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, except for that fabulous duo, Hale and Murray!
Side Notes:
Some readers did not receive their author alert for Chapter 15. If you have not read that chapter, you may want to before you read this one :)
Thanks beta barefoot advocat for your suggestions…my wonderful muse! Again, thank you for not caving to the pressures to reveal my most secret of plot secrets :)
Thank you also to Juni, for her suggestions and help with the NHM research. You are a peach!
Lessons in Cursing
"The boy seems to enjoy it up here." Christine spun around at the sound of her angel's voice, a smile spreading across her face. Ever since Norry had returned from his lengthy conversation with news of Erik, she had anxiously awaited his visit, flying about her quarters in a whirl of bath oils and soaps, struggling to clean away the layers of flour from her unfortunate baking experience.
"Yes, but I am afraid that poor Mr. Punch shall be hatless before long," she laughed nervously. The mother turned back to her child and gently grabbed his fist, pulled him back from the sour-faced puppet, and whispered a small warning into his ear. Jean-Paul jerked his arm away from his mother's grasp and toddled over to the strange man, peering up into his face with unabashed interest.
The man, irritated by the child's scrutinizing gaze, turned away and walked past him to the window. A glowing panorama of the London skyline greeted him, the city's lights twinkling through the cold, black night. He leaned against the window's brightly painted frame and sighed, keeping his back to the other occupants of the nursery.
"Christine, I actually have a specific reason for wishing to speak with you." He pulled a thin book from under his arm and flipped it open. Scanning the black scrawl of each entry once more, he beckoned the woman to his side.
She peered around his shoulder with unconcealed curiosity at the writing and with a start, recognized the records for all of her purchases, from her wedding trousseau to her black mourning clothes. Many were frivolous and expensive, to her chagrin.
"Why, this is my bank ledger!" The Comtesse paused in confusion, puzzling over how Erik came to be in possession of an item that should have been locked in the vaults of the Banque Nationale de Paris. "How did you—"
"Acquire it?" Erik finished. "With a great deal of care, and very little time in which to do so." He glanced over his shoulder at the woman's lost expression and frowned, not wishing to add burglary and thievery to his list of confessions. "However, this account seems to have funded more than just your domestic drivel, my dear." He pointed out the various entries that perplexed him.
20,000 francs, paid in full to C. Daaé: transfer to Ceska Obchodni Banka, Praha, Bohemia
"There are thirty-eight similar monthly transfers to one C. Daaé in Prague, from the time of your marriage to your husband's death this past June." He handed the book to the widow and she flipped through the pages of the ledger, her confusion at his words evident. "Can you shed any light on this, Christine? Why was he using your maiden name for a bank account in Prague—to diversify his funds, use it for estate business? Or for some other purpose…" He tentatively placed his hands on the woman's shoulders and turned her to meet his eyes.
"Christine," he spoke cautiously, "is it possible that your husband may have kept a—"
"No!" Christine cried, stopping the words before they left Erik's mouth. She wrenched from his grasp and turned cold eyes upon the man. "Whatever you may think of Raoul de Chagny," she spat, "he loved me, and only me. I can assure you, he would have had no reason to keep a mistress."
"Christine," Erik said with frustration, pushing back the flare of jealousy at her passionate defense of the deceased man, and the insinuation behind her stinging words. "I am not accusing him of doing so! I just want you to look at every angle—that is all. If you say he did not and are sure of it, then we can eliminate the possibility. However, since you seem to know nothing about the account in your name, then the boy must have had some secrets—you told me as much, yourself. It may be of some importance, or it may not."
The widow wrapped her arms around her waist and allowed the man's words to sink in. She absently studied the tiny buttons of his silk vest for several minutes, her thoughts far away. At last, she shook her head in response.
"No," she murmured, "I am certain that there was no one else, Erik." She sighed heavily, momentarily unsure of whether it was the appropriate time to unburden her heart upon the man. "I am sorry to have snapped so—you were to correct to have asked. You unknowingly hit upon a sensitive spot, I suppose. You see, while Raoul was faithful, I, regrettably, was not…"
Christine wearily leaned against the window frame opposite her teacher and raised guilty eyes to meet his wary ones. "In truth, I was the one who was unfaithful—not in body, but in mind. Even when I thought you to be dead, my angel, you still haunted me—your voice, your music—it called to my soul…"
Erik turned his face away, dreading the torment that her words would bring, cursing himself for being too weak to prevent her lips from uttering further secrets. She spoke on.
