Chapter 27 - Her Loss and Gain
It was not the first time that Nadir found himself awake at the wee hours of the morning. No, there had been too many instances where being awake had led to some terrible outcome. Stress drinking – oh to have that one vice – would be something to focus on, to bar his gnawing, restless sixth sense.
Permeating every sense was that deep foreboding; the Masquerade was happening tomorrow. Though Nadir had already prepared for Erik's haunt, lining crevices with the same cameras Erik had made and the more 'obvious' ones just additions to the decorations. The Masquerade was the perfect disguise, in more ways than one. Nadir would know where Erik was at all times. Stealing had been the only sin he'd committed against the monster – yet he would never have done so if Erik had not stolen the girl. Yet there was something he was missing, something he had not covered, an angle unforeseen. But what! He'd prepared as well as he could. Knowing Erik was difficult at the best of times and though he was infatuated with the girl, that itself could be twisted into a weakness.
He will kill you, slowly, under that ridiculous form of torture he has. He'll laugh while you die, while you're seeing Rookheya and screaming for Reza. Pleading for Allah to have mercy.
Gritting his teeth, his hand went to his neck, tracing where a rope had nearly ended his life. A steel weight on his chest, the heel of a shoe, taste of blood that dripped from his nose, a noose of fire around his throat as he fought for breath. Eyes of gold and grey skin that hung off a demented skull.
And that laugh. Oh Allah, that awful laugh. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear it echoing in his mind.
A bullet had been paradise in comparison to Erik's wrath. To think Erik would have killed him that day. The torture of innocent women, sold and traded, kicked and beaten and scorned – it had driven the man over the edge, at least, the little he had left. It hadn't been Nadir's fault; he'd tried to save as many girls as he could over the years he served under Behnam. All those years ago when his own family were put in peril, under his acts to defy that malicious – merciless – Drug-lord.
And look what it cost you. What you still mourn over.
Murmuring a prayer for his lost family, Nadir sighed.
"What would you have me do, Rookheya? After all those years and you unaware how your husband did the dishonourable, aided countless men in massacres, only to protect his own, toiled with a man who was the sole slayer of these demonstrations –" he curled his lip in disgust, hiding the guilt with a thick tone, "Once who was a man, who was a 'correction officer' – who could do no more to correct men than protect his own," he raised his eyes to the cracked ceiling of his hotel room, "I am hunting down my elusive Ghost as one final act of supposed 'goodness'. 'Justice', " he scorned the word.
I should have lived a better life, Rookheya. For you, for our son. Protect life? I have done nothing but create opportunities for those to reap it.
"Is it justice, if I take Erik with a bullet? Say it is a kindness, does it save this sorry soul of mine?" but as usual, his wife was quiet. Always silent. More of a ghost than Erik was.
A bitter shard of anger made him grit his teeth. Why Erik must you make things so difficult! I have no wish to harm you, after everything. Oh Allah, grant mercy on our souls.
Nadir rubbed away the weary lines of his brow. Always furrowed, always frowning. Resigning he would get no divine answer for voicing his own inner conflict, Nadir leant over to turn off the sole lamp of the room.
Before his fingers brushed the switch, however, was a deep, rattling knock.
A tremor shook the man, jade eyes flickering at the door.
No. No. It was too soon for him to have come.
Far, far too soon.
Swallowing, Nadir rose, hurriedly grabbing a dressing gown that within hid his untraceable gun, stumbling over his slippers in the process, stifling a muffled exclamation. There was no peephole.
Of course, with Death, there would be no preliminary warning. It was not Erik's way.
Collecting himself, Nadir waited for Death to greet him as his fingers closed around the handle.
Morning met her with a light rap against the door, a sotto voice calling that breakfast had arrived and that weather was cloudy with a chance of rain. Compared to waking up for a drive with Erik to be taken to the theatre, a silver Mercedes that had been his car of choice, for a gruelling rehearsal, or the hesitant steps of a maid-carried tray and lonely meal, this was by far the preferred treatment.
The thought of it suddenly reverting to that did not sit well. Sharing morning meals would be something she'd ask for when they returned. No more breakfast in bed.
Hopping into the bath which had a shower head attached, Christine sighed as the hot spray soothed muscles that she had strained over the week, the sore spot of her back that had hit the hotel wall last night, her coccyx bruised from her short doze positioned on the chaise lounge. Rubbing herself down and letting her damp hair air-dry (hairdryers were her nemesis for easy-frizz curls), Christine chose something a bit more practical to wear. Layers, mainly. Squirting perfume to complete the ensemble, Christine grabbed the briefcase and entered their shared dining room.
Erik was not there. Walking past steaming fare waiting at her place, she followed the strains of the piano to the living room. Success found her Maestro tinkering away, sweet melodies coaxed from the keys.
His playing slowed, amber eyes raising to hers with greeting, "How would you feel with a morning singing lesson? Rain has just started outside and I do not – cannot go out – during this weather," he paused and added reluctantly, looking at the keys in front of him, "If you feel strongly about visiting a specific location this morning, then Clarice will take you there,"
Placing the case on the sofa, Christine shook her head, casting a glance to the rain-splattered windows. It was supposed to be sunny; she still had the sheet with the weather predictions tucked inside the hotel draw that held her underwear.
