Christine came to visit every Friday after rehearsals. She was always on time at the Rue Scribe gate, in her fur coat and gloves, dandelion hair teasing out beneath her hat, cheeks flushed from the cold.
It had been a particularly bleak winter. Hardly even snow, just ice and harsh wind. He barely ventured out. The house on the lake stayed quite warm, after all; he had designed it to remain temperate year-round.
He stared out from behind the Rue Scribe gate, glancing down at his pocket watch at intervals.
Why had she not come?
The hands of his watch ticked by. An hour. Two hours. Three.
He gritted his teeth. She was not coming. She had abandoned him. She had lied to him.
He turned on his heels and went back into his lonely house. Even near the blazing fireplace that night, he was numb with an inner chill no fire could light.
…
Christine turned over in bed. Snowflakes drifted lazily onto the street below, some sticking briefly to the windowpane.
Her stomach churned with unease. Surely Erik knew she had to stay with Mamma for Christmas Eve?
She had not even considered that it would occur on a Friday. Between rehearsals and managing the poor man, she had no time to glance at a calendar, no time to know what day of the week it was.
She would visit him tomorrow morning, bring him his gift, and all would be well. She needn't worry. He would be fine, surely…
Her eyes shut.
The next morning, while everyone else was still fast asleep, full of Christmas Eve dinner and thoroughly exhausted by the night's festivities, she slipped out onto the quiet street. Erik's present was tucked beneath her shoulder, wrapped in bright red paper and gold twine.
Very rarely was Paris so quiet. Even the lamplighters were sparse and languid in their duties. A few empty broughams sat in the street, waiting for future passengers to awake.
Fresh snow dusted the city, barely touched, lightly crunching beneath her boots. She pulled her scarf tighter against the wind.
She reached the Rue Scribe gate. He was not waiting for her, but she had not expected him to be. After all, she had not told him when she would come, or that she wouldn't be coming Christmas Eve at all.
She wavered only a moment as she brought the key to the lock, stomach twisting. Perhaps he thought she should have come yesterday regardless of the holiday.
At least she was here now. He couldn't be too terribly upset, surely…
…
Erik woke to find his forehead pressed against the piano keys. Discordant notes flooded his ears as he lifted his head, staring about the dim drawing room.
Tears pricked his eyelids. She was not here. It had not been a nightmare, no, she had truly forgotten him, abandoned him.
He gritted his teeth and stumbled up from the bench, knocking a few sheets of music from the piano. He cursed underneath his breath and threw the rest of the music to the floor. The sight of them fluttering down blurred in his vision.
He rubbed his eyes hard with his knuckles, but the tears only increased. His arms crossed over his skull, like a child, a pathetic little child!
Something rang in his ears, breaking through his miserable sobs. He wrapped himself up in his own arms, a mockery of an embrace, sniveling and weeping.
What was that incessant noise?
He lifted his head.
The Siren.
The bell was ringing for the Siren.
Was it that damned daroga again? He would kill him! To trouble him like this! The nerve of the man! Imagine! Coming onto his property, to make some ridiculous accusation about something he, perhaps, might have done, but there was always hardly enough evidence, just that damned man's incessant hunch that every malfunction in the opera house was Erik's doing, when truly, not every malfunction was, only the majority…
The Siren was asleep for the winter, anyway, numbed by the cold water. He would have to do what she could not.
He threw open the door, still pulling on his jacket, murmuring curses and threats. That damned man had gone too far, and on a day like today-
"Erik?"
He froze. Was he imagining things? It was not uncommon, of course, especially considering his poor night of sleep, but… it sounded very much like…
"Erik, are you there?" Christine called again, from across the lake.
His mouth went dry. She had returned. She had come. A day late, yes, but perhaps she would have an excuse, a reason, and she had better, to put him through such a miserable night!
He slid the boat into the water and climbed into it, taking up the oars in his hands. It was a strange sensation, to have his heart racing to see her, while at the same time raging at her callousness. Surely she knew what she had put him through? How could his sweet Christine do such a thing?
"Erik?" came that sweet voice again, trembling with cold. "Erik, please, you told me you could hear me if I called!"
It was strange, but he did not reply. He did not wish to reply. Perhaps it was justice, that she feel the slightest bit as he had for the past few hours, abandoned in the dark.