"How can a woman love two men at once? Isn't such a thing considered to be cruel and selfish?" Christine gazed upon the cold London night, distantly tracing the delicate lace patterns of frost on the windowpane. "Yet I never saw myself as such a woman until I observed the pain in your eyes, and in his. So I did the only thing I could do: I returned one of the hearts—broken, but nevertheless, again your own. That action alone, however, did not mean that I could forget; its not that simple, is it Erik?"
The masked man closed his eyes painfully, unwilling to be drawn into the beautiful tableau before him. He searched about for something, anything to grasp hold of, some lifeline to save a drowning man from the deadly torrents of memories and regret.
"Your M. Nitot gave me this list." Straightening his back in resolution, he dropped his cool mask of indifference into place and pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. Skimming over it again, he turned to the Comtesse, not daring to meet her sad blue eyes. "Figs, almonds, rock candy…clay santon figurines… coloring pencils and books…corset laces," his eyes briefly flicked up to Christine as she crossed her arms in wounded indignation, stunned by sudden change of topic.
He continued on, more to provoke the girl than to actually double-check the items. "Gardening gloves, two white gentleman's handkerchiefs…hair pins…" he flew down the list, his lips curling sardonically.
"And here is a gem—a handheld cream-separator. God knows we cannot do without one of those! Really Christine, I have other things to do tomorrow than traipse about London on a scavenger hunt for these items."
"Perhaps if you let Papi and I do the shopping tomorrow, you would not have to concern yourself with these items. We cannot stay cooped up here forever, Erik, or we shall go ma…" Christine tried to halt the poorly-chosen words before they flew from her mouth, but it was too late. She glanced nervously up at the man framed by the night sky, his face clouding dangerously.
"What do you want from me, Christine? An outing—is that what you desire?" he replied snidely. "Perhaps a holiday to Bath, then. It is rather cold this time of year, but if you wish it—"
The woman's hands flew up into the air, and she turned from the man in hurt exasperation. As the vehemence filtered out of her blood, however, her arms slowly lowered to her side and she hung her head, resigned to the fact that Erik's distant coldness had indeed returned.
Jean-Paul squealed and tossed a Noah's Ark giraffe across the room, demanding the notice of his Maman. Coming to her senses, the young mother purposefully strode over to her little son and spoke a few words into his ear.
"Enough of that, Jean-Paul. Go find Papi, and she shall give you a treat," she cajoled, then stood at the top of the stairs and watched her little son crawl down them one by one, his white bloomers peeping out from under his tunic, then dart through the door.
No, she thought solemnly, it would not be wise to allow him to hear the rest of this conversation. The mother turned back to her teacher, who was again glaring out the window.
"I suppose that I deserve your scorn," she began softly. "And you probably expect me to burst into tears any moment; I find, however, that I grow tired of crying over your words, Erik. The things that you confessed to me that day in the ballroom—at the time, it was just too much, too crushing. I couldn't feel anything except horror at your words. I suppose I still am afraid."
"Yes," the masked man spat, "I really must apologize for the way I kissed you, the things I insinuated; rather roguish of me. After all, we can't have your loveliness sullied—"
"That's not what I meant, Erik," the woman interjected, but he continued on, sarcasm infused into every word.
"Normally, when someone tells you that they are in love with you…but then again, you are far above normal, my dear. The opera tickets, roses, dresses, perfumes and other little gifts…all to sweep you off your feet so I could have my way with you. But you saw through it, clever girl. Truly, since I arrived in London, I have been entirely too unguarded. A man such as myself cannot afford to love—the risk is too great."
"I don't believe that simple seduction has been your intention," Christine replied calmly, shaking her head. "You are above that, my angel. However, I was not referring to romantic overtures; I was referring to the killings."
Erik paused for several moments, his shoulders slumping wearily. "I am well aware of what you were referring to, Christine," he said quietly. "That particular subject, though, is no longer open for discussion."
"But Norry told me that you were hurt," the girl rushed on, heedless of the man's displeased expression. "The man in Kensington—he attacked you?"
"Yes, he attacked me and I killed him," her angel at last relented, his aggravation rising again with every word. "Don't try to justify it, Christine. I can assure you, the vast majority of my killings were not in self-defense. As I said, however, this conversation is closed."
