Disclaimer: This story is based on a hodge podge of Phantom storylines and characters, mainly ALW, Kay, and bits of Leroux tossed in here and there for some wicked fun. I love all of them, own none of them. As barefoot advocat put it, the mythological characters portrayed in this chapter were created by a civilization long dead, so they can't sue me:)
Side Notes:
Readers and reviewers –I absolutely love your reviews and posts, but please do not give any secrets away when writing them. Don't want to ruin any surprises for first-time readers! You all have been so wonderful, thus far :)
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions and wonderful eye for catching mistakes – you are the best:)
The Elysian Fields
"By thee, thee alone, Euridice,
can all the sorrow from my stricken soul
be banish'd…"
Orfeo ed Euridice
Madame the Comtesse de Chagny alighted from the cab and weaved through the glitzy opera patrons mingling about at the base of the south stairs. The sunshine that had earlier warmed the day was now gone, and its absence left a bitter chill in the cold night air. Christine, having no desire to linger any longer than necessary amongst the opera crowd, made her was up the stairs and quickly slipped through the doors.
The girl glanced down at her clothing, a tad embarrassed at her state of dress. While most of the stylish young ladies swirled about her in a bright sea of colors that were all the rage of the day—deep scarlet, peacock blue, mandarin, sea green, purple—Christine was confined to the much duller charcoals and grays of mourning that society dictated.
When the young widow came to London, she hadn't even anticipated taking tea with her neighbors, let alone nights at the opera. So in the few hours before the performance of Orfeo ed Euridice was to begin, she and Papi had scrambled about her room, frantically working their way through her unvarying mourning wardrobe, seeking anything that might be suitable for an evening amongst the society of London. At last, they settled on a fine, understated dress of velvet dark silver elegantly draped over a black taffeta skirt, brocaded and beaded with bits of jet. With luck, she had retained her chenille fringed opera dolman, fan, and gloves, as she had been unable to part with them for sentimental reasons. So in this respect, she somewhat managed to follow the dictates of fashion, despite the lack of an opera dress.
Sighing, the Comtesse quickly made her way through the great porches, up the grand staircase, and along the galleries surrounding the auditorium. Careful to avoid the possibility of having to converse with the opera patrons, she wandered along the empty halls until she found her box range. Her heart began to thump wildly in her breast at the possibility that her angel might be just beyond the thick red curtain of box five, neat and impeccable in his crisp evening wear. She timidly parted the drape to peek into the box…
He was not there.
Slightly dejected, the young woman slid through the curtain into the seclusion of her box and sauntered over to the edge to take in the lovely Royal Albert Hall. A contemporary of the Palais Garnier, the concert hall lacked the ornate and elaborate décor of the Paris opera, but more than made up for it with solid British regality. She studied the great circular auditorium, skimming along the other boxes directly across from hers. Her eyes followed the barely visible forms of patrons moving from one group to the other, enjoying light tête-à-tête before the curtain rose.
After several minutes of observing her fellow audience members, the Comtesse seated herself in her chair, distributing the folds of her skirt gracefully about her, smoothing out any wrinkles in the soft sheen of the material. She straightened her shoulders, patted her curls once again to ensure that they were all still in place, and lightly folded her hands in her lap across her fan, giving the impression of a serene woman patiently awaiting her companion. In fact, the girl's insides were a bundle of nerves, as anticipation swept over her; every slight noise would send her eyes darting to the curtained doorway. Sometimes she found herself intently focusing on the heavy gold cords of the drapes, watching for their slight movement, or a white, gloved hand to push them away.
How much time had passed – ten, twenty minutes? Most of the audience was seated by now, and the remaining few were making their way through the galleries to their groups. The orchestra had been playing odd notes and pitches for a while, tuning their instruments to perfection. Yet alone Christine sat, her errant teacher still missing from her side. And then the lights began to lower and the noise of the orchestra faded away. Her eyes clouded in desolation.
