviour. Why does he struggle so much with emotional interaction? Does he treat me like a child because he is just one himself?

Christine came to a junction at the end of the road and instead of turning down the path that led back to the hotel, she carried on, crossing over with Erik hovering by her side.

You could kick him now like a puppy and he'd howl.

Gritting her teeth, she slumped down on the bench, Erik following as silent as a shadow.

"Oh God, how did things get so complicated?" she moaned, hands holding her head, jumping as a car horn went off somewhere. Christine fought back the urge to curl up in a ball.

From maestro, to monster, to man, it all seemed too rapid. A reluctant, terrified student to a willing friend. Christine raised her head, only to see Erik's hands were clenched into black fists on his knees, his lips drooping in a frown, flesh crinkled from where his brow was furrowed. The sloping of his shoulders was hunched, as if condensed to make a smaller target - a position so small compared to the usual, 'in-command' repose - and his vulnerability speared her once more with frightening resonance.

"I do not - I do not understand, Christine," Erik's plaintive whimper seared her ears.

Wearily, Christine leant her head on his shoulder, despite feeling how he tensed at the contact. It was peaceful looking at the cars that whizzed by, with only a small amount of envy, of which were unaware of the bliss that blanketed them. The bliss of a clear heart and mind.

"It's not your fault, Erik. It's me. Just me," she sighed, eyes closing with the soft caress of the breeze.

"You are here with Erik, but you are not," he murmured, "Does being here with Erik upset you so much, petite?"

Guilt pricked once more and Christine winced, "No, no, it's not that Erik, I promise," she breathed.

Unable to stand the sight of his clenched fingers, on instinct her hand reached out over his. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, Christine froze, mind crashing back to reality. Her hand was stranded, unable to pull away.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

When he did not respond, she forced herself to relax, coaxing her frozen fingers to squeeze his fist, to sooth the tremors she felt from him. Erik gave a shuddering sigh as her thumb stroked his knuckle with a feather-light touch, too afraid to do more, too scared to do less. It wasn't his fault she was a naïve child who didn't know what the hell to feel. His distress was not something she wanted to cause. But why couldn't she be happy after witnessing one of the most beautiful performances of her life? Why did despair still echo in her heart?

It's your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

But God, it felt nice to touch someone. How long had it been since she shared comfort with another? Felt a touch of peace?

"Christine," Erik breathed, trembling and she pushed away the hurting voice in the back of her mind, saying it was wrong, saying something was wrong with her.

This is it. This is the rest of my life. It can't be awful, it won't be awful, not when I give in. It feels nice, doesn't it? It will become easier. The more I do it, the easier it becomes.

Erik will be right. When I let go of everything, when I don't hear that voice and just exist with him…

He loves me. Would it be so hard to give it back? Help him in return?

It was easy, listening to the rattling of Erik's breathing, the fast pace easing gradually, while the fingers under hers steadied.

"Tell me I am dreaming," a whisper floated from beside her and there was the faintest pressure pressed against the top of her head, "Tell me that I have inhaled a hallucinogen," Another ghosting touch.

The pressure was wet.

She gave his knuckle another timid brush, hearing a breathy 'Oh' and she bit her lip. Hard.

"How I love you," an exhale of rasping breath, "Oh, how I love you," a shudder wracked his body and Christine shivered along with it.

Poor, unhappy Erik.

When they travelled up the stairs, Erik's fingers had not yet moved from holding hers, but Christine didn't seem to mind the pressure, telling her that she was not alone. Not screaming in the walls of the yellow room, or trapped underground, or surrounded by eyes that sought too much.

It was just her and him, her maestro, her Erik. Currently, he was murmuring about the details the set had gotten inaccurate, his tenor voice full of teacherly admonishment, as if aiming to lecture her personally on the correct way to inscribe an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

Through partially closed eyelashes, it was remarkable to see the open stance of his body, the enigmatic charisma that shone from the husk of man, who seemed loathe to connect to humanity, never veer away from an opportunity to teach her on the parts of the world that he so adored.