The Comtesse sucked in her trembling lower lip, her incense at the man's stubbornness taking its toll on her patience. She tried again, her voice steady. "As I was saying, Norry said that you were hurt. That was three weeks ago, Erik; the knife wound you are trying to hide is not healing properly, and will cause you a lot of trouble if a doctor does not see to it. At least add bandages and blue vitriol to the list for Hale—that is what Dr. Sablet had me use on my shoulder—"
"Your concern is touching," the man spat, ignoring her pleas to see a doctor. "As I told your prying caretaker, however, I am capable of caring for myself."
She opened her mouth to retort, but a faint, dissonant sound floating up the stairs caught her attention. Walking over to the staircase, she craned her neck, listening for the noise.
There it was…a strange, jarring chord, like…
Jean-Paul was pounding on Erik's piano again! With a cry, she flew down the stairs, through the hallways, down another set of steps, until she came to the ballroom. She had caught the child five times over the past weeks immersed in such behavior; each instance, he had received a scolding and had been shuffled out of the room before Erik could hear. But now, Erik's wrath seemed unavoidable, for there was her little boy, deviously banging his fists against the keys of the masked man's beloved instrument, laughing happily at the discordant harmonies hovering about the empty room.
Christine grabbed her wayward son's wrists away from the keys and gently shook them. "No, Jean-Paul! I have told you countless times, no pounding on the piano. If I find you in here again, there will be trouble!"
The indignant child squirmed out of his Maman's grasp, his rear plopping back onto the piano bench. His brow furrowed stubbornly and his lower lip began to tremble, the tell-tale signs of another tantrum coming on. The frazzled woman's eyes grew wide and she quickly scooped up the little boy before the wailing ensued.
"Please, mon petit, no tears!" She bounced him back and forth, desperately trying to soothe his temper.
"What that boy needs is a taste of discipline, not coddling," Erik snipped as he entered the ballroom behind her. "I suppose his father was never chastised, either. Really, Christine, you aren't doing him any favors." The mother lowered her son to the ground, then whirled about to face the sardonic man.
"That boy has a name, just as his father did," she flung back shrilly, her patience at last snapping. "And I'll not let you bully Jean-Paul just because you loathed Raoul. He is my child, as well!"
The masked man stepped back in surprise at the intense fervor radiating from the mother, a lioness protecting her cub. Ever so slowly, the shock drained away, once again leaving the man in control of his faculties.
"Do you suppose the fact that he is your child makes me feel any differently towards him?" he replied coolly. "The simple truth is that your 'discipline' seems to have no effect on him whatsoever." He stepped back to observe the effect of his stinging words; the woman's face clouded with some unfathomable look, and Erik immediately wished he could snatch back the remark.
As if to emphasize the man's point, Jean-Paul, who had once again crawled up onto the piano bench, brought his tiny fists down upon the keys with a loud cry.
"Merde!"
Christine opened her mouth in complete and utter shock, then closed it again. The stunned mother moved towards the boy, crouching down to his eye-level. "What did you say?" she whispered tremulously.
He gazed sweetly up at his Maman's ashen face and smiled, repeating the taboo word.
"Merde!"
"Mon Dieu," Erik murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement as he recalled his encounter with the boy during his inexorable composing. "He really does soak up everything."
The woman slowly rose from the ground and turned an accusing eye towards the man at her side. "And just where," she whispered, her voice low and threatening, "did my son learn that word?"
Erik raised his hands in defense, his eyes glistening. "My dear Madame, you cannot accuse me of teaching filth to your child, as I have neither seen nor spoken to him for three weeks."
Christine held his gaze for several moments, then nodded in assent, a half-hearted smile playing at her lips. "I suppose it would be rather funny, if not for the fact that you were correct just minutes ago. I do have a very difficult time dealing with my son, especially since I am his only parent." Her voice broke, and she turned her eyes away from Erik's, uncomfortable with the sudden flare of pity she saw there.
The young mother walked over to the boy and placed her hands over his ears—she knew that her child often understood much more than she gave him credit for. "Jean-Paul is very stubborn, and he often pushes and pushes until he wears me down. He knows that he can—call it a battle of wills, if you like. However, I will do my best to keep him away from your piano, Erik."