"A music lesson sounds good, we haven't done one since the other day and I'd rather wait until it stops," at his straightening posture, a sign of the return of confidence, Christine felt a hope that she thought she had lost yesterday evening.
Last night was a start. If we can just be careful with each other, patient, music can take us there. Going back to music is always something that can repair us.
White walls stared back at her. They deserved to be painted, a nice bright blue, to go with the navy cushions. It needed some colour to combat the sombre grey drapes and sharp lines of the steel coffee table. No wonder this was Erik's 'rainy day' apartment. It was as if a thunderstorm had been his inspiration for its interior design.
Raoul would come and help me paint. Oh, but then Erik will come and haul me to his as punishment. And…And I don't want to risk his wrath on Raoul. Not that he's tried to call me for three weeks. Erik's landline is now my own. I haven't told Raoul my new one. What's the point?
Her jaw ached from teeth grinding at the useless pang of homesickness. She wanted the comfort of Meg next door, the rundown look of her dorm, not a level of an entire building to herself. At least that dorm had been hers.
Her stomach gave a growl, but she couldn't be bothered to get up and attend to her hunger. Not after the day she'd had.
"Who does she think she is, walking in 'ere like that?" a voice sneered; the resident demon queen known as Carla had not enjoyed her addition to the cast. Coming into rehearsal with no audition and a smartly written 'note' had pitted the entire cast against her, spear-headed by the diva of the lot.
"Don't know, but Maddie should have got in, the girl can't even sing that well! Probably a bitch of one of the patrons or has a rich uncle pulling strings," a different voice snapped.
"Ladies, ladies, give her a break," a male voice pitched in, with tones of an Italian accent, "You remember how you were on the first day, Carla, Jammes,"
"Piangi, ese pequeño sapo wants to steal my role!" Carla wailed, "And I won't let that esa perra waltz around here, thinking she has more right than-"
"Shut up, someone's coming," Jammes hissed, abruptly cutting off the conversation.
But Christine had heard enough. She wouldn't be needing her coat.
She was already burning.
How humiliating. That place run by Erik, of all people, has made my life a living hell by not doing things the old-fashioned way. Everyone thinks I'm a cheat and a phony.
A bitter sigh left her. You know, they're not wrong. How can I blame them for something perfectly reasonable? Fear and influence got me in. Not because I have talent, but because Erik scared the living hell out of them or has them blackmailed. Just like me.
If only I could understand him. He couldn't do anything normally. He played like no other, had such raw beauty that seemed to know her from inside out, music she couldn't escape.
But the idea of being truly acquainted with a man, who had such a terrible place in her world, was terrifying.
A rapping on her door made her jump, cutting into her own spiralling thoughts.
She wasn't expecting anyone. A faint rush hovered in her chest. Could it be? Could it be?
A smile danced across her features, thanking the almighty that something would go right that day.
The person that stood before her as she opened the door made her smile drop immediately. A cold shudder ran down her spine.
"Good evening," his musical voice greeted.
"Erik," she said numbly.
"I come bearing gifts, I believe that the cassoulet is one of your favourites, yes? I had Monsieur Boucher prepare a dish for you. I did not know if you had eaten yet," his voice told her he did know.
Mechanically, she stepped aside, allowing Erik into his living room.
"Make yourself at home," her tone was dry. Her benefactor ignored it, setting down the bag that radiated heat onto the dining table before the marble counter. He followed her into her kitchen area, the part that overlooked the city.
"Would you like to tell me about your day?" a long arm reached up and opened a cabinet, retrieving two glasses. One was for wine.
"Glad it's history," she muttered.
"It cannot have truly been that terrible," he replied, taking out a wine bottle from the bag that held his restaurant's dish. Obviously, that had also been part of the arrangement.
"I'm surprised I didn't see you," the orange juice gurgled as it filled her glass.
"I was around," the cork popped, startling her as red liquid filled the glass next to hers.
"If you were around, I'm surprised that you would say my day hasn't been terrible," something snapped in her.
"They will quickly realise that this is the new normal. We may have ruffled a few feathers, but it will settle soon, Christine,"
Cutlery clanked as it was lifted from the draw. There was only one pair. She should have known. Why would Erik change now?
Rolling her eyes, she collected the plate he laid out for her and took it to the table. The man wouldn't rest until she'd eaten something.
"The diva of the cast has a vendetta against me,"
"That trollop has a vendetta against humanity," Erik replied smoothly.
Christine gave herself a helping of the French casserole, remembering Bruna Bönor her Papa used to make her, his jovial laugh as Christine made a show of pushing the beans around her plate, but not actually eating them. Warm words of coaxing and the wrinkling of her nose as she did, to please her Papa about not wasting food.
A pang hit her chest and had to bite her tongue to push it back. Her eyes burned from repressed tears.
I have to stop thinking about it. About him.
A mouthful of cassoulet later, Erik took a seat opposite her. He was doing that thing again. Where he pretended not to watch her eat. He'd avoided her usually when she ate at his home, spending his time in what she believed was his room. But on the morning that she left, he always watched her, drawing out the moments before she left by offering her seconds.
