Chapter Two
I estimate that I slept at least forty-eight hours, possibly a little more. I am not certain of the hour when the morphine was taken—along with the powder of the Far East—and neither am I certain how long I writhed in agony in my coffin before unconsciousness took me. I stumbled into my bathroom, cupping water in my hands and splashing it onto my cheeks, somehow not certain if I should truly be offering thanks, though I suppose it is the mortal's first reaction when he discovers he has not died, as he expected. Bitterness welled up strong in my throat, filling my mouth with the taste of bile. How foolish I had been, to believe that an old gypsy could grant me such a dream... I had truly deserved every moment of pain, for making such a fool of myself.
What my hands encountered however, once they had pushed through the water, was cause for hesitation in my self-loathing. I drew my hands back in disbelief, and was shocked to perceive smooth, full, normal hands; they did not have the bony, starved appearance they had once possessed. I brought my fingertips up to my face, touching and prodding. Skin, warm skin, the jaw grizzled with new hair. Eyebrows, nose—I had a nose!—chin... My face was the face of any other man. I found a full, perfect head of hair crowning my skull, thick and shaggy.
Numb feet carried me out of the bathroom and down the hall, equally-numb hands prying my way into the room that held my mother's furniture. It took little time to root out her mirror, and little more time to peer into it before I had dropped it onto the floor. It was retrieved, however—thankfully, unharmed—and again I began my careful exploration of my new features. I looked older, of course, but I looked human—I looked alive. The faintest silvering was beginning at the temples, marring the luscious coal-black hair there. My eyebrows... I ran a finger along those thin lines, smoothing out the hair there.
The pain from the night before was gone. The pain from years past was gone. I was a man. I was not the circus attraction, nor the sultan's architect, nor the Phantom of the Opera. I was a man.
Only a man...
Fear lurched through me, and without pause, I threw myself into song. Relief flooded me as I realized that my voice had been spared, in the change. It was still the angelic beauty it once had been.
I could not help but smile to myself, as I walked into the kitchen, to cook breakfast. What better wish could I have hoped would be fulfilled? Nothing stood between myself and Christine, now; the absent last name was, of course, unfortunate, but it would not be difficult to acquire one. She was not of an old family; no one would inquire about her choice of suitors, least of all based upon a surname. I had only to find the perfect moment to begin her seduction.
Erik Sartre. This would be my name, as I moved about the opera. I would continue to occupy Box Five, continue to act as always I had, with a few exceptions. No longer would I hide and lurk in shadow, not until it was important that I not be seen—which would, under these new circumstances, be rare. The largest obstacle to my plans was, quite simply, how to continue tutoring Christine without revealing my identity, and without endangering the success of my new life.
The opera that night was beautiful—La Traviata, with Christine performing brilliantly as Sophie.
In truth, it was a hideous opera—however, I was watching it, for the first time, in my box, without a mask. The air brushed against my freshly-shaven skin, stroking it with the warmth and affection of a lover. I felt bare, without it, but not in such a way that I would have wished to possess the need for that mask. My only true concern was that I somewhat feared the effects of this drug would not be long-lasting; constantly, my hand rose to touch my face, to assure myself it was still the flesh of any man.
At the end of the performance, I nearly ran down to Christine's dressing room. I had seen the Vicomte, in his brother's box, his face eager with anticipation. What else could he be eager about, than the prospect of seeing Christine? I was unsure if there was logic in that question, or if it was only that I felt that, since it rang true with my own self, certainly none could love any but Christine.
My knuckles were knocking against the door before I had even considered my actions. Certainly, I had considered them—countless times, I had repeated my intentions to myself, repeated my convictions and my promises not to become carried away. I had not thought about these plans recently, however, and that was enough to cast me into doubt.
I could see the Vicomte coming, pushing his way through the crowds. He had not yet seen me; I knocked again on her door, harder. She opened it with a cheerful smile—obviously expecting Raoul—and I could barely hold back a snarl, upon finding her so thrilled. Her smile froze upon perceiving me, a stranger, perched upon her doorstep.
"Mademoiselle," I crooned, with an extravagant bow, as I slid my fingers around her hand and pressed a loving kiss to the tops of her knuckles. When I straightened, I was pleased to find her face alight with a humble blush; my other hand slid around from behind me to present her with a single red rose. As I did so, I made a mental note to explain to her, one day, the purpose behind that rose, the story that gave it so much meaning.
The nightingale and the white rose...
And yet, in lieu of recent events, the story had lost some of its meaning in my heart. Even as my mind blessed the old woman who had handed me this chance, my heart and my soul lamented some of the beauty they knew I had lost.
"Monsieur," she stammered, "I... What have I done, to deserve such an honor?"
I smiled warmly. "Mademoiselle, it is, by far, the least I could do, to venerate such an extraordinary talent."
The blush was heightened. "Merci, Monsieur..."
"Erik," I offered. "Erik Sartre."
Those golden curls bobbed. "Monsieur Sartre." A look was cast over her shoulder, at her mirror. I barely restrained a curse. Of course she would not accept my presence—she would fear to be seen with me as much as she would with the Vicomte. "If you will excuse me, Monsieur Sartre..."