And indeed, that particular situation never occurred again, thus negating the need to pry the child's fists from the piano. The truth of it was, however, that the little boy entirely ceased to destructively pound upon the black and white keys after that evening.
Later that night, after the rest of the household was in bed, Christine found that sleep once again eluded her. The argument with Erik raced through her mind, and thoughts of being a failed mother plagued her ruthlessly. Grabbing up her blue shawl, she once again roamed the halls as she had done for so many nights, quietly making her way down the stairs towards the library. A dim glow coming from the ballroom, however, stopped her in her tracks. She crept forward as quietly as possible and paused in the shadows, just beyond the open door.
Someone was softly plunking the piano keys, one note at a time. A low, unintelligible murmur floated to her and she cautiously peered around the doorframe to observe its source. The sight that met her eyes caused the breath to catch in her throat, and she leaned back against the wall in disbelief. Her heart beating wildly within her, she put a hand to her chest to still her fluttering pulse. Inhaling deeply, she stole another glance.
There was her little son on the piano bench, his feet tucked underneath his nightshirt, fingers gently resting on the keys. He turned his innocent face up to the man also seated at the bench, and waited for him to speak.
"Very good, Jean-Paul," Erik whispered, quietly encouraging the boy. "Now, play the middle C once more. Do you remember which one it is?" The child solemnly nodded in response, turned to the C key, and gently pressed it down. His wide blue eyes quickly darted back to his instructor, seeking his approval. The masked man leaned forward, awkwardly patted his pupil's hand, then turned the boy to face him.
"I know that you are too young to understand this, Jean-Paul, but the sooner you learn, the better. Music must be treated with love and respect. If you thoughtlessly pound away at the piano keys, you demand too much of it and it will reject you. It is best to patiently wait for it to come to you, infuse you, lift you up." He glanced down at the child's upturned face, read the confusion there, and looked for a better way to phrase his words.
"What do you love, Jean-Paul?" The boy's face lit in comprehension, and he openly beamed up at the masked man.
"Maman!" he cried, unaware that his mother was brimming with joy just beyond the dark room.
Erik seriously considered the child's answer. "You don't like to make her sad, correct? Therefore, you should treat her with love and respect. It is the same with music. Can you understand that, Jean-Paul?"
"Yes," he answered softly, and his teacher nodded in approval.
"Very well, then, Monsieur—it is time for you to return to bed. And I believe that you shall find your Maman waiting for you just outside the door."
And it was then that Christine knew his words had been for her, and that she had been forgiven.
Hale tugged at his brown rumpled suit, trying without success to smooth out the wrinkles.
Ah well, he thought resignedly, it lends itself to the persona.
Tonight, he was a rather absentminded scholar—a museum curator, to be exact, complete with rimmed spectacles, trim goatee, a faded bowler hat, and a brass pocketwatch. Pulling the piece from his vest, he flipped open the tarnished cover and again checked the time. A quarter after five. The building had been closed for a good hour now, and the cleaning staff would be sure to vacate within the hour this Christmas Eve to return to their families and begin their celebrations. The only inhabitants would be the old guard who, according to Hale's careful instructions, would conveniently take a break at six o'clock while the agent and his guests entered the building.
The man paced about the library, his eyes scanning the collection of books, the paintings on the walls, the fireplace, then back to his watch again. Several minutes passed and he was just about to move back into the foyer when at last his host swept through the door.
"Hale, good evening. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I had several things to attend to before our departure," the masked man said crisply. "The Comtesse and her son shall be down momentarily." Erik laid his cloak and fedora across the back of the armchair and gestured to the crystal decanter in the corner, offering the agent a drink.
The man shook his head in refusal and instead pulled out a cigar, clipped and lit it, then puffed on the end to draw the flames up. Settling himself into the other armchair, he watched in silence as the masked man stirred up the fire and placed his gloved hand upon the mantle, studying the leaping orange and gold flames.
The agent lowered his cigar, slowly exhaling a ring of smoke. "I feel that I owe you an apology, Monsieur, for making the affair in Kensington infamous among the Sûreté circles; I am sure Nadir has informed you of this himself."
Erik nodded, his eyes not leaving the flames.
Hale cleared his throat uncertainly. "You must understand that I had no choice but to report the incident. I can assure you, however, that no one outside the agency knows of it—not even Scotland Yard." The agent watched with relief as the tension eased from the other man's posture, his back relaxing at the explanation.