"I believe it will be beneficial if you spend the weekend going over the score with me. As you are the understudy of the Countess, it is vital you know your role,"
"But I spent last weekend with you," she almost dropped her fork. No. She needed some down time. Without him. "And I'm in the chorus. One of the maids that scurry in and out. The Understudy role –"
"Will be yours next week," Erik finished, amber eyes daring her to argue.
"No!" Christine growled, "I don't want anymore of this 'spoon-feeding', I won't cheat the system. I've submitted to everything else, quit my education – for you – all because of some grand idea of me being in a theatre company,"
Suddenly, she wasn't hungry anymore and gritted her teeth as she scraped the rest of the food into the bin. She turned to the man, black mask staring back ominously.
He stayed silent, coiled fingers too still, aura too menacing.
He didn't even blink.
"You will become the Understudy, and you will practice this weekend, where I can tutor you personally. You do not wish to disappoint Erik, do you?"
"Get. Out." she snapped. She couldn't believe him right now. How he could be so obtuse, or willingly obtuse!
He rose, a looming tower of darkness, taking a large portion of her view, "Get out?" he repeated, a calm tone clashing against the rolling anger she felt boiling underneath his façade.
She flinched as the glass stem between his fingers broke. Wine spilled out, spreading across the table, dripping onto the laminate floor, splashing his black, black shoes and oh, she shouldn't have raised her eyes.
His eyes were terrifying.
"Get out?" he hissed sharply, and her eyes were drawn to the side by a movement – a relief – until the head of the glass rolled off the edge. Smash. Glass skidded over the floor, wine following, mimicry of the movies when the man had fallen off the roof and would lie still, a growing pool of blood gathering around his head. But it wasn't a movie, oh no. This was no movie!
Her chin wobbled as she stared up at him, insides curling, heart tremoring inside its cage, "Yes. Yes, get out. I don't want you here, telling me what to do all the bloody time!" Why was she goading him on? She couldn't control her thoughts and what came out of her mouth.
His eyes flared and he took a dangerous step closer, "You will come begging when you have no one else, when no one wishes to care for you Christine, it is Erik who will be there,"
Christine managed to look past him, staring out of the glass with her arms crossed tightly, "Don't give me that crap. My friends care! And you, you just think me nothing more than an instrument, to use at your will, to bow to your every beck and call," At his reflection on the glass, Christine shuddered at the sight of him.
"Your petite friend has abandoned you, and that boy calls no longer. Think about that, before you say any more,"
"Meg has not abandoned me!" her eyes flicked back to him in outrage.
He was wrong. He was wrong. He couldn't have seen the way Meg had ignored her all morning, upset by her inactivity to her messages over the weekend, hurt by her utter rejection to share a house together. All one mess of layered concern repeatedly bruised by her constant lying.
Christine stepped forward, seething, pointing a finger at him, "You've turned me into a liar, you've made me push away my friends, good people who love me for who I am, and that's why they're not responding. They're hurt and you won't let me do anything about it!"
"I can't –" she was choking on her own sob, she was hyperventilating, "I can't go on like this," she breathed, hiccupping, fighting the panic that clawed her throat, "I can't. I can't, I'm a mess, a total mess, one big, fat, ugly mess," her hand wobbled in front of her, as if a mirage, "I need my friends, Erik, please, I need my friends,"
"Christine –" Erik tried, stepping closer but she flinched, and he stopped in his tracks.
"Fuck living," she gasped, retracting her hand, walking back, away from him until her back hit the table, the squelch of her sock soaking up the blood underneath her, "If you won't let me have my friends, my family, then every note you hear will be off, every moment will be a living nightmare for you, Erik, when I will not move from my bed, when I will stop fighting, when –"
"Hush, Child, I will allow you your friends," an Angel's voice cut through the haze and she froze.
"Don't cry anymore, please, I cannot bear your tears," she shuddered at the Voice's resonance, beautiful, mournful, distracting.
"Calm, my beauty, calm," he murmured, soft as a lullaby, continuing until her breathing steadied and to her mortification there were tears drying on her cheeks.
But her tears had gained her Raoul and Meg, and so a little humiliation was a price she was willing to pay. Even though her pride stung, nonetheless. Though crawling through the mud of a field of a music festival, held suspended by the mere intonation of a Voice, carried in his arms to his vehicle…That had been worse.
"You will allow me to see Meg and Raoul?"
The shadow froze, fists squeezing, "You understand that friends do not love, do not touch – never touch – treat each other as nothing more than an old acquaintance, yes? That if they do not act as friends, then Christine, they fall out of…Connection,"
She shuddered at the significance of his tone, the blood-curdling chill that it brought, yet the small relief that gave her fresh air. More rope on the noose around her neck.
Hurriedly, she nodded, because if she hesitated there was no way he'd give her this, this freedom. Erik's sigh in answer was enough for her to realise she'd secured victory.
It would be torture, but she would bear it. She'd rather see Raoul and keep herself sane, than never see him again. Never see Meg again apart from unanswered messages.