A philanthropist at heart; a hermit shell that had been blotted black by previous deeds. It's a shame that there's not more that he does. If I stay with him, just for a bit longer, then maybe…Maybe there'd be a way on the way back that I can convince him to help others with his money.

Could there be a way I could outreach to kids for theatre lessons? Would he let me?

"Do not think that an anonymous reviewer will be sending them a prompt missive of their erroneous techniques, Christine," Erik continued, a mischievous glint in his eye. Even with contacts, Erik was see-through.

Hair swished as she shook her head in wry disbelief, "I don't think any theatre company will take kindly to your 'guidance', not after…" the words trailed off.

"It would be a friendly letter, I assure you, Christine," Erik replied quickly, as if sensing the dark path her thoughts could be travelling down. His hand gave her own a gentle squeeze.

"Do not think me a man of my word?" Erik questioned at her silence, lips curling in a frown. His fingers released hers as she hesitated.

"Do you trust me, Christine?" Erik demanded.

With a swish of her skirts, Christine stopped at the top of the stairs, hand resting on the varnished wood. The words 'I do' touched the tip of her lips, but she swallowed it back. Erik would know it was a lie.

For a man who had always worn a mask, he had always desired her truths.

Christine waited for Erik to arrive at the top of the staircase, fingers clenching tightly around the wood, her back pierced by his eyes.

"I'm starting to trust you," she told the painting opposite her, attention glued to its amber sky and knowing that Erik's eyes were far more real than any illusion that painting served. Exhale. Inhale.

Shaky, Erik's presence behind her, the world was shaky around her.

"It's hard," the slick feel of the banister beneath fingers, "It's harder than being on stage. But I am,"

Was she convincing herself or him?

"Yet, you doubt me still," Erik murmured, resignation lacing his tone.

Christine spun around, the height of being one step above only bringing her nearer to his eye level, clenching her jaw at the sight of the dejected tilt of his head.

"I don't want to, I've tried to pretend," she whispered frantically, the dimness of Erik's usually bright persona dark and lost. Christine reached out to grasp his fingers, but he reared back, a dangerous flare to his eyes, his cheeks sharp with stretched skin, hair in disarray, lips curled in a grimace.

He looked ugly.

"Don't, girl," he snarled, towering over her, a dreadful sense of panic that had once chased her to the rafters of a theatre building, the rooftop of a mansion, the refuge that church had been once upon a time.

Christine stepped back and Erik followed, leering closer until her back was pressed against the wall and all she could focus on where the blue bolts of eyes that were a mockery of an even-tempered, loveable man. His breath fanned her face as a hand quakingly rose, hovering just above her cheek, an aching caress that begged to be given.

"I see that pretending is no longer an option,"

Christine shuddered, closing her eyes against the vision of Erik's hatred burning through. Pressing her lips to tight lines, it held back the uncontrollable urge to cry out as his hand cupped her cheek, demanding she give her attention to him. Him only.

"I am a far cry from your prince, but surely I am not so abhorrent to doubt the sincerity of my affections?"

There. His hand really was trembling.

"Stop," her whisper met deaf ears.

"Stop? Why should I? Erik thought if just once his Christine were able to forget, then she would not be scared of the monster. Well Christine, are you scared?" he growled into her ear.

"I think you are the one who is scared," her hands came up and suddenly pushed against his chest, feeling how thin he was even through his suit jacket, as he stumbled back.

His mouth dropped open, blue orbs impossibly wide, hurt flickering briefly before the gates snapped shut once more.

"You can't make up your mind," Christine shook her head, knowing the mascara had probably smudged, the lipstick had faded around the edges and yet hating that the night had fallen into his hands once more, his insanity, "One day is not enough to erase all the harm you've done, all the mistrust you've instilled,"

Her eyes met his, pleading for him to understand, "One week isn't enough, Erik,"

Narrowed eyes betrayed nothing, glinting coldly.

The unnamed emotion that had flared up at odd periods twisted inside, aching for the loss of the tenderness they had shared only a few minutes ago. Anger, rage and a spiralling, helpless despair.

