A/N: Oh, dear. Seems that this site automatically makes it so that anonymous reviews aren't accepted, which isn't what I wanted. I fixed it, hopefully. . . .
And I'm also looking for a beta, if anybody's interested.
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"Good evening, Erik,"
"Merde." He curled a hand around the edge of the answering machine, deeply regretting having picked up.
The Daroga chuckled.
"What do you want? I am busy." Erik shifted the phone from one ear to the other, freeing his left hand.
"Busy, Erik?" When there was no reply, he continued. "And what are you doing this late?"
"That is none of your business."
"I see."
Annoyed, Erik tapped the ends of his fingers against the wall. He glanced at the doorway, then turned his back on it, trying to keep his patience. After a moment, when the other man said nothing more, he scowled. "Good-bye, Daroga."
"Erik--"
"I am busy." Realizing that he would be unable to escape without some offer of better explanation, Erik continued, "I am going to look at a site."
"Is that all?"
"Yes." He hesitated hanging up, weighing his options. It was nearly impossible to convince the older man to let him be, and even more so when the Daroga took it into his head that Erik was hiding something. Irritation mounting, he grit his teeth. "Was that it?"
There was silence on the other end before the faint voice asked, "Are you. . . . How is America?"
And thank you for that irrelevant question. The monster stirred. "It is . . . fine." Really, what did he want to hear? The Western United States had little history; its architecture was new and lined on either side of broad streets. The people had the habit of becoming immune rather than active, of staring or making a point of not staring. at things which caught their interest. The trees were a beautiful change of scenery. In summation it was . . . acceptable, for the time being.
"Oh? Taking lots of pictures?"
"No." A very cold feeling trickled through his insides. He glanced at the objects on the piano bench, and tilted his head. "Why do you ask?"
The Daroga did not dignify that question with a response. Erik swallowed.
"I find that I am very tired of photography, Daroga. You do not have to keep your rope around my neck."
"I find the irony of that comment very amusing," the older man stated dryly.
"That was not my intent."
"I'm sure." He, too, seemed to be weighing what to say, and Erik found himself becoming more and more agitated as the seconds wore on. He glanced at the door again.
"If you do not mind, I have things to do."
There was a sigh of resignation. "All right, go. But Erik--"
He paused in the act of hanging up.
"--if I ever find that you've gotten yourself into more trouble, I will not help you a second time, do you understand me?"
"Yes, yes, Daroga, I understand." Thank you for playing nanny. This is why you called, isn't it? To make sure that I am behaving myself. Erik had no intention of breaking his promise.
"And Erik--"
He put the phone back to his ear, mouth stretched into a thin line.
"Did you get your tickets?"
The edges of his lips curled upward, slowly. And now I understand. "Why yes I did, Daroga. How thoughtful. You know that I have an interest in the classical music."
"Yes, I know." There was a lengthy pause, and Erik's smirk grew. Ask. Go ahead. We both know you want to. "Erik. . . ."
"Yes?" And of course the innocence will not be believed.
" . . . Why did you ask for two tickets?"
Unexpectedly, the monster bared its teeth. "My dear Daroga! Whatever can you mean?" He tilted his head back, feeling the wallpaper brush against his wig. "Surely a being such as myself would never ask for more than one. Whomever would I find to accompany me?"
"Please don't play games with me, Trapdoor Lover." He imagined the other pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Games, Daroga?" He sat down on the edge of the couch, rocking back and forth in anticipation.
The Daroga's patience ran out. "Remember what I said to you."
And he hung up.
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Morning came slowly to the street; many rose before it and wished the sun felt well to shine a little sooner, and those who did not work Saturday lay idly in a state of ambivalence. When the sun at last crested the grove of trees to the east, and the gray sky filled with color, daylight and its people began to stir.
"Christine?"
"Coming!" She made her way to the kitchen, taking the stairs at a fast step, and turned the corner to see her father and Mrs. Kemple sitting at the table. The latter was working intently with her latest project, a necklace made from a multitude of colored beads strung end to end on fishing line. Mrs. Kemple lived down the street, and was of the firm opinion that everything had a use at some point in its existence, even if it were to serve a purpose entirely different than originally intended. The older woman beamed at her.
"Letter for you," Christine's father said, then had to reshuffle through the mail to find it. He offered it with a flourish, and added, "You remembered to change your address, right?"