"You'll give me my phone back?" she asked hopefully. God, she had missed it when Erik confiscated the device, seeing the light from under her door when she was meant to be sleeping. She had taken it that time, unable to leave Meg again in the dark about if she was safe in the 'wilderness retreat'.
Yet it had been trying in vain because there'd been no signal.
"I will be upgrading it for you," Erik murmured.
Fine, it would be bugged. He probably had the tech thing where he could have access to her text messages too. But it was something.
Something was more than nothing.
Wind brushed her neck as Erik stood, tucking in his chair.
"Are you ready to go?" his voice reached her, respectful.
"Are you afraid of heights?" her gaze caught on a particularly high building.
An amused chuckle, "My dear, I am afraid of nothing, least of all heights,"
"Do you really not have any phobia?" she turned back, eyeing the metal table, his awkward posture, the way he studied the cake that he had left on his plate.
A flush of sympathy warmed her, and she knew that Erik would keep up the bravado no matter how hard she pushed.
It had been a nice day spent with music, the way they sang that duet had brought to life the passion in him, leaving him happy to serenade her while the rain poured outside.
It had been cosy.
Though it had cleared after an hour, Christine hadn't wanted to disrupt their morning, the pleasant tunes from the piano and their voices twining, a fusion of heart-aching euphoria. Ecstasy, almost.
She had been lost, and his voice had found her. A touch of another soul, acutely resonating with hers. The pull and push of the sea. His voice had always made her sway.
Perhaps it was the gradual lingering of the notes, drawing out the time they sang, as if conquering Time itself.
For the first time, it had been easy.
"I once was afraid of light," a dim echo reached her from across the rooftop, the resonance sending a shiver down her spine.
"What? – Pardon?" blinking, Christine refocused on him. There was something about the way he held himself that made her stop still.
As if he was reliving the moments before her eyes.
He moved forward, as if in a dream and came to stand beside her, shoes pointed, hands clasping the rail.
"You wished to know my phobia, and once upon a time, it was light,"
How is he telling me this? He's been like a clam this entire time. He seems almost unaware of me, here.
"Why?" the question came unbidden and a hand uselessly came to clap over her mouth.
You've just upset him, you idiot. The first time he willingly tells you something, you mess it up.
"Why indeed?" he sighed, taking no note of her invasive tone, merely looking out over the city, "Why France? All seems to lead back to this forsaken country,"
"Did…Did something bad happen here?" she hazarded a question.
He did not look at her, not as he usually did when she asked something directly, no he seemed lost. A haunted, lonely look in those usually knowing eyes.
What happened to him here? Who hurt him? Who made him afraid?
How could they hurt him?
Shifting closer slightly, Christine waited.
"A woman gave birth to an unwanted monstrosity, and I do not know why it was not aborted,"
Please, tell me this isn't about him.
Tell me it isn't about him!
"You are not a monstrosity," she said fiercely, hating that look in his eyes, that worrying look that told her nothing and everything.
The look of utter desolation.
"Erik will be good. Erik won't take off the mask," The words resounded in her ears, all those months ago. Never quite making sense. His parents had abused this child she saw before her eyes. She clenched her jaw. No one deserved abuse.
"You are too good, Christine, to understand," affection glimmered in his tone. Radiant.
"Don't patronise me," she snapped in rebuke. Erik flinched, and Christine stifled a pained breath.
She looked down, voice quieting, hands curling on the rails, "I know more than you think, Erik,"
"Mama's gone, Christine, for a while," he sighed to her, turning the page of the storybook. Her hand covered the words, to stop him from reading on. Distract her.
"Gone where?"
"Just gone!" it was the first time she'd seen her Papa angry before, had ever seen him so devastated.
Twisting in his lap, Christine gazed up at him, pulling on his beard until he looked at her with wet eyes, "Oh Papa, don't cry! Mor will be back soon, won't she?"
"Oh my little älskling, Mor isn't coming back," his bottom lip trembled, nose red and sore.
That's when she started to cry as well.
"I waited everyday for Mama to come back, to come with her pretty smile. I remember that her favourite colour was red; that's why that scarf was important to me. Proof she loved me, a birthday present for when I wouldn't strangle myself with it. I may not know every nuance of pain, Erik, but I know pain," her hand opened, a silent offer, "I know the living death, of someone who mourns a memory until they leave this world, I knew that I couldn't always count Papa getting out of his bed, or cooking meals for us when the bad days hit. I took care of us when he couldn't. I snuck Meg's snack into my backpack to take home, when Papa refused Pot Noodles and salad," she clenched her jaw, "So don't tell me that I wouldn't understand what we have to do to survive,"
Erik stood silently before his hand captured hers, bony digits clasping hers in a meek platitude.
And Christine knew that between the understanding, he offered comfort as well.
Unwilling to let go, they stood there for a while, like two souls standing on the edge of oblivion.
When she entered the hotel room, Christine started in surprise.
Flowers. Flowers and garlands draped across the back of the sofa, along the mantel piece, perched the table was a bouquet of lilies entwined with peach and pink roses. On the carpet, a line of red rose petals sprinkled along the floor, leading away from the lounge that begged her to follow.