He shall not come…she thought with misery, chiding herself for her wretched daydreams. How she had hoped to rise gracefully to greet him, hold her hand out for his as he seated himself next to her. He would not let go of her fingers as the opera would commence, and they would once again lose themselves to the music…The overture floated about the hall, the sweet strains bringing a lump to her throat, and a few unbidden tears trickled down her now reddened cheeks. She sniffed delicately and rustled through her clutch for something to wipe away the wetness on her face. Of course, tonight would have to be the night that she forgot to carry a handkerchief. She leaned heavily against her hand, trying to hide her tears from the empty box, her elbow propped precariously on the arm of the chair. A few more drops fell from her eyes, and she angrily wiped at them with her gloved hand. A flash of white caught her attention, and her eyes swiftly flew up to the bit of cloth only inches from her face.
"Why is it you never seem to have a handkerchief on your person when you are in need of one?" the soft, smooth voice questioned, a hint of laughter threaded into its silkiness. Christine looked up and beheld the tall, elegant form of her angel bending slightly over her, the corner of his mouth twitching in what could only be construed as amusement. She sighed in relief and slowly reached up to accept the handkerchief from his proffered hand, her fingers lightly brushing against his. She dabbed at her eyes, the flush from her tears now flooding her entire face, embarrassed that he had caught her quietly sobbing at his absence.
"Forgive me, the story was so moving…" she began weakly, but fell silent as she realized with further mortification that the overture had not yet ended.
Erik, however, mercifully said nothing about her faux pas. Instead, he swung his opera cloak from his shoulders and moved to take his place at the chair next to his pink-faced companion. Leaning forward in silence, he studied the architecture and design of the large performance hall, eyes sweeping across the gallery, the boxes, and up to the ceiling. After several minutes, he nodded in appreciation of the structure, and settled back into his seat.
"I must apologize for my delay, Christine," he whispered as he inclined towards her, his face still turned to the stage. "You know my tendency to avoid...mingling in society. I prefer to sidestep it, if possible. So I could either have arrived very early, or slightly late. And as I had several tasks to complete…" He held his hand out in explanation as he turned his face to hers, hoping that she would understand that the apology was not only for tardiness this evening.
Erik saw that her tears had dried, and she was instead wringing his handkerchief about her fingers in an anxious fashion. At last, a small smile played at his lips, and he slowly reached his hand out to the fidgeting one in her lap. He wrapped his long, thin fingers about hers, ably calming her nerves and soothing her ruffled pride.
And so the curtain rose, and the ancient story of the undying love of Orpheus and Eurydice began.
Eurydice's corpse lays limp and beautiful upon her stone resting place. Her husband, Orpheus, puts his hands to his face in utter agony and throws himself at her feet.
"Weeping sorely I stray,
Mourning her pass'd away
I, left here lonely;
I call her sweet name,
Echo repeats the same
Kind Echo only…"
Mourners slowly wander about the bleak, boulder-filled stage strewing flowers, echoing Orpheus' grief. Male and female dancers hurl themselves against each other in a rapid dance of anguish. While all are silently consumed at her loss, Eurydice's spirit departs with a whisper of song.
Christine's fingers balled into a fist under Erik's warm palm as the funeral scene played out, and he knew that she was thinking of another funeral, not six months past. He glanced over at her face and saw her delicate lips tremble slightly in a valiant effort to push back the tears that once again threatened to surface. Silently, he cursed himself for picking this particular opera, realizing belatedly that the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice's undying love was perhaps not the best choice under the circumstances.
When he had acquired the tickets the previous day, Orfeo ed Euridice, while a rather dull, simple piece of work in his opinion, seemed immensely preferable to the Gilbert and Sullivan rubbish that had taken London by storm. That was, in fact, why the Royal Albert Hall was presenting an opera at all – something they normally did not do—to offer an alternative to the light farce, Iolanthe, that was currently playing at the Savoy.
As the story of Orpheus and Eurydice unfolded, however, the tension in Christine's fist slowly drained away, and her fingers eased under the security of her angel's hand. She turned her palm up to press against the soft white of his glove, and gently entwined her hand with his.