"It is of no consequence," Erik replied, waving his hand in dismissal. "I suppose I should be the one to apologize for the trouble you have gone through to acquire everything on that list. Damned foolishness, most of it, but I suppose that Noël is rather important to Madame de Chagny." The masked man's face clouded as he remembered some event unknown to the agent and he turned back to the flames, the firelight deepening the contrasts and crags of his weary features.
"My housekeeper does the shopping, Monsieur, so it was no trouble on my account," Hale replied nonchalantly, filling the air about him with another cloud of cigar smoke. "The woman is a saint, really—always handles my requests without any prying questions. I have taken the liberty of leaving all of the items with your maid." He paused, his intelligent eyes narrowing as he considered the intimidating man.
"Tell me, Monsieur, does Madame the Comtesse know that you plan to leave London after the holidays?" The agent warily studied Erik's reactions, trying to piece together the events that had taken place in the three weeks since Kensington. After all, this man had gone to desperate lengths to come to London and to this particular woman's aid, so why should he desire to leave now?
Erik cast chilly eyes upon Hale, indignant at being watched so—as if he were a specimen to poke and prod. He held the Sûreté agent's steady gaze, then deciding that the man meant no harm by his question, relaxed his guarded demeanor. "I shall inform her of my plans this evening, Monsieur, at the museum. I thought that a spell away from the confines of this house would do both she and her son some good. And as you more than likely know, I have an interest in architecture. This particular building is one of a kind, so I have heard, and I would like to see it before I depart for Paris."
Hale nodded, reaching forward to tap the ashes from the tip of his cigar. "Well then, all is arranged; you and your guests shall have the entire building for as long as you like."
"And which building would that be?" a lilting voice called from the doorway, summoning the men's attention. Hale craned his neck around the armchair and leapt to his feet as he saw the Comtesse glide into the room, her child nestled in her arms with his thumb firmly ensconced in his mouth. "Forgive me for keeping you waiting. This little one just cannot seem to stay awake today." She cast a meaningful look towards the masked man, then pressed her lips to the top of the child's curly head and lowered him to the ground. She bent to finish buttoning his navy overcoat, her bustled velvet skirts spilling about her, the deep green color of her dress heightening the rosy hue of her cheeks and the rich brown of her curls.
Hale sucked in his breath and leaned his faltering form against the armchair, taken aback by the woman's loveliness. Stepping forward cautiously, he extended his hand to the lady and helped her to her feet. Bowing over her gloved hand, he lightly kissed it in greeting.
"Madame de Chagny, I have observed you from afar, but I do not believe we have properly met." The agent waited for Erik to step up and make the introductions, but only silence met him; it was then that he became aware of the cool manner in which the masked man was regarding him, his eyes fairly boring holes into the trespassing agent's back. Stepping away, Hale released the woman's fingers and cleared his throat, conceding to the other man's claim.
The Comtesse, however, did not notice the silent exchange that took place and smiled warmly at the man in the rumpled brown suit. "Monsieur Hale, I presume? I hear that I owe you a good deal of thanks, for I was told that you have seen to the safety of my household since our arrival in London. It is truly a pleasure to meet you."
The Sûreté agent cleared his throat again and scooped up his brown hat. "Well, yes. Likewise, Madame," he muttered and plopped the bowler on his head, smoothing the crushed brim back into place.
Erik cast one final menacing glance towards the man, swept his cape about his shoulders and donned his fedora, then helped Christine shrug into her cloak. She thanked him softly and took Jean-Paul's hand, leading the way into the foyer and out to Murray and the waiting cab.
"You asked which building we would be visiting, earlier," Erik at last spoke as he handed Christine into the cab.
A moment of panic seized the woman as a memory flashed through her mind; the last time Erik had handed her into a cab, he had left her behind to pursue the dangers that lurked in the shadows and had almost been killed in the process. She clasped his fingers for a moment, afraid to let go, but released them as the masked man's eyes silently questioned her. Waving away her momentary lapse, she reached out her arms for Jean-Paul. Only when the man climbed into the coach and settled himself next to Hale did she breathe a sigh of relief.
"The Natural History Museum—its not too far from here, in South Kensington," the man continued as the hansom sprang forward. "I thought that the bo—that Jean-Paul," he corrected, "would enjoy it. The structure was only completed several years ago, and is supposedly as fascinating as the collection itself. It is built in a German Romanesque style—the walls and ceilings are a colorful mosaic of bricks and terracotta carvings—really one of a kind."