"What is this?" Christine gaped.
"Go on," Erik murmured from behind, a smile hidden from her.
Trying not to sneeze with the cloying scent saturating the air, Christine stepped inside the room, heart trembling. She couldn't tell if it was in anticipation or fear. Perhaps it was a bit of both.
Go on. Do it. Follow them.
Shuffling forward, pretending she didn't feel their rooftop luncheon churn in her stomach, the faint bile taste linger on her tongue, her fingers grasped the knobbly handle to her door. The roses did not end there, however.
Oh, God.
Oh shit.
White. All she could see was white.
White. White. White.
Terror curled in her gut, a trilling voice yelling 'I told you so' over and over. There was a toilet nearby, right?
"Christine, my, you've become ever so pale," Erik's voice sounded distant.
"What –" her voice caught, "What is this?"
"Now don't judge prematurely, go on," Erik replied.
Pulling herself together, Christine reached her bed, having to release a breath to steady her nerves. Erik always had her breathe in and out before a lesson. It calmed her now, an ingrained routine. Safe. Secure.
Tracing edge of the first box laid upon her bedspread, the longest and squarest oblong of the selection, she lifted the lid.
Through partially closed eyes, Christine squinted and felt an instant rush of relief.
It was not white. The bloody thing was not white.
A sigh whispered, as she took the delicate orange and black silk out, mouth dropping as she beheld a dress fit for a monarch.
A monarch butterfly.
It was…It was… A sweetheart neckline, edged with black lace ruff and silver butterflies. Patterned with its tiger stripes and billowing skirt, which started at the knees, while the rest flowed to the floor. Shimmering: the silky material even held loops to attach the skirt to her finger, and Christine knew it would imitate wings.
It was…Beautiful.
"Why?" she breathed, fingering a butterfly that looked like real diamond. Obviously, Erik knowing her position about ethically sourced produce, it was probably glass.
"You will find out momentarily, my dear," his voice was warm – as breathless as she. He was pleased at her reception of his gift, "Continue opening the boxes,"
Trying to hold back her eagerness, she grabbed the second biggest box. Inside lay a pair of matching orange shoes, a small heel and with a signature monarch butterfly resting on each.
Meg would kill for these shoes. It would match one of her slinky 'going-out' tops.
I wish I could send a picture of them to her.
Another box was in her hands, how it got there she didn't know. This one held a pair of amber butterfly earrings. Bedazzled was the least she could describe herself.
Discovered last was a necklace; it was an identical amber butterfly on a gold chain. As beautiful as the earrings.
When Christine turned back to her guardian, one last box rested in his hands. Stepping forward, Christine looked into the molten gold of Erik's eyes, searching for an answer. She only found the light that of which shone so brightly, ever in her honour. One that she had never been able to label.
Leaning forward, her fingers gripped the edges of the rectangular box, lifting the lid gently.
"A mask?"
His lips curled up at the edges, "Indeed," his eyes shut, before blinking back open, vulnerability in how the box started to tremble, her eyes caught the swift bob of his Adam's apple.
"Christine Agata Daae, will you allow me the greatest pleasure of escorting you to the masquerade tonight?"
"Masquerade?" she blinked, his dulcet tone washing over her cut abruptly, "As in the Masquerade from the riddle? The one you made me guess, for months. As in, a masquerade, happening tonight?"
A shudder rippled through him, then another and another. The box was wobbling in his hands precariously. It took a second of sheer panic that he was having a stroke, before she realised he was laughing, "Oh, my dear, dear Christine –" with an inhale, the laughter subsidised, but the mirth still twinkled in his gaze, "You are an inordinately delightful, wonderous, adequate human being and I am ever humbled by your unique reactions," his voice deepened, "Don't ever change,"
Struck still by the fact it was the first she'd ever heard a compliment directed at her own individuality, her own personality, not a voice that had been on key, or a piece of artwork, it was her. What was inside, not an outcome of some inherited talent.
Blinking away the wetness she knew could not possibly be gathering at the corners of her eyes, Christine let out a shaky breath.
Why did it feel like she floated, a bright ball in her chest that refused to sink, lifting her higher and higher?
With a tremulous smile, Christine reached into the box. Resting in her fingers was a mask that completed her ensemble, that would cover her the upper half of her face, stretching across her nose. Holding it to her face revealed that it had a strong structure but was lined in soft fabric that wouldn't rub or make it pinch.
"May I?" Erik offered.
Nodding, Christine felt the black ribbon that hung from each side of the mask being drawn back by Erik's dextrous hands, the pull of it being carefully tied. Though the last time he'd tied a black piece of fabric around her eyes had been under circumstances much more unpleasant, it was hard to reconcile the two instances.
Why did it feel better now, this ease between them? How did it happen?
Don't think. Just feel. It's better that way.
Erik's fingers moved away, calm, refined and free of tremors.
Yes!
Warmth bloomed in a crevice that had buried itself into her heart, knowledge of sure success. As if part of her triumphed in the fact that this time, she hadn't scared him. He hadn't been afraid. Not just a foot forward, but a leap.