Surprised at this small gesture, Erik felt a knot of restraint loosen, and his chest suddenly ached with longing for her. And then Orpheus' hope and pain no longer remained detached upon the stage, but combined with the man's seated in the box. The husband's impassioned words touched at some part of Erik that he had suppressed for four long years, and every fear and yearning sung throughout the hall echoed his suffering.
The goddess Amor, moved by the sad scene before her, gives the tormented husband permission to descend into Hades and lead his wife back from the dead. There is, however, one condition:
Orpheus must not turn his glance to Eurydice, nor offer an explanation for his behavior, or Eurydice shall be lost to him forever.
"Farewell, my sighs,
my desires give me hope:
for her I will suffer all things
and brave any pain or danger.
From the dark shores I shall
set sail on the Stygian flow
and the dread Tartarus'
Furies shall I overcome.
For her I shall dare all
and challenge all comers."
Erik silently echoed the words. For her, I will suffer all things. Once again, he remembered his words to Christine in Paris during his illness. She had not understood the reasons for his coldness then. How could she possibly hope to fathom it now, with him at her side in London?
With exquisite pleading, Orpheus bravely confronts the spirits of Hades as writhing souls bash against the rocks all about him, screaming out to him the terrors and sorrow of the netherworld. But Orpheus, in his determination to find his beloved, cries that no torment hell offers can equal the fire of his ardent love:
"Ah, if ye could but feel the fire that burns within me,
Could ye but know what longing glows within my breast!
Once more to call her mine, my beloved, my sweet one—
Give her back, give her back to me…"
Erik felt a light movement from the soft hand beneath his. Delicate fingertips slowly traced a path along the crease of his gloved palm. He sucked in his breath, his heart beating wildly against the confines of his chest. Just a touch—a simple, innocent touch, and she shall once more drive me mad with need for her, he thought in amazement.
Oh Christine, my Eurydice, I can lead you from Hades, away from these madmen that hunt you, that would rip you to pieces—this I shall do for you. But do not ask for my love… Do not desire to dwell in the darkness with me, my beloved angel. You do not belong here…
How strange, thought Christine, that simple words can never quite convey the thoughts and feelings our very beings ache to express. But when the words are spoken through song, we listen and speak in a language we both understand, that never ceases to prevail.
She turned her eyes to her angel's profile, silently studying the intricate details of the exposed side of his face, now impassioned by the sway of the music flowing through him.
He never seems to age, like an immortal god, the woman mused. And yet, as she looked more closely, she could see the telltale crinkles here and there that had not existed four years ago. Soft lines were etched about the corners of his sensitive mouth and eyes; light streaks on his forehead betrayed many a night furrowed in concentration. To the observant eye, it was plain that the wrinkles were not created by laughter, but by pain. How she longed to wipe away the lines of sadness from his face, to ease the fire that raged within him yet.
And his eyes – oh, how they still flashed with such raw anger and bitterness…and passion.
Turn your eyes upon me, Erik, she silently pleaded. Let me see the love and anguish in them, the mirror to your soul. How I long for your glance…
The lovers' voices—Orpheus and Eurydice's—rise in a sorrowful, anguished duet that fills the very bowels of Hades. Eurydice vehemently accuses an apparently unfeeling Orpheus of not loving her. Her lover, however, can only deny the claim in order to lead her from the Elysian Fields; and so she does not understand why he will not look at her…
Christine's inmost heart told her that he had heard her plea, as an almost imperceptible glint sparked in his burning gold eyes. And then the cool mask once again fell into place; all fervor that the music had drawn into his features, now erased. He deftly slid his hand away from her warm fingers and let it rest in his lap.
And Eurydice sang on:
"But with thy hand, thou claspest mine no longer!
What—thou turnest away, and will not meet mine eyes?
Thy heart—and is it cold, now that we have met once more?"
Christine searched his face for any revealing sign of sentiment.