Oh God, why can't we be smooth sailing? Why can't it just be easy?

"Relationships are built over time, not over fancy holidays and pretend," the words fell carefully. Treading around the storm that pulsed around her. His face was pinched, pale skin gleaming under the lights of the corridor. They should be inside.

"Erik –"

"We have seven days until it marks the date of which we met," Erik interrupted, as if he had just not heard a word she said. Perhaps he hadn't. Since when had talking worked before?

Wait, seven days? No, that's wrong, it's July when we met.

However, the correction died on her lips as she beheld the look in his eyes.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "I am willing to overlook this minor detail and any celebration henceforth, if you will promise to attend an event with me tomorrow, as my –" he paused, seemingly searching for the correct word, "My partner," Erik's head titled with an unnerving sense of detachment.

I can't get through to him, I've pushed him too much this time. Better to weather the storm.

Christine wet her lips, "What event?"

"Ah, ah, that is for you to find out," an eerie smile played on his lips. The ones she did not know.

"Can I tell you my answer tomorrow morning?"

He stood still for a moment, like an automaton that had malfunctioned. Unreachable. Then he was back, blinking slowly, "Very well. You have until eleven,"

Erik retained the detached persona until he bid her goodnight at the doors that led to her rooms.

"I wish you a very jolly sleep," he chuckled. Christine didn't like the look in his eyes. Unfocused. Not entirely there.

It worried her.

If I don't give in soon, who hurts more? Me or him? Who loses their mind?

Soon I'm not going to care anymore.

Instead of stripping and finding the pyjamas that had been folded by the cleaners, placed neatly on her pillow, Christine knelt in front of the bed, accompanied by rustling of the dress spreading out in a bloody halo. Fingers gripped a leather handle, before dragging the briefcase to her, stifling a sneeze that threatened to erupt.

I guess the cleaners haven't vacuumed under here in a while.

Christine didn't want to feel nervous as she entered in her birthday into the briefcase, but a knot had already developed in her stomach. It was too late to remain calm, but she could pretend she was.

Exhaling, faintly aware of the unsteadiness of it, the latches clicked open and the lid rose.

Well, it wasn't a hit list. Nor was it full of money. Good signs.

It was, however, half full of paper. Lifting the papers out, Christine sifted through them, careful not to crease the edges unnecessarily. It was blueprints, intricate blueprints. Using the bedroom floor, Christine spread out the papers that held designs on the left and the rest on the right. Titling her head, Christine peered at the blueprints, noticing in the corners held information which looked like names: 'Sol', 'Premier Niveau', 'Niveau Deux' and 'Observatoire'. Observatoire? Wasn't that observatory in English?

Did that mean it was a house design? Reading the writing of one of the 'rooms' – an empty rectangular space – Christine recognised it as 'bedroom' in French, in a scrawl that was similar to Erik's. Leafing through the rest confirmed her suspicions, a stray sheet stuck out displaying the outside perspective – a cosy looking house, windows with a balcony and a porch swing – along with a second sketch of it opposite a row of flats. If it was written in French, was it that the house was located in France? Didn't Paris have a lot of flats?

Oh. The sketch fluttered from her fingers.

Oh.

It couldn't possibly. No.

He meant for them to live in Paris?

Arranging the sheets next to the designs, Christine turned to the those she had set aside. An envelope stood out, written to a 'Monsieur C. Jules'. Picking it up, she took out the message, translating to the best of her ability as she went.

'Dear Mister Jules,

I hope that these designs are possible to apply during the time span given. As before, I will pay no less for top quality craftmanship and leave it to your reliable hands to carry out my demands. Funds have been transferred to accommodate these arrangements and a further amount to your children's trust fund as a gesture of goodwill. Tell me, how has young Maxime progressed with his engineering degree and Alia with her social sciences? I know that there are three more offspring to come; I am sure there are more projects that will require your management, so do not fret for income.

Is there a business you would recommend for priceless jewellery and a compliant seamstress? I am in need of some local expertise regarding these matters.