Why does it feel so good to see him expel the worry for just a few moments? To act normally, to live normally?
"Thank you," she gave him a tiny, almost indiscernible, smile. Just one. It was too addictive, that twinkle in his eyes that looked at her in the most incredible way. As if he wanted to weep at her feet, as if he would give her anything, give her everything.
He loves me.
Shit.
He loves me.
Later that evening, after Christine had killed seven hours of: channel surfing; watching The Matrix in French (which turned out to be harder than she thought it would be, even with English subtitles), reading a novel; trying to transfer doodles into more sophisticated sketches; being coaxed to join Erik in another duet before dinning. Not two minutes after they had finished, like clockwork, there had been a rap on the door. Erik had welcomed Clarice, wherein they had exchanged meaningful glances and had both then turned to her.
'Get her ready,' he had told Clarice, his professional tone at once so different compared to the Erik she had known over the last couple of days.
Clarice hadn't blinked, eyeing her as if a project to be completed for her master's approval. Once again a piece of clay and mould, just like the other day before the Opera. Gulping, Christine was led away to get 'ready'.
What sort of make-up did one wear to a Masquerade, anyway?
Changing in the bathroom, hopping up and down as she shimmied her way into the bodice, smoothing out the lining and untucking any hopeful part of her dress from her underwear, had not exactly been easy. Still, having Clarice was better than Erik zipping up her dress, which was both soft and snug on her back. For something strapless (of which she had mostly avoided for lack of support on her cleavage), the dress had held her well, and the bra of which had been provided was not itchy or insufficient in its purpose.
Seeing herself, with a trace of pinkish lip gloss – Clarice had given up trying to persuade her into wearing red lipstick – curls being set to rights, which included dousing her head in 'anti-frizz spray', another one of those amber butterflies inserted into her hair at the back, holding the top layer of curls like a mini 'clip-ified' ponytail, with the rest of her curls freely flowing underneath, not to mention the neutral pallet of make-up supplies Christine had reluctantly chosen…Well the outcome was a shock. With the other jewellery attached, the heels slipped on, suddenly there stood another person in the mirror.
But it's me. Not matter if I wear a mask, doused in make-up, I am still me.
Her earthy eyes stared back.
A mask, that left her eyes as the centrepiece. Brown, gold, orange. Colours of Earth. Colours of sunset, ruddy and warm. Amber, to match Erik. Symbolism: Mother Nature.
The fact hadn't escaped her notice.
When she met eyes with Erik, Clarice presenting her with a small smile (perhaps the first she'd seen from her), she saw that he wore the colour of warfare. Disease and death. Fear, wrath, destruction. Two forces that battled with each other since the dawn of time. In that skull, he wore humanity like a badge, but she knew instinctively, it was not with pride.
"Do you admire the Red Death, Christine?"
Turning her head, it was hard not to say what she felt in blunt exclamations. Possibly laced with a desire to step away.
"I see that you do not," he said to her silence, and Christine wanted to erase the last few seconds, if only for him to not sound sullen, "You are repulsed, - no, do not lie," he said and she stopped the guilty shaking of her head, "But I should not be surprised, for the fact is -"
A clearing of the throat from Clarice halted his musings, her expression meaningful.
"Ah, I shall check," Erik replied, understanding her message as he slipped a golden pocket watch from the folds of his draped cloak, and she felt that he raised an eyebrow.
"You are right," he murmured, before glancing up, "Time has slipped from us, shall we depart, Christine?"
Her heart beat too quickly as her hand landed in his, feeling their roles return to normal. Christine spied Clarice standing at the receding doors, a worrisome glint in her eyes. A little frown pulled at her lips, but it wasn't Christine she was staring at. No.
It was Erik.
That chilled her more than anything else.
Thrum. Wheels on concrete growled as they drew closer to their destination. Thrum. Fingers tapping in rhythm, an electric energy permeating every pore. Tugging at the mask, smoothing over the ribbon to make sure it had not twisted or wrinkled in the last minute she'd checked.
Trying not to stare too much at the red feathers on his enormous hat, that reminded her of a pirate, his skull face gleaming wickedly, just as Captain Jack Sparrow had been when moonlight shone over his bare skin. Thrum. Another round of finger fidgeting.
"There is no need to be afraid, Christine,"
Jolting to attention, she let out a shaky exhale, "Me, afraid? You must be mistaken," the bravado failed under his amber gaze.
The only thing that remained of the real Erik in that…Costume.
"You'll be above the masses there, on my – my heart I swear that you won't fall out of my sight," he replies empathically, leaning forward, feathers swaying.
She sent him a relieved glance, his presence would be a reassurance. There was at least someone who knew her, that she wasn't alone, "Is there really going to be that many people?"
Though under the skull's teeth his lips remained a mystery, she swore he smiled, "I dare say that there won't be any less than five hundred esteemed guests,"
"And 'un-esteemed' guests?" she raised an eyebrow instinctively, despite the mask resting on her face.
"It is usually invite-only, however there are possibly more that slip by," red leather gloves, this time, flex and stretch.
He had such thin, ghostly fingers.