Erik, do not deny me, I beg of you, she entreated mutely, as Eurydice's pleas to Orpheus resounded through the great hall. Only one look, and I shall be content just to know that you still love me, as you did before.
The man's jaw shifted ever so slightly in defiance, but it was all the verification that Christine needed.
"Erik," she murmured.
And as his eyes at last snapped about to face hers, she rejoiced to see that they were indeed filled to the brim with love for her. The girl gloried in her triumph over him—her teacher, her angel had submitted to her will at last!
The pleasure of her conquest, however, was short-lived. For as she was once again pulled into the depths of Erik's hard, glittering eyes, she saw in them not the expected passionate anger, but an overwhelming wretchedness. She quickly broke from his sad gaze to turn her eyes back to the lovers on the stage, watching grimly as the ill-fated Eurydice collapsed, dead, in her lover's arms. And Christine couldn't help but construe that in her own personal victory, she had somehow lost.
Damn this insatiable prying of yours, Christine!
Erik studied the woman's ashen face and trembling hands, harshly cursing himself for yet again allowing her hopes soar, then crushing them under his foot. Suddenly, the opera and the fate of Orpheus and Eurydice no longer held any interest for him; he had no desire to stay and listen to the husband wax philosophically about love and loss. He could sense that Christine longed to somehow escape the sad scene as well. Brusquely taking her hand, Erik swiftly pulled her to her feet, grabbed their cloaks and his hat, and strode out of the curtained box into the hallway.
The young woman stumbled along behind him, struggling to maintain her balance as her shoes tangled in the black fabric of her skirts. She began to fall, but the man's strong arms came about her waist to steady her, all the while maintaining his rapid pace down the passage.
"But… the end of the opera…" the Comtesse called desperately, anything to draw the fleeing man's attention.
"Yes, we are not exactly reputed for finishing operas, are we?" he cynically tossed over his shoulder, still moving quickly through the halls. "You already know how it ends, Christine. Orpheus, in his despair, tries to kill himself. It should have been left at that, but Amor intervenes, and so we have the warm, fairy tale ending that all young ladies desire. Unfortunately, real life does not afford us such perfect solutions, does it?"
They rounded the corner into a dimly lit hall of the gallery, and he halted suddenly, sending an indignant Christine flying out in front of him. Anger rose up in her at his cold abruptness, and she whirled to face him, her chest heaving from the exertion.
"Why did you come to London—" she questioned heatedly. Or rather, began to question. For in that moment, all speech was silenced as Erik, in a single elegant motion, pulled her tightly to him, one hand digging into the small of her back, the other firmly ensconced in her soft, dark curls. His mouth came down upon hers with all the force of his earlier words, his lips bruising in his intense longing. Christine closed her eyes at the flood of sensation that welled up within her, stopping the breath in her throat.
A long, thin finger traced the length of her spine, causing her knees to go weak with one deft stroke. His mouth slowly moved to her ear, his breath warm and tantalizing.
"Four years, Christine," he murmured, his voice low and throaty, all smoothness gone. "I have thought of nothing else, but this."
Erik raised his blazing gold eyes to hers, yearning to see his passion mirrored there. What he glimpsed satisfied him immensely, and he again lowered his lips to hers, this time gently brushing them with a soft kiss. His hand at the back of her neck stole around to caress her cheek, and once more buried itself in the curls framing her face.
"Erik—" she moaned, but he put a finger to her lips, and continued.
"Four years…" he repeated, his voice breaking at the last word. "This obsession I harbor for you nearly drove me to complete and utter insanity—and I was already half mad with love for you. It was better for you to leave with that boy—"
A gruff "hmpf" sounded down the hallway, and the couple's eyes flew up to behold a stuffy matron, paused in mid-stride. She shot an icy glare towards them, her cool eyes sweeping over the black mourning clothes of the young widow. In a shocked manner, she tilted her chin up and waited in the most dignified way possible for the two to separate and leave the gallery.
Erik's eyes glazed over in a mocking manner, his mouth drawing up in a sneer. He deliberately lowered his mouth to the hollow of Christine's jaw, careful that the indignant woman would catch a full view of his white mask.
