Chapter 12

I awoke to find my bedroom door cracked open. A moment of terror slid through me, leaving behind icy tendrils, until a scan of my room assured me that the monster was not within. I was still dressed, had not had the sense of mind to remove my clothes before I retreated, shivering, to hide beneath my covers. I felt the child, but could not bring myself to so much as think on the horror in that parlor without feeling as if I would retch; it was many a cold hour before I fell into fitful slumber.

Tremblingly I stood, and began to redress myself. My watch showed it to be nearly ten; I knew, somewhere within where I still was the Christine from twenty-four hours ago, that Erik would have my head for such tardiness. I dressed quickly, and combed out my hair as best I could, before moving towards the door and timorously pulling it further open.

Though frightened of the connotations, I was relieved that he had opened my door for me. While I had learned its general location, and had mastered the art of closing it to him, he yet refused to teach me the mystery of opening it. On the matter of most doors, he had instructed me, such as the parlor, the bath room, and the library; there were still, however, some that he allowed to remain a mystery. (Already I had learned that each door opened in a different fashion, so as to prevent a lucky individual from discovering the secret to not one but thus all doors in that house of mirrors.) The door to my room and to the outside of the house, as well as those which led to his bedroom and his study, were kept apart from my knowledge.

The kitchen, luckily, had no door, but rather opened up onto the hall. This was the room into which I now traveled, and found a cup of still-hot tea awaiting me upon the smaller kitchen table. I looked around, expecting to see those frightening, glowing eyes studying me from some dark corner; however, I found him curiously absent, and thus sat down at the table to have my tea.

I was drinking it, and had sunk deep into a sort of mindlessness, when I suddenly sensed his foreboding presence at my arm. I gave a little jump, but kept my head ducked down, to avoid any reminder of that terrible face.

"Good morning," he crooned to me, in that hypnotizing voice. I felt my body melt beneath that sound, but set my lips in a grim line against it.

"Yes, good morning… Thank you, Erik—for the tea, I mean." I lifted it a few inches, as if he would not on his own discern what I meant by "tea".

He hesitated—I could almost hear the injury in his voice—before murmuring a brief "You're welcome" and taking a seat in the second chair. I directed my countenance further downwards, in every attempt to avoid seeing him; I stared instead at the wood of his table, and the lapels of his jacket—that lovely evening jacket I had so innocently remarked upon previously. I felt now so foolish, for the way I had behaved with him. To even think now, how warmly I had acted with him, how lovingly I had…

My shoulders gave an involuntary shoulder, and though I could not see his face, I am certain that I felt him wince. For a moment, he stopped breathing, and I was unsure that he would ever begin again, until finally he gave a long, shuddering sigh.

"I am not feeling well, today… Perhaps I should have remained abed."

"Yes, perhaps," I said, too quickly; this time, I saw his body stiffen, and immediately I regretted my thoughtlessness. My life dangled so precariously from this man's cold, lifeless fingertips; I would have to remember to curb my sometimes ruthless tongue.

"Are you hungry?" he asked coldly. "Though it is well past time for breakfast, I thought perhaps…"

My grip tightened on my tea, and I sullenly shook my head in the negative. The thought of eating something his hands had touched made my stomach heave.

"Very well," he snapped, and stood so abruptly that, unconsciously, my head jerked upwards to see him rise.

What I saw there bid a scream rise to my throat, and several shrill notes escaped before I could clamp my hand over my lips. His face was not the face of last night, but was rather something more horrible: it was the face of the Erik of whom I had grown so accustomed, that human skin, and black hair peppered thickly with grey.

He drew back from my scream, eyes going wide—wolfish eyes still, but ones I could look into, not the glowing monstrosities of his other self. I saw confusion and rage alight in those eyes, but not the rage of a madman, but rather that of an injured beast, a chastised dog who could not discern the purpose for his punishment. "What now, woman?" he yelled at me, using that beautiful voice in the harshest of ways. "Why now do you scream, when I have done this for you?" He gave a sharp gesture to his face, and then disgustedly jerked away from me.

I sat with my hand over my mouth, my teacup shattered upon the floor, and watched him in dull horror. That he had made such a transformation overnight terrified me; it was as if I were lost in one of Papa's old fairy tales, and I could not bring myself to react.

Erik bent over me and snatched up my wrists in his. The palm of his hand was warm and firm; the flesh there felt alive. He brought both my hands up to his face, and pressed them against his cheeks. "This is real, Christine!" he snarled. "Touch me! Feel me! I am not some dream!"

I cried out, and turned my face away from him. Vainly did I try to pull my hands away from him, but he would not relinquish his grip, and I was but a child against his strength. Finally he threw my hands away with such force that my chair tipped back a bit, and I was thrown against the wall.

"Stupid girl!" he growled ferociously, before stalking out of the room.

I fell over onto the floor, curled into a ball, and wept.