Christine smiled gently at the man's enthusiasm, something that he very rarely allowed others to see. "Thank you for thinking of Jean-Paul, Erik. I am sure he shall be delighted with it." Her gaze fell to her son, who had buried his face in her lap and was now lightly drowsing. He is asleep now, she mused, but when he sees the animals on exhibit, it will be all I can do to keep up with him. Sighing with contentment, the mother stroked her son's hair as she watched the yellow windows of the Kensington houses fly past. The quiet of the cab allowed for her thoughts to roam, and she replayed the minor confrontation she had had with Erik not an hour ago…
Christine had been making the final touches to her appearance when Erik's reflection appeared just behind her image, resplendent in his crisp black and white evening wear. Smiling at him in her mirror, she tucked two more hairpins into her curls, patted them down, then turned to greet the man.
"Hale arrived ten minutes ago. Are you ready yet, Christine, or should I give you another ten minutes?" he remarked dryly, tugging his soft white gloves into place. The woman's smile remained plastered to her face as she lifted the lid from a dainty bottle of lavender perfume and dabbed the scent behind her ears, her trembling fingers betraying the nerves that consumed her entire person.
"Not quite," she replied sweetly, gathering up the small bundle of bandages and blue vitriol from Hale that Papi had just delivered. Sending a quick prayer to the heavens that she did not spark Erik's temper with her boldness, she drew a deep breath and let the words spill forth. "Before we leave, I would like to take care of that knife wound you insist is not bothering you. I promise I shall hurry." The nervous woman bit her lower lip, studying her teacher's face as it blanched.
"No," he replied hoarsely, after several moments had passed. "Absolutely not; it is fine. We should be on our way then—is Jean-Paul ready?"
Christine fixed determined eyes on the man. "He is still asleep in his room, but ready enough. I shall not leave until it is taken care of, Erik. Moreover," she continued, her cheeks flushing, "we have seen each other in various stages of…informality before, and it has never bothered you."
The masked man's eyebrows quirked up in surprise as she flung his very words back at him, and he smirked at her impertinence. "You shall not relent in this, I suppose, until you have had your way or I am in my grave?" The girl nodded, relief seeping into her body. Her maestro sighed and turned to remove his vest, carefully laying it across the bed. He then untucked his crisp, white shirt and lifted the corners to allow the Comtesse access to the knife wound.
"Very well, St. Elizabeth, my Hungarian nurse; I am at your mercy."
Christine grinned at his sarcasm and pulled the small bench from the dresser over to the man's side, seated herself, and arranged the bandages, cotton, and medicine next to her. Her grin rapidly faded, however, as she gingerly lifted the fabric of his shirt away and beheld the angry red wound, warm and swollen after three weeks of neglect. She sucked in her breath, soaked the cotton with the vitriol and pressed it to Erik's side, careful not to inflict any more pain. The man balled his fists, hissing through his teeth as the hydrate burned and fizzed.
"Merde," he breathed, and the Comtesse's face flew up at the utterance.
"Ah, so it was you then—you did teach my son that filthy word!" she exclaimed, trying to draw the man's attention away from her painful ministrations to the gash at his side. Pouring a bit more medicine on the cotton, she again pressed it to his side, wincing as his scarred torso involuntarily jerked at the fresh wave of pain. "I am sorry, my angel," she murmured as he threaded his white knuckles through his hair, exhaling in agony.
"Are you through with your torture, my dear?" he muttered through clenched teeth, barely managing to sustain a tight control over his voice. "Or should I call down to Hale to go on without us?"
Christine took up a strip of linen and again soaked it with the vitriol, pressed it to his side with one hand, and unwound a bandage roll with the other. "This is the last one. I'll leave it here and wrap the bandage around your waist, like so." She circled her arms about the man's rib cage, winding the linens around and around until the irritated knife wound was completely covered. Securing the end with a pin, she leaned back to examine her work.