The dowdy matron's face paled at the sight, and her eyes widened with distress. Ever so slowly, she backed to the wall and around the corner again, as if she had just witnessed the devil himself preying upon a fallen angel. Erik could hear the soft, brisk clicking of her heels as she swiftly retreated back from whence she came. He sighed and pulled away from his beloved, vaguely aware of her arms dropping back to her sides.
The masked man bent to retrieve his cloak and hat that had at some point been tossed to the floor, then handed Christine her dolman. He gently took her fingers, placed them in the crook of his arm, and leisurely meandered down the gallery, his gloved hand resting upon hers, all resentment now released from his body. She fell into pace at his side, her shoulders gently shaking in merriment at the woman's scandalized demeanor.
"Alas," the Comtesse lamented, "I am now a brazen woman in the eyes of London society! Really, Erik, that was very cruel of you." She squeezed his arm lightly, encouraging him to play along. He instead respectfully patted her hand, then nimbly raised it to his lips and placed a soft kiss in her palm. Christine waited patiently for him to continue his earlier train of thought, before they had been interrupted. She soon realized with regret, though, that the moment had passed.
The pair leisurely continued on, pausing now and again to glance out the windows into the cold winter night of Hyde Park, wordlessly enjoying each other's companionship. Erik's thoughts flew back to the amusement he had felt earlier that day as he had watched the young woman and her son scamper about the park. Once again, he was staggered by the idea that his beloved Christine was a little mother. A smile teased his lips. She is barely a child herself, he mused, shaking his head.
"Tell me of your boy," he murmured softly, his eyes glancing down to hers in encouragement.
Christine's face lightened as she saw that her angel was now in good humor, and was interested to hear of her child. She stood straightly and smiled back, raising a finger to her lips in thought.
"His name is Jean-Paul, and he just turned two this past September. He's a little small for his age—I had a rather difficult time with him, and he was born early—but he's such a little sprite! Hair dark and curly, big blue eyes that are just brimming with wonder at everything—but I suppose you know that already. And he is so curious!" She had broken away from him now, and was waving her hands as she described her little one, her eyes aglow with joy. Erik remembered her son's eyes well—they are very much like hers, he thought with pleasure. He nodded for her to continue.
"Jean-Paul toddles about all day long, wearing out his poor Maman and his nurse, Papi, and gets into everything within reach that his curious little eyes takes a fancy to: knick knacks, paper, bugs, jewelry, anything that sparkles and shines, really. And, of course, my toiletries." She smiled brilliantly as she considered her son, her entire being radiating with love for the boy.
Erik reeled as all air was suddenly knocked from his body by the force of her beauty. Mon Dieu, he had never seen her as stunning as she was now, her eyes bright, face rosy at the mere thought of her child; not even when she had sang for him was she ever brimming with such joy. He could only nod at her words, committing the memory to his mind.
"And the piano! He loves to reach his little hands up to the keys, and pound them until Papi cannot stand the sound of it anymore, and shoos him away." Christine paused, slightly scowling, sucking in her lower lip. "I suppose he will be a musician – he loves music so. Though, forgive me, I have not encouraged it; I have been very selfish in this aspect." She paused for a moment, looking up to her maestro for his reaction at her words.
"Why deny your son the thing you treasure so, Christine?" he whispered softly, searching her face for answers to a much, much deeper question.
"I suppose it is because I had lost my muse," she sighed, sad eyes meeting her angel's in response. "And foolishly, in my grief, I did not see how much my little boy needed a muse of his own." Her face fell as she reflected on her failure, and she breathed deeply in conviction. "But now… I swear that I will give him all the music that is in me."
Erik nodded in approval, and bent to place a light kiss on her temple. A question that had come upon him several weeks earlier, during his illness, suddenly surfaced again. Halting in their stroll, he turned to speak to her.
"Christine," he asked, questioning eyes searching hers, "why did you tell me so little of your son earlier, in Paris—not even his name?"