- E'

Thumbing the envelope, Christine hummed thoughtfully. Erik must have saved his original letter to have proof of what he requested. What was interesting is how Erik signed off his missive. It was not under an alias. Erik's association with the man held a sort of long-term familiarity as well and the fact he had established a benefactor persona of sorts for the man's children. It was obvious Mister Jules' recommendation had been taken, as the necklace had been beautiful. With re-reading the letter, Christine could determine that there had been no hidden threats or any inclination that Mr Jules was under duress. It was a relief.

"Another of Erik's employees," she murmured to herself, putting back the letter and rifling through the pile she had left aside which lead to the final discovery. One she had not expected.

Brochures. Lots and lots of…Brochures.

University prospectuses, theatres and job positions, local choirs, art clubs, subscriptions for the Louvre and membership scheme, nestled within was also a Sunday School and even a local nursery advertisement for volunteers. Cinemas and training for ballroom dancing, ballet, swimming. Then another page with details about a few tea-rooms and classy restaurants, some she recognised going to during the evenings with Erik.

All in Paris.

He's planning for us to stay here long term, isn't he? This was just a way for him to scout out France while he romances me with fine wine (well, coca cola) and special outings.

Was that what he's been doing on the occasions I've been left alone?

Dreaming and hoping that we'll come back here, ready to live our lives together? As two people?

A trickle of dread made her shiver, as a more pressing question circled her mind.

As two people, or two people under one name?

The living room was dark as Christine tip-toed into it, the wrapper she had used at Erik's mansion cloaking her in pure white ruffles. Despite the lace trim, it was supple and soft, if a bit of a trip-hazard. During the months she had worn it, slowly it had become an item that comforted her. An antique of a past that made up her world right now. She could pretend, feel like a princess and no one knew. Perhaps it was with that which made Erik's genius so clear to see. His illusions that had once seemed so alien, so callous and unimaginable now became a source of comfort, something to cling to once reintroduced to the unstable nature of the world.

I'm no better than a child, needing stability in forms of people and illusion. How am I still like this? I thought I would have grown out of it by now.

Erik made me need it.

Christine frowned, going over to the windows that never rested under the hue of the lamplights, the stars she once saw in the hills of England distant, covered by the smog of artificial light.

If we move here, I'll miss the stars.

It hurt more than she would have thought.

Though she'd looked out of those windows for only a few days, knowing that this would most likely be the last time she'd do so until they left, as Erik planned for them to leave early the day after tomorrow, she didn't want to leave them. When they went back, it would be hard to give up the sight of people, the fresh croissants, the boisterous chuntering of the vehicles, the life that sparkled everywhere. She would be an addict going cold turkey.

And her only reprieve would be Erik. The only balm to impending loneliness.

I don't want to go back. I don't want to go back!

Thoughts knifed in a panic filled haze, back to those endless fields and silent halls, the pewter prison and the stench of bad memories.

I won't go back. I can't. If I'm good, I'll have this everyday. When that house is built, I'll be able to leave whenever I want, he'll trust me to go to university, or volunteering, whatever I want to do! And in the evenings, we'll have music and we won't argue. It'll just be peaceful.

But only if I'm good.

Wilting, Christine knelt on the chaise lounge before the window, tugging back the gauzy curtain, overlooking the street below. It took a few moments to reach up and unlatch it, but the cool air was sweet to her lungs as it slid upwards.

There was no point planning daring escapes when Erik was clearly a mastermind. There was no point.

It all been in vain. Tears pricked her eyes, thinking that Joe's death had been for nothing, that her brief vacation with Raoul had achieved anything but his heartbreak. To prove that she needed a person to keep her afloat.

To prove that she needed Erik.

It was late, late for her to have risen.

It is your fault. All your fault!

His shadow clung to the edges of the room, unwilling to disturb the figure in white dozing on the chaise lounge.

She's beautiful in the moonlight.

"Mamma, can I keep it?"

The clip round the ear followed resounded dully. I can. Erik can. No one is here to take her away, never. Never. Not that woman, nor that impertinent boy, or that old fool.