"I should think that will hold for tonight," she murmured, studying the bandages solemnly. "But Erik, you should see a doctor with this as soon as possible. If the infection spreads, you know very well how deadly it could be." Her thoughts flew back to the fever that had ravished her angel's body only two months ago. "If you were to leave me, I don't know what I would do…"
The clattering of the slowing hansom cab upon the cobblestones of Cromwell Road pulled her into the present, and she peered through her window at the white looming beast that was Waterhouse's Natural History Museum. The towering spires of the main entrance reached up towards the night sky like two stoic sentinels guarding over all of Kensington. Just beyond the museum, the woman could see the Royal Albert Hall; she started, not realizing the buildings were so close to each other. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the evening she had spent with her angel, the pull of the music, their stroll about the grounds and his forceful kiss…
Murray hopped down from his cold perch and swung open the door, letting in a rush of frigid winter air. Jean-Paul stirred from his slumber in his Maman's lap and she pulled him into a sitting position to straighten his wool cap and mittens.
"Look, Jean-Paul," she murmured in his ear, nodding to the great building before them. "There are all sorts of things to see inside—giraffes, whales, insects, snakes, birds, squirrels—remember the little squirrel at the park?" The memory caused the little boy to squeal with delight; he slid down from his mother's lap and toddled to the door, holding out his arms to the masked man waiting outside.
Erik hesitated for a moment, then placed his hands under the child's arms and lifted him from the cab. He quickly set him down upon the cobblestones, keeping a tight hold on the boy's coat collar until Christine could alight from the coach and reclaim him.
Murmuring a thank you, the amused mother took up her little son's mittened hand and led him along the stone path to the arched entranceway, watching as Hale and Murray sprinted forward to unlock the massive double doors.
"You understand Christine," Erik quipped at her side, "that these particular squirrel specimens will be slightly less lively than then ones at the park. I hope your son is not disappointed."
"On the contrary, I think that he shall be pleased." The woman smiled warmly at the man, once again touched by his concern for her child. "Usually, any living animal scampers away from Jean-Paul and his cries of delight before he has the chance to observe them. I think that he shall enjoy the museum very much, as will I."
The man nodded in response, saying nothing more as they passed through the recessed arches of the building's entrance, set upon ornately embellished columns. Christine's breath caught in her throat at the glorious sight before her. A great hall with endless glass ceilings greeted her, the starry night sky filtering through the windows. All around, golds, greens, browns and blues swirled up the walls, pillars, and ceilings in a fascinating geometric imitation of nature—a stone garden of Eden. Terracotta animals peered through the carved foliage at her from their corners, and she could almost hear them chatter warnings to one another of their sanctuary's intrusion. Here and there, iron and glass lay exposed to the observer, lending a rustic functionality to the structure that strangely complimented the detailed beauty of the carvings. If ever a cathedral were erected to the glory of the natural world, this was it.
Voices echoed around her and the Comtesse shook herself from her reverie, glancing about for her companions. Hale and Murray were slowly making their way through the hall, apparently to track down the guard. On the other side of the gallery, Erik stood next to her tiny son, pointing through an archway as he explained something in detail. She strode closer to man and child until she was within earshot.
"…were great creatures that died out long ago—you won't find any today. No one is really certain what mammoths looked like, but we can guess from their skeletons…"
The Comtesse peered around the archway into the gallery just beyond and jumped back, startled by the massive set of bones displayed in the center of the dim room. She grasped the man's elbow at her side and he flinched in surprise. He did not, however, remove her hand from the crook of his arm.
"Do you think that Jean-Paul may be a little young to see something so…ghastly? It could frighten him…" Christine whispered hoarsely as they slowly made their way through the room. Erik smirked in amusement and lightly patted the worried mother's hand.
"I say that the only one frightened is you, my dear; your son is not phased in the least. Look at him—it will be all you can do to keep him from climbing up the thing." True to his words, Jean Paul was at that moment pulling himself onto the platform, his eyes locked on the mammoth skeleton suspended by cables, just above his head. With a little cry, the mother sprinted over to the child and scooped him up before any damage could be done.
Similar events occurred a good many times throughout the course of the evening as the trio made their way from gallery to gallery: Jean-Paul grasping the fur of displayed animals, ducking under railings, pressing his curious hands against the glass coverings of the insect displays, the fossil cases, even the jars of preserved sea organisms. As she had predicted, the frantic mother could barely keep pace with the little boy that had slept so soundly the entire day.
For an entire two hours, man and woman followed the elated toddler through the exhibits, only pausing to read labels and plaques when Jean-Paul stood next to them, his probing fingers determinedly reaching through the bars, not quite able to grasp the desired thing. Only when their visit was drawing to a close did the boy's energy at last seem to die away. Plopping down next to a pillar in the final exhibition room, the child groggily leaned his curly head against the cool stone.