She exhaled heavily, the lines of sorrow in her face deepening. "I suppose I kept it to myself because I was unsure of how you would respond; you were very ill and angry at the time. And I know how you…disliked Raoul, so I thought that perhaps you would not react well to the idea of my having his child. Your temper can be so unpredictable…"
Christine hesitated, unsure of whether she should explain any further. Her angel's face had fallen visibly at her last words, and he had turned his face back to the window. Mustering her courage, she continued on.
"Erik, you must understand that I loved Raoul—I can't pretend that there was nothing between us, otherwise I would not have married him. At the time, he was the best person for a child such as myself—he gave me the solidity that I so craved. I would have given anything to avoid being overwhelmed by feelings I did not understand, so I wouldn't have to decide…" she paused again, seeing that for her sake, he was desperately fighting to push back the bile that rose in his throat at the pain of her words.
"But now?" he whispered hoarsely, clinging to her every word as though he clung to a great cliff; afraid that once more, she would send him tumbling over the edge into bleakness, and at the same time hoping that she would raise him up in ecstasy.
Christine made no reply as she cautiously sorted through her thoughts.
"Do you still mourn for him, Christine?" he questioned with care, afraid of what the answer would be.
"I do miss him terribly, yes. But as to true grief…well, I am learning to put that behind me." She looked up at him with eyes full of hope, fear,…and yes, even love.
Erik sighed with relief and grasped her hand, once again raising it to his lips. He slowly led her to the edge of the gallery, and down the grand staircase. The low rumble of voices floated through the hall and gradually became louder. He realized with a start that the opera was over, and he had not even imparted to her what he had originally planned to that evening.
"Come," he whispered. "Let us walk for a bit in the park."
"The air is rather chilly," she said apprehensively, following him down the last few steps of the staircase and into the foyer of the hall.
"We shan't be long, I promise you. What I have to tell you should not be overheard." Erik lifted the dolman draped over her arm, and held it for her as she slipped her arms into the wide sleeves. He pulled the heavy material securely about her shoulders, then swept his own cloak about him, clasping it at his throat. Donning his hat, he gracefully led her through the door and into the cold night.
The pair immediately felt the frigid breeze push into them, and their breath became frosty, opaque puffs as they exhaled against the icy air of nighttime. Erik took the young woman's hand in his as they strolled down the gravel path that circled the hall, crossed Kensington Gore, and ran along the edge of Hyde Park. Not wanting to venture any further into the darkness of the trees, Christine stopped at the entrance gate, and turned to face her teacher.
"I can't imagine that anyone would find us here." She tried to laugh lightly, but her teeth clenched against the cold, causing her voice to sound pinched and nervous.
Erik stepped closer to her and gently pushed back a stray curl from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.
"Christine, earlier you asked why I came to London. In spite of my words to the contrary, I have been rather busy in Paris since you left. And I believe that I have uncovered the identity of the people who are following you."
The Comtesse started at his words, and all color drained from her face, despite the sting of the wind.
"Tell me," she whispered breathlessly, the fear in her voice evident.
"The Narodnaya Volya," Erik uttered the words with loathing, his eyes boring into hers, waiting for her reaction. She stared up at him blankly, her confusion written across her face.
Sighing heavily, he whirled away from her to wipe away his incredulity and regain some semblance of composure in his features. Does not one person of the French aristocracy follow the happenings in other countries?
"Narodnaya Volya, or the People's Will, is the revolutionary group that tossed the bomb into Tsar Alexander II's carriage, blowing him to pieces. Oh, they were peaceful enough in the beginning, encouraging the people of Russia to rally as one against tsarist rule. But I believe they grew rather impatient with the slow process of change, and turned to less…savory tactics to achieve what they wanted—public executions, death threats, the likes—"
Erik paused in his explanation as Christine's eyes widened with fright. He could see that her mind was reeling from his words, causing her legs to fail her, so he grasped hold of her shoulders, forcing her eyes to meet his. Her hands flew up to his elbows to steady herself.