Nodding, she relaxed slightly. There would be a lot, more than she had been used to, but after braving one of the most tourist-visited places in the world, sitting in an airport streaming with people, Christine knew that coping with it all would be manageable.
"So, why exactly are we going? I thought the," she paused, thinking, "Opera Garnier wouldn't hold this sort of thing,"
On the way there, Erik had told her that she would be seeing the theatre he supported as a benefactor. Hedging a guess, the Opera Garnier was the finest theatre that came to mind.
Erik titled his head, skull no less eerie, "Do all things have explanations?"
In response, Christine sighed. Always so damned elusive, that man. A smile pulled the corners of her lips. It was kind of funny, when one thought about it. No one else would ever top his mystique and love of that 'grand reveal'. Truly, the man was a magician, a performer, through and through.
"Have you ever performed your magic tricks to people? Like a street artist?" they were almost there, the car was slowing, looking for a space to park.
"Yes, though I would not call it 'street artist'," Erik added, a tone that bristled at the implication, "I was not some mediocre talent, some ill-mannered painted statue you find in the cities, I was much more than that, I assure you,"
Her smile widened, replying innocently, "Of course not,"
Erik twitched, "The King of Saudi Arabia once required my services, you know,"
Christine allowed the shock filter onto her face; her awe only encouraged her suddenly 'talkative' teacher.
"Well of course, did I not just tell you that my talents are far superior? I travelled to many countries, Christine, plying the high placed and powerful with all the tricks you have seen, and far more. Some…Demonstrations required an extra 'razzle dazzle' you could say," then he added, "And extra resources,"
The car pulled over just as Erik jutted his chin proudly, "One could not simply make a skeleton hover without some preparation, now could they?"
Her eyebrows rose even higher, the force lifting her mask up, gaping inelegantly, before breathing "Wow,"
Erik preened, "One day I shall give you a very own performance with my very best tricks," his hand curled, "Would that please you very much, Christine?"
"That would be…Lovely," she murmured and their conversation was interrupted as the car halted.
They had arrived.
To her delight, her assumption had been correct. The Opera Garnier shone in brilliant hues, the grandiose figure cutting the setting sun in the most awe-inspiring way. They did not have time to ogle, as Erik calmly tugged her along to the doors. Dozens of others in masks and bathed in exaggerated costumes, some bordering on the ridiculous, took up her view as they stood in line.
Before them was a pair which had a Bonnie and Clyde idea, chatting in French. One lone person was dressed in a skeleton costume, as one would for Halloween. Located nearer the front was a fairy painted in garish yellow and pink, who was shrilly laughing with a man who dressed as a War II veteran with a camo mask. Another had come as a parrot who emitted squawking noises on occasion next to a spider, bumbling legs which moved if they raised their arms. Behind them a silver witch that stood beside a rabbit, holding a pocket watch. Two Siamese cats joined the line, most likely two best friends, were next to two gentleman who wore swords and capes. In the crowd's midst was a purple toga, obviously imitating a Roman Emperor, accompanied with grey hair and a face wrinkled like a prune. Next to a glimmering angel was a rotund monkey. These two were followed a princess dressed in a downy pink and navy-blue dress held a mask of stars, accompanied by a handsomely cut figure.
Her heart leapt, but quickly sunk as his hair shone brown instead of gold.
Stupid. Don't be stupid.
Truly, there was a general assortment of costumes. Christine was particularly impressed by one who really did pull of a wonderful Napoleon costume, with the height to match!
It really was a Masquerade.
Decorations graced the marble foyer, garlands of gold and spinning streamers, parading masks in every direction. It was too much, all at once, her head found it hard to process all the light, sound and movement. Dizzying. Her fingers clutched Erik's arm, relying on him to guide her through the crowd. And what a crowd-parter his costume was! She could feel the suspicious glances lingering on his skeleton mask; it was macabre in comparison to the dozens of knights and dashing pirates that the men seemed to favour. There were also a few drag queens (with sparkling, feathery masks), that made her raise an eyebrow and stifle a snort, Erik's distain over those costumes was clear with a noticeable huff and mutter under his breath.
"Undignified baboons, the lot of them,"
"There probably were no more costumes left," she commented lightly, raising on her tiptoes to get her voice heard.
Erik grunted, manoeuvring them onto the next level, where most were holding flutes of champagne as servers dipped between clusters of people. Though Erik led the way, Christine was walking twice as fast to keep up, trying keep her balance while as she broke in her shoes.
"Are you sure this is allowed? I don't think it looks like we are supposed to be here," Christine hedged as they turned into an empty corridor. No lights had been turned on either.
"Nonsense," Erik clipped, striding onwards until they reached a certain door, "I assure you, this is perfectly acceptable,"
Frowning, Christine silenced her further inquiries, watching curiously as Erik pulled out a golden key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock. A delicate lock-turn later and her shoes clicked onto stone, a chill breeze surrounding her, managing to raise a layer of horripilation on her arms.
"It's cold out here," she rubbed her arms, casting a glance outwards. Before her lay the city scope of where they had arrived; they must be on the little terrace bits at the front of the Opera House, "What's going on?" her eyebrows raised in surprise. It was dark now.