She's mine.

Christine twitched in her sleep, before suddenly jumping awake and leaning forward, curls wild. Breast heaving, her eyes wide and scared, Erik understood that she had most likely returned from a nightmare.

The guilt from earlier returned, a sharp prod. Your fault. You scared her. Plagued her dreams.

She will never love you.

Fists clenching, Erik stood still, heart leaping to her in aid, to still her ragged breaths, to sooth and calm with his voice. Like any ordinary man could to their beloved. But a stronger instinct made him stand there, watching. Helpless to her beauty and her fear.

Christine let out a small groan, resting her head in her hands, a stream of murmurs his ears just picked up.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid,"

"Butterflies need sunlight and flowers to live, you imbecilic child. I thought you were meant to be smart for your age!"

"I can make it bright, and I can get flowers. I can make flowers sing for it too, would it like that?"

"What it would like, Erik, is to be free,"

No! She was free, couldn't she see all the things he gave her? All the light, all the music, all the food and treats that she could ever desire?

So why did she cry? Why did she have restless sleeps? Christine is innocent. It did not make sense.

Christine let out a sigh and without a thought for the consequences, he echoed it.

His darling sat up, at once alert and eyes searching the room.

"Erik? Are you there?" her plaintive call made it impossible for Erik to refuse.

Stepping out of the shadows, Erik let Christine observe him, wishing uselessly that he had not risen at the sound of her feet against carpet.

Christine let out a visible sigh of relief, but not before he noticed the paler sheen to her skin, red rings around her eyes, the tear tracks down her face. The hole of guilt ruptured.

"Why have you been crying?" he demanded.

Wincing, she turned away under the brunt force, replying with another question, "When did you decide that we will move to France?"

Ah.

"So, you've looked inside the briefcase at long last," he mused, running his hand along the back of the sofa, "What did you think? There are plenty of opportunities for us here,"

Let the idea not be the cause of your tears, my sweet. I cannot bear it.

"I thought that you would ask me if I wanted to live in Paris, before arranging a for man to build a house,"

"I am asking now," he replied evenly, stepping closer.

Christine pursed her lips, jutting her chin in the way she did when she was angry. A small part of him adored her fiery spirit even now, fascinated in how it lit her features.

"You have enjoyed yourself here, have you not? There has been more life within you in this last week, than there has been in all the time you have been a cherished guest of my estate," his head titled, "I only wish to bring a smile upon your lips, a sparkle in your eye, a flutter in your step – is that so wrong?"

There, his words had resonated and Christine deflated, the anger fading as one would blow out a match.

"There's a way to do things and a way not to," she closed her eyes, leaning her head back on the panelled wall, ringlets falling back, "I think you are one of the most unconventional men I know,"

"And that is bad?" he sniffed.

A grimace furrowed her brows, her lips twisting downward and she sighed, "I don't know anymore. I should, but I don't,"

"Not knowing is perfectly human," Erik countered, perching on the sofa seat nearest to her, a mere meter away.

A bitter laugh slipped past her lips, but no explanation followed, only a look of weariness on her face.

Erik forced back the desire to take her into his arms, cradle her gently until dreams coaxed life into her once more. He didn't want a husk, no, he wanted all of her, he wanted her life, her voice and soul.

Hadn't he shared her enough already?

"I should not have upset you earlier," the words were hard to form, but the pain he felt from the despair on her features pulled it from him, "There are places in my mind where there Erik is no longer,"

The interest of flittering eyes laid upon him and he resisted the need to stand, to pace, drive out the thrumming pinpricks of being watched.

"No…Erik?" her innocent curiosity burned like the breeze of summer.

He turned his head away, fingers clammy in their leather cage. Unable to meet her eyes. Those too-good, too-pure eyes, that willed for the good in his soul.

There is none. I am a beast, with a monster's face and hands that are bringers of death.

"Yes. Patches, Christine. Places where there is only darkness,"

He observed her frown of confusion, before a slow understanding light her eyes, the shift of white material as her body turned towards him.