Christine blushed and studied the letter curiously, wondering who she knew that would send one rather than an e-mail or a call. There was no return address; in fact, there was no address at all save for her name typed across the front. There was no envelope, either; the letter was simply a piece of paper folded in thirds and taped shut.
"Do you want to go to Farmer's Market with us?" Mrs. Kemple asked. Christine glanced up at her, putting the letter aside for the moment.
"Oh . . . sure." She looked awkwardly at her father. "Sure, I'd like that."
"Oh, good." The older woman stood with the clank of handmade bracelets, and dusted her hands as if having come to an important conclusion. "We can even get that special cake. You know, the one that looks like a pile of birthday presents?"
"At the pastry-place?" Christine asked, awkwardly.
"Yes, that's the one! I know it's not quite your birthday, but Carl and I thought it would be fun to get it anyway." She patted Mr. Daaé's shoulder.
"Thank you." Christine took her mail upstairs, laying it out on the bed. For a moment she stood silently, looking around with the beginnings of the now-familiar pang of loss. The room had been hers for almost ten years, ever since the divorce and subsequent move from California. She had grown up here, had made memories here, had whispered secrets under the covers to an old grade-school friend. It was mostly empty now, retaining nothing but the child she had once been. The adult was moving out. She could not bring her childhood with her.
On impulse, Christine stroked the head of her stuffed dolphin. It, like so many other things, would not be going along. And of course not, she thought, smiling at herself. What would Seth think if I brought my pillow, my pills, and my My Little Pony collection?
She resolutely turned away, walking back to the hall. She paused at the top of the stairs when she saw Mrs. Kemple stride quickly through the living room to answer the front door.
"Hello! I saw you through the window!"
"Good morning," a man replied, uneasily. Christine had to check a smile. "Is Charles home?"
"Charlie!" Mrs. Kemple turned to shout into the depths of the house. Christine descended to the first floor, and continued on toward the kitchen; she started when she caught a glimpse of their visitor.
That's a surprise. The masked man stared at her. Christine looked away, passing her father as he came to meet their neighbor. And he's French. Somehow I was thinking New York.
She began loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, resisting the urge to linger in the other room out of curiosity. Their neighbor had hardly said two words for all the overtures her father had made; his manner stoic and unapproachable. Christine figured it might have had something to do with his injury, perhaps a complication stemming from some other, more prominent and less physical accident.
In form he did not appear crippled; it seemed to be simply his face that was damaged, although with the constant high-necked clothing and gloves such a proclamation was difficult to make. The left side of his mouth was mostly covered by the mask; what was exposed bore a thick vertical scar near the edge of the black material and which trailed away beneath it. She wondered what had happened to him, and whether it was the same thing that occasionally blackened one or the other eye.
Mrs. Kemple had suggested that their neighbor was part of some special governmental agency; Meg had suggested that he had been hired to kill James Bond. Personally, Christine was more inclined to support Meg's theory.
Her father entered the kitchen, with Mrs. Kemple close behind. The masked man was nowhere in sight.
"What was that about?"
"Apparently he and a friend were going to a concert tonight." Mr. Daaé seemed completely at ease with the sudden contact; contact which, more surprisingly, their neighbor had initiated. "His friend canceled; he wanted to know if we would like the tickets instead."
"Really?"
He produced them. "It's classical. I knew you'd be interested, but--" he glanced sideways at Mrs. Kemple.
"Oh, don't mind me!" She waved her hands as though shooing away unpleasant thoughts. "This is your little girl's last night at home! You two go have fun. I'll be all right."
"Is he sure?" Christine asked. Thoughtful gifts did not tie well to the man's apparent nature.
"Yep. Said either we take them or he was throwing them out."
"That's very odd, don't you think?" Her father only shrugged, and Christine examined the tickets. "These were expensive!"
"I suppose that's what friends do." Christine frowned at him. Although there was no question of love where the small family was concerned, she was on occasion thoroughly irritated by her father's constant easy-going manner.
Bored with the mundane tasks and tedious monotony of the adult world, Charles Daaé never lost an occasion to let life take him as it came. It had been one of the leading causes of his marriage's disaster; her mother had been more than willing to forgive the first several 'adventures', but as time wore on her patience wore out. Missing work to take their daughter out of school for the musical production of The Secret Garden, costing her attendance in favor of picnics or more theatrical events, never meeting deadlines. . . .
"We'll just have to have him over for dinner one time." Her father retrieved the tickets, glanced at them, and then put them into his pocket. "Or twenty."