Erik's eyes almost glowed; a facet of his being that admittedly once scared her, "You shall see, my dearest,"
Chuckling, Christine leaned on the carved balustrade, feeling the cold of the stone seeping into her body. She shivered again, thinking stupidly she should have brought a cardigan.
"May I?" Erik's kind voice emanated from above her.
"May I what?" but cloth had already enveloped her shoulders, considerably warmer compared to bared skin, not to mention the man beside her. Who was still wearing half of the cloak.
It was embarrassment, of course, that sent a shameful blush to her cheeks. Looking away, focusing on a streetlamp below, she could hide her reaction to his proximity.
No, it wasn't that. They'd sat closer on the plane. It was the fact she could smell the musky cologne that had imprinted itself on the clothing, that was completely different to Raoul's lynx spray-on. That had always smelled minty, fresh, as if they'd managed to invent the smell of rain. This was different.
Still, it wasn't an unpleasant smell. No. Erik had always a sense of taste, a dignified classiness that could only be defined as him. Kingly. Oh, that sounded stupid.
Regal.
Yes, that was it.
Erik, always so terribly regal.
Her perfume had always been delicate, at home it had never ventured far from floral vanilla, or 'honeysuckle and orange blossom'. But what he'd provided…It made her feel sensual, seductive, womanly. It packed a punch yet held that subtle nuance that kept her spraying it. Darker, almost.
Now that sounded weird.
Smiling softly, Christine shook her head, and raised a hand to hold the cloak around her.
"You have no inkling of your own beauty, do you, Christine?"
Confused, she raised her head, shocked to see a slight wetness in Erik's eyes. Despite the grinning skeleton mask, he had never seemed more human.
"Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, right? I guess we all have our ideas of beautiful,"
Gazing into his eyes however, made her think that gold was a beautiful colour after all.
Moving closer, her hand raised to trace the contours of the jutted cheekbones, ghastly discoloured skin, gleaming uneven teeth. The hole for a nose, which looked like he had actually coloured in his own underneath.
"It seems so real, Erik, how did you get a mask like this?"
A rippling laugh, "Let's say I had some unique inspiration,"
Her fingers traced around the nose hole, unable to understand the masterful illusion. It was fascinating.
The man trembled, "How can you stand to look at it? I thought you would run, scream in horror,"
"It's just a mask, Erik," she gave him a lopsided grin, "After tonight it'll be put away, left to gather dust or something. Anyway, it's an expertly crafted thing, how could I not admire the craftmanship?"
"You disliked it earlier," he sniffed.
"Well, it may not be the most beautiful thing in the world to wear to a masquerade, but it did do a great job of scaring people out of our path," she teased, "I'll never have to worry about crowds again. At least, for tonight," she added.
"It is our path, is it not, Christine?"
"Well obviously, otherwise people would get in our way," she laughed.
Erik nodded gravely, "Yes, and that would not do, having people stand in our way,"
Christine sighed, eyes seeking the sky, admiring its sleek midnight blue, just as a loud 'bang' ruptured their tranquillity.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
OOOOOO CLIFF HANGER Muhahahah. Seriously, it never gets old. XD
Apparently, my muse decided to write more than I expected, so we have a longer chapter! And an earlier chapter, because I was away and had a very bad internet connection, I had expected a week's delay. Nope. Apparently describing masks is what inspires more writing. XD Yay for us, I guess! ( I hoped everyone saw some of my references haha). There was a refence to an old book called 'The Talking Parcel'. Great book, that one.
I'm starting back up in school soon, so I honestly don't know what my posting schedule will be like. Obviously, I have planned how the next few chapters will go, and how it ends, but just be aware that I might be a bit sporadic.
BUT MASQERUADEEEEE – PAAAPER FACEES ON PARADDE – MASQERADEEE – HIDE YOUR FACE SO THE WORRLD WILL NEVER FIIINNDD YOUUUUUU. Ok. I'm done. I swear. WE DID ITT! We got here! So happy to finally make it to this point. OH boy. Are we going to have some fun!
Also, my favourite 'writing music' pieces to listen to currently is: 'Victor's Solo'/'Corpse Bride Piano Duet' (great guy on YouTube called The Wild Conductor does an amazing cover) and Pan's Labyrinth Lullaby. I adore both pieces so much. Ironically have not watched the films haha. I intend to rectify this, but the idea of watching a Tim Burton movie does make me nervous. Yes, I'm a wimp. XD and Pan's Labyrinth is definitely no light-hearted movie either, so it might take me a while to get round watching these movies. To be honest, The Wild Conductor has provided me with some very good 'writing music', so just go and check him out if you're in need of some music! Thought this might be useful information for any writers out there, ;)
Thank you to my lovely reviewers: Qtkittee and HoursOfMazenderan! Your reviews were so sweet!
Name time: Agata – means 'good-hearted' in Swedish and can also mean pure. Derived from the Greek origin 'Agnes' meaning 'chaste' or 'sacred'.
Boucher – means butcher in French.
Behnam – honourable, reputable. (A proper charmer ;)
Anyone worrying about poor Nadir? I know I am.
Hope everyone enjoyed! :D
Merci,
Enigma.