"Better?" he asked gently, his eyes searching hers. She silently nodded, and he continued on in a smoother tone.
"Their threats didn't work, however, because instead of being frightened into submission, Alexander III clamped down even harder. His regime counterattacked, stifling the revolution before it claimed his life as well. More than 2,000 People's Will revolutionaries went to trial, which caused them to lose the support of the masses. Are you following me thus far, Christine?"
She nodded, at last finding her voice. "I don't understand," she muttered, her voice cracking in her shock. "What could they possibly want with me?"
"That is what we need to find out. You see, the People's Will has realigned itself in Paris, and has been desperately struggling to gain power again. This makes them all the more dangerous—which was why they are being so closely watched by the Sûreté. And according to those malicious little notes they were sending you, you seem to have, or know, something that would harm their movement."
"But I don't know anything, I swear," she whispered, her lips white and trembling. "Thank God they can't find us! I don't know what I should do if—"
"Christine," Erik interrupted brusquely, deciding that bluntness was the best way to make her truly understand the danger she was in. "They already know you are in London! Don't you see, that is why I am here? Your fool of an avocat opened a bank account for you, and sent letters to this solicitor—"
The ashen woman began to sway again, breathing heavily at his words. Erik felt her knees begin to slide out from under her, and he quickly wrapped an arm about her waist to keep her from crumbling to the ground. In shock, she stiffened in his embrace as the impact of his words flooded into her mind. A low moan escaped her lips as she suddenly thought of her little boy, and she harshly pushed against the man, flinging herself away from him.
"Jean-Paul! He is at home, and they don't know—oh God, no one knows that they have found us. Why did you take me away from there? They are all alone—" her cries of despair broke off as she sprinted down the path back to the concert hall. Erik fell into step behind her, and picked up his pace until he was just at her elbow. He reached out and grasped her arm, pulling her to an abrupt stop to halt her flight. She struggled wildly against him, but his hands firmly held her shoulders.
"Look at me," he ordered, his gold eyes searching the mother's frantic face. Christine's eyes rose to meet his, hers still wide and panicked in her terror. "I would never put your child in danger. Trust me, they are well taken care of."
Christine looked up at him questioningly; a glazed expression still suffused her face.
"There are two men secretly guarding your residence—they have been for several days now—members of the Sûreté. I think you will find that for this evening, your son is quite safe."
"The Sûreté?" The woman retorted dryly. "I told you, Erik, they did nothing to help me in Paris. Why should I trust my son to them, now?"
"I think you will find that they have become much more cooperative, now that they know who has been threatening you. I believe they finally understand that you truly need assistance, and that you are not, in fact, a disturbed diva hell-bent on ruining every opera she comes in contact with." The amusement in Erik's lilting voice gently soothed Christine's raw nerves, and slowly, a weak smile played at her lips. Erik sighed with relief, and continued their walk back to the Royal Albert Hall. Taking up her hand once again, he placed it in the crook of his arm, content with how well it fit there.
"Tomorrow," he began calmly, "quietly pack your things—not much. For when I come for you tomorrow night, you and your family shall move to my home here in London. It won't be long before the Narodnaya Volya finds your avocat's foolish solicitor, and he gives them your address. It's best to leave quickly, before that happens."
The Comtesse nodded at his words, a sad expression crossing her face as she reflected over the obliteration of her newfound, peaceful existence. An icy gust of wind blew across the open yard, sending a shiver up her spine, chilling her to the bone. She pulled her cloak more tightly about her, and quickened her pace to Kensington Gore, her eyes skimming the road for a hansom.
Erik halted in his stride, pulling her back to him, and put a finger delicately under her chin. Her eyes lifted to meet the warm gold of his, speaking lowly.
"No more sad thoughts, now, my angel. Tonight, you shall be safe—I won't be far away."
Note: Thank you to the reviewers– I am glad that you have been pulled in to the story! Please feel free to read and review again. I promise to listen to all feedback, both good and bad
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