"Is there only darkness in your mind, Erik?"

Clenching his jaw, he released a slow breath, "Before you, I had no light. Music had been a balm," And morphine a temporary scab that once gone leaves the blood to rush out through the wound, "But music is an ephemeral being, not made of flesh and bone. It may whisper, or it may belt, however in the end, it dies and leaves naught but an echo,"

"Oh, but you, Christine," and with this, he gazed at her, revelling in her tumbling curls, feminine beauty, the softness of her countenance. His heart gave a shuddering pump and he knew that it was with love that it continued to beat. For her, only for her. "You are light itself,"

Even if he threw himself at her feet, bestowed tremulous kisses on the hem of her dress, she would never know how he was devoted to her, a willing slave. His cure and reason to provide. Be good. Do good.

"If you tried Erik, you could achieve great good,"

"For the world of which has persecuted me since the day I came into this blasted place? No compassion for the Monster, so the Monster has no compassion for the world,"

"You can't depend on me to be your sole source of light," came a quavering reply, "There has to be a balance,"

Erik titled his head, "But you are my balance, my dear. There is no changing that,"

A sigh, resigned, "Okay Erik, I give up," her silken form rose, a delicate hand absently brushing the hair caught in the collar of the gown, letting it tumble freely down her back.

Heat shot through him, tingling like the potent desire that he'd transcribed into Don Jaun. Of course, she could never hear a single note from that, she could never know that this carcass lusts after her like a normal man. To think that she lies near, not knowing what resides a mere room away, a raging inferno.

But if she did know its call, would she obey?

The thought was a shock of cold water over his body and he stepped after her, heart hammering.

He hovered as her shape reached the door separating him from her chambers, conflicted between offering her a lullaby to ease her into the pleasant grasp of Hypnos and remaining a gentleman.

Before Erik could step away, Christine stopped as her fingers landed on the handle.

"I'll come," she cleared her throat, "I'll come to the event tomorrow, as your partner," the door shut behind her.

But it didn't matter, because at last, Erik knew the sweet taste of ecstasy.

Hey!

SO…I made an error last chapter, as two reviewers so kindly pointed out for me, that I had gotten a fact wrong from where Tasmanian devils are from! They are from Tasmania which is located in Australia, rather than Tanzania which is in Africa. Thanks guys! I do apologise for my ignorance in this matter, but I am human and do make mistakes! ;) I do make a habit of fact checking, but that obviously slipped my notice haha! And I am also dyslexic which could have played a factor in not recognising that Tanzania and Tasmania are two different words…heh heh, which at the time I did not realise. I am a nincompoop, but hey, aren't we all at times! I advise you all to just Suspension of Disbelief (SOD) it for now and accept it as part of the story. I won't change it because I like how it is and well, this is an AU anyway so hey, why not! This ain't the real world.

I did struggle writing this over this month (I couldn't write for two weeks) and had a COVID situation to deal with so I was very stressed, so if it isn't up to normal standards, that is why. And why I've taken longer to get it right. :P I also released two other shorter pieces here as well so that has also impacted my writing schedule! Still, it's within the month when it was finished ahah.

Thank yous to my inspiring reviewers: FreyaColdwell, QTkittee, Guest, GothicLolitaxo (I really want to know the origin of your username btw XD), HoursOfMazenduran, cmisselt89 and Laurenvbellado! ALSO WE HIT 100 REVIEWS THANK YOUUUUUUUUUU – I forgot to announce that last chapter, so thank you everyone! :D

I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. I have seen the Cunning Little Vixen and Aida. Aida was beautiful, tragic and the epitome of what Opera is about, in my opinion. Though the theatre runs more choral/music performances, I repurposed it and used my poetic licence to make it have a performance of Aida. The inside of the auditorium is pretty, despite its plain outside. I am definitely more awed by the Baroque/Art Nouveau movement of architecture, I've decided. Fun fact, the theatre was designed by brothers, one whose name was Gustave! It was meant to be! ;)

Anyway, thanks for reading!

Your humble authoress,

Enigma.