"Actually, Mademoiselle," I began, taking a step towards her, as if intending to enter into her room. "I wondered if, perhaps, you would allow me to take you to supper—if there is no other admirer who has claimed your time, this evening?"
Her dainty fingers tightened on the stem of my rose. "Monsieur Sartre, I beg of you to accept my apologies, but..." She turned her head to look at her little writing desk, and then moved towards it, carefully setting the rose there beside her journal. "I do not believe I could spare the time, this evening."
"Of course not," I replied, my voice suggesting the easiest of acceptances, though within I was near to crying out to her to reconsider. "Perhaps, another evening, then."
She nodded, offering another sweet smile. "Yes, Monsieur, perhaps another evening..."
"Christine?"
Both of our heads turned, to look upon the Vicomte. His brows were furrowed with irritation and suspicion, as he stepped up to half-block my way into Christine's dressing room. "Monsieur? I am afraid we have not met..." His eyes came to rest on my cheekbones—a pitiful attempt at pretending to lock gazes with me, while truthfully avoiding it. I could not blame him, though; despite the other changes, my eyes remained a sharp, intensely wolfish yellow. They were not the sort of eyes one relished meeting.
Ah, such a polite way of demanding to know my identity. Forcing a smile onto my lips, I extended a hand. "Erik Sartre—and you, I presume, are the Vicomte de Chagny?"
He placed his hand in mine, as he nodded. "Oui, Monsieur." A pause, and his gaze traveled between myself and Christine. "Am I.. interrupting something?" he asked, eyebrows lifting.
"No, no," Christine said immediately, reaching out and taking his hand. Jealousy burned in my chest; it took all my willpower not to leap upon them both, and rip them apart. "Monsieur Sartre was just leaving."
Forcing my smile to remain in place, I offered a slight bow to her. "Of course." And what a grand actor was I, treating the easy dismissal as if it were not breaking my heart, as if it was the easiest thing in the world to walk away from her and leave her with that disgusting young boy... "I wish you the finest of evenings, Mademoiselle."
"Merci, Monsieur," she replied, eyes remaining on my knees. Not wishing to dally any longer, I turned and strolled easily away, unthinkingly humming beneath my breath. It would be more awkward, on the next occasion—she would recall this uncomfortable parting moment, and the general strangeness of my presence, and perhaps would refuse even to speak to me. There had to be a way to win her over. The Vicomte had done it—by rescuing her scarf, I believed I'd heard them say. While I doubted I'd be granted such an opportunity as that, it did give certain inventive suggestions...
I heard the Vicomte talking in low, almost angry tones, and then heard Christine shush him. Though curiosity begged it of me, I kept my eyes forwards—even as I heard light footsteps rushing towards me. My imagination hoped that its happiest of visions was truly what lay behind me, though my mind knew better than to expect it.
A tiny hand came to rest on my shoulder, bidding me pause. I turned around, pleased to find Christine standing there, looking up at me with widened eyes. Sometimes, dreams did come true. "Monsieur," she breathed. "Your voice...!"
I had forgotten to keep silent—how foolish of me! Of course she would recognize it, subconsciously at the least. She moved as if hypnotized, adjusting her body to fully face me. Her lips were ever so slightly parted, and moistened from where moments before she must have licked them—I had seen her do it many times—it was something of a nervous habit, I believed. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," I said sweetly, trying my best to keep my tone light, trying desperately to feign naïveté.
Eyes still wide, she looked deep into my own without flinching, and asked breathily, "Monsieur, do you sing?"
I laughed. "Oui, Mademoiselle, but not on the stage." At least, not while anyone was watching. "I save my voice for private audience... and, tutor, on occasion."
"Oh, Monsieur, such a shame—your voice is so lovely..."
"Christine?" Raoul called, taking a few steps towards her. "Come, Christine, you must change, or we shall be late for supper." One of his hands was already reaching out to take her by the wrist. It took all my effort not to allow my lip to curl, watching him so blatantly treat her like a child.
For a moment, she looked as if she were going to pout—but then, suddenly, her face brightened, and her own hand reached out to take mine. That simple touch upon skin so long neglected sent a thrill through my body, and for a second time in minutes I was forced to employ the full extent of my willpower. Too hard not to gasp, to moan, to allow my eyes to flutter closed and revel in that sweet sensation. Instead, I kept my eyes firmly focused upon her, as her fingers closed around mine in a brief squeeze. "Monsieur," she said pleasantly, "you must come to supper with us!"
I hesitated. A supper with Christine was exactly what I'd dreamed... but a supper with Christine and the Vicomte?
"Oh, please, Monsieur," she begged, glancing at Raoul for support. "We would love to have your company."
Raoul managed a half-nod, and something that could almost be called a smile. "Yes, Monsieur, please do join us."
Sighing, I pressed two fingers to my temple. Resigned, I answered, "When given such an offer, how could I possibly refuse?"
"Oh!" Christine clapped her hands together, smile broadening. "I'll just go and change then, gentlemen." And then, the embodiment of happiness, she twirled away and retreated into her dressing room, leaving the Vicomte and I alone in the hallway. I was beginning to be very thankful I had not tucked my lasso into my coat pocket—it would have been far too much temptation.