He turned through the brick archways, rising steadily towards her voice, to where she waited at the edge. And, as he turned to corner, there she was, illuminated by a single lantern, bundled up against the cold, scarf pulled to her cheekbones.
He swallowed the bitterness growing in his chest. She set aside her lantern, taking one, two steps out closer to the edge of the lake as he brought the boat to shore.
"Erik," she said in relief. "Why did you not answer me? I thought I would be here for hours!"
He chuckled bitterly. "Oh? Did you now?"
Her brow knitted. He stepped out of the boat.
"You are upset with me, then?" she said with some irritation. "For spending the night with Mamma? My family? My only family-?"
"You left me to wait for hours!" he cried. "All night! Not a word, not a note? Cruel Christine, to torment her Erik so!"
"How could you think I would come last night? I have obligations-"
"Obligations?" he scoffed. "You live with your benefactress! I ask for but one day, one, to share with you each week. Is that too much? For your dear friend Erik, is it too much to ask for a day in your company?"
"No, of course not, but certainly when it is a day for family, when I cannot possibly explain being absent-"
"What are you going on about?" he declared, rubbing his forehead in irritation. "What is so special about yesterday?"
Her lips parted in surprise. Yes, it was surprise, surprise and perhaps pity, as her eyes softened.
"It was Christmas Eve, Erik," she said. "Surely you… knew that?"
He stared blankly at her for a moment.
Christmas Eve? That had been yesterday?
He had not even considered, after all, why would he? He had never celebrated, and typically forgot there was a holiday at all, or simply ignored it. But Christine would celebrate- after all she was a good, Christian girl.
How could he be so incredibly blind?
"Ah," he said after a long silence. "Yes, well… Of course I knew."
The irritation in her eyes had turned to sorrow.
"I should have told you," she said. "I didn't realize… I was so busy with rehearsals, I didn't even think… that it would be on a Friday…"
He swallowed. She bowed her head for a moment, turning something between her hands. Then she lifted her eyes and held it out to him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"A gift," she replied. "Though I… feel rather silly now, since you didn't know… and of course you didn't know, it was foolish of me to assume, but…"
She held it out further. He stared down at the foreign thing, wrapped neatly in red, bound with twine.
He extended his hands out to take it- his trembling hands.
"Merry Christmas," she said half-heartedly.
He looked over at her. Her blue eyes were pained.
"I have nothing for you," he said breathlessly. "I… I cannot possibly take…"
"It's alright," she replied. "It's quite alright…"
She folded her lips in thought. The package weighed heavy in his hands. The gift.
"Would you play me something, perhaps?" she asked in a soft voice. "As a gift?"
His lips parted. She looked up at him, her eyes earnest.
"I would play for you regardless," he said. "It is hardly a gift if I would do it whenever you asked."
Something warm and soft brushed against his palm. He looked down to find her hand on his, *in* his.
"A day of music would be a wonderful gift, Erik," she said. "Please… I would like it very much."
He nodded. "If you… think it worthy…"
Her hand squeezed his, and he nearly fainted with delight. The gift she wanted was a day of music? An entire day? A gift for them both, surely!
"You can open it now, if you want," she said.
"Hm?"
He glanced down at his other hand, to the package. He had quite forgotten it.
There were likely some rules, some decorum, for the giving and receiving of gifts. But he knew none. In fact, as he pulled the twine-bow free, he could not remember ever having received a gift. Certainly not one wrapped so neatly, so delicately, with such care and attention…
He opened the box to find a pen and ink, beautifully fashioned.
"I couldn't think of anything else," she said, tugging on her sleeve, her cheeks reddening. "You write so very much, I thought perhaps… it would be helpful."
"It's lovely," he breathed.
She stared up at him with some surprise. "You like it?"
"Yes… I have never received…" His voice broke. He cleared his throat. "Thank you… Let me return the favor now, come. I must give you your gift."
She smiled up at him. She smiled.
He helped her into the boat, heart pounding in his ears. She had given him a gift. She was spending Christmas in him. She wanted a day filled with music as her gift- his music!
Next Christmas, he would remember. He would buy her dresses and trinkets, shower her in gifts, true, tangible things, and she would have a proper Christmas. He would remember.
But as she looked up at him, smiling gently in the lantern-light, he wondered if, perhaps, music truly was her favorite gift of all.
And he wondered if she knew that the touch of her hand in his was greater than any other gift she could have bestowed.