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It was late in the evening when Christine remembered the letter. She had been sitting on the living room couch, waiting for her father to appear so that they could leave, and anxiously combing her fingers through the ends of her shawl. She abruptly stood and headed back to her room, then closed the door and picked up the strange paper.
Someone must have delivered it themself, she decided. The question as to who, and why they would bother, were more curious. Shrugging, she carefully peeled away the tape and unfolded the letter.
When they start with apologies, it's never good. She scanned it, then stopped and began reading closely. She read it again.
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Christine tossed the letter onto the bed and jumped to her feet, nearly falling before she managed to catch her balance on the heels. Frantically pacing, she picked up the paper and went through it one more time. "Oh, Jesus . . . Seth. . . !"
She snatched her phone from the purse on her desk, and punched in Meg's number. Waiting with quivering anxiety, she angrily swiped at her eyes.
"Hey, this is Meg. I'm either not here at the moment or else I'm asleep. You can leave a message. . . ."
"Meg, pick up!" she snapped. The tone sounded, and Christine clenched her teeth. "Meg, call me back. Right now!" She hung up, and threw the phone on the bed. Breathing quickly, Christine pressed her hands to her face, pushing hard against her eyes and jaw line. She reached for Seth's letter again, ignoring the black streaks on her palms.
Excuses began formulating as to the content; perhaps it was a forgery, perhaps it was a mistake. A joke. A prank. The doings of a mean-spirited adversary, although she could not think of anyone who could be blamed. She did not have rivals, or enemies; she did not think anyone she knew particularly disliked her. She studied the letter for clues to its fallacy. He wouldn't. . . . He couldn't. 'A long time coming. . . .'
There was a knock on her door.
"Hello?" Christine choked, and put a hand over her mouth.
"Christine?" Her father poked his head in. "Are you all right?"
She waved a hand vaguely, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a seat beside her, smoothing the folds in the comforter, and waited for an explanation.
"I. . . ." Unable to speak, she handed him the letter. Her father read in silence, Christine unable to look at him. She wiped a hand across her face, then stood up and walked shakily out of the room.
In the hallway, the claustrophobic feeling vanished. A sense of surrealism lay heavily in its wake, making her thoughts fuzzy as she carefully found the upstairs bathroom and flicked on the light. She avoided looking in the mirror, and wrapped a trail of toilet paper around her hand. Christine blew her nose, then tore the soiled squares away and tossed them to the side, hardly caring whether they made the wastebasket. She wiped her face.
We were moving in together. Tomorrow! How could he do this to me? Why would he? She scrubbed her face, hopelessly smearing the make-up. Choking back sobs, she wet her bundle of toilet paper and tried again. She tried desperately to think of what she could have done wrong, what problems had wormed into what she'd thought of as a steady relationship.
After a while, footsteps approached. Her father stood quietly for a moment, then said gravely, "I think these tickets are unlucky."
Annoyed, Christine did not reply.
He tried again. "Why don't you change into something else, and I'll go get us some ice cream."
"No." It came out more a croak than a word, and she repeated herself. "No, I don't. . . ."
"Okay." A long and uncomfortable silence descended, broken by the occasional sound of strangled breathing. Christine hung her head, sniffling and wishing for the ambiguous, maternal figure her own mother had not been.
"I just don't understand!" She clenched the wad of tissue. "What did I do wrong?"
"I'm sure it wasn't you," her father said quickly. She didn't say anything more, and minutes passed in slow tension. Behind Christine, her father shuffled his feet. "How about I order us a pizza, and we can--"
"No, Dad." She blew her nose again, and tossed it carelessly. She was not in any mood to spend the evening tolerating forced cheer. "Look, why don't you go to the concert? Take Mrs. Kemple, or something."
"I don't want to leave you by yourself."
"I'll be fine. I just want . . . I want to be by myself."
"I don't--"
"Look, either you can go to the concert, or I can go shut myself in my room like when I was five. I want to be alone!" She threw the tissues into a corner, weeping.
Her father stood awkwardly for a minute more, then backed away from the bathroom. "If you're really sure that's what you want."
"It is. I'm sorry, but it is."
He came foreword to pat her shoulder, hesitantly. "Okay. . . . Okay. Your mother always liked to be by herself, too." He paused. "But if you ask me, Seth is an idiot. You're better off without him."
She waved a hand for him to leave, irritated. "Please, just--"
He left. Christine sat down on the edge of the bathtub, face in her hands.