His mother knelt to gently pick him up, smiling partly in enjoyment of the excursion, partly in relief that it was over. Her small boy once more nestled against her shoulder, she turned a slow circle about the gallery, gazing at her surroundings. This particular room seemed to have some sort of a Mid-east theme; the walls were lined with paintings depicting caravans of traders crossing vast deserts dotted with rocks and shrubs, their camels loaded with their goods. Others showed lush gardens with colorfully exotic plants and flowers, an oasis of water to the weary travelers.
The centerpiece of the room was a grouping of camels, their black glassy eyes staring at everything and nothing. An involuntary chill ran up the woman's spine and she shuddered as an ominous air settled about the room. She turned to her companion and saw that he also gazed intently at the camel display, his hands clasped behind him, back ramrod straight. And then the thought struck her that the foreboding feeling was not centered upon the camels, but the man himself. He turned to face her, and she saw that his eyes were ablaze with some inner turmoil, burning with unspoken words, threatening to consume him. He took another step forward, at last giving voice to the question that charged the air.
"Do you think that your son should like to see a real camel, perhaps even ride one?"
Christine blinked in shock, the words the farthest thing from the ones she had expected to hear. "Well, I suppose that he would, Erik," she sputtered, her blue eyes wide with confusion.
The man turned away from her and began to pace in front of the lifeless creatures.
"I only ask this because…" he paused and took a deep breath, searching for words that would not come. The Comtesse narrowed her eyes suspiciously, confused by her angel's behavior.
"Erik," she said cautiously, "what is this about? I must say that I have never seen you act so strangely. If you wish to tell me something, I cannot deny you. You may speak to me about anything—anything at all," she hinted, hoping against hope that perhaps he desired to repair their fragile understanding once and for all.
He sighed, his shoulders sagging. "Very well. However, I must warn you that you will not like what I have to say. I have received word from a friend of mine in Paris, who has been diligently making arrangements for the relocation of your family. He shall be arriving in London in three days' time, and shall subsequently move you and your household to Jerusalem. Thus, the inquiry about the camels."
Christine stilled at the man's words, her mouth gaping in mute shock. Several moments had passed until she was able to find her voice again, and even then, it was but a mere whisper. "Jerusalem? The Jerusalem? But…I don't…why there?"
"Precisely," Erik replied, further baffling the woman. "Why there? I doubt that the Narodnaya Volya would think to look for you in Palestine, at least not for a long while. Jerusalem is also the whereabouts of a man who Nadir believes may have answers to some of the questions regarding your husband's involvement with the People's Will. And when their search for you grows more reckless with each passing week, they will make mistakes; I shall be in Paris, watching for them."
"Nadir—who is…Paris? Erik, you plan to accompany us to Jerusalem, don't you?" An overwhelming panic took hold of the startled woman and her knees began to fail her, the color draining from her face. The masked man quickly took Jean-Paul from her arms and grasped her about the waist, helping her to a bench along the wall. Carefully lowering Jean-Paul into her arms again, he sat next to her and leaned forward as if in deep thought, his elbows resting upon his knees, hands clasped in front of him.
"Christine, I know that this is a shock for you, but you must understand," he said softly, weighing his words carefully. "I must return to Paris—I cannot remain locked away in the town house, evading you, or the truth, any longer."
"And what truth might that be?" she murmured softly, her shock gradually being replaced by the cruel reality of his words.
Erik kept his eyes upon the floor, not daring to look upon the woman. "The truth is that if I do not leave you now, I will never have the strength to again."
The statement hung in the air, the most honest, bluntest declaration of his inner struggles that the Comtesse had heard the man utter. The simplicity of it struck her to the heart; not because of what was said, but the way in which he had said it. No fury, no anguish, not even a hint of passion. Instead, the words had been spoken with a calmness of mind that spoke volumes; it told Christine that his decision was made, and no amount of pleading, weeping, or reasoning on her part could cause him to bend in the slightest.
She pressed a cold palm to her forehead and closed her eyes, willing away the wretched tears that threatened to spill over. What good would tears be, except to make a mockery of my composed demeanor and give my angel another reason to fly from my side? Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she forced herself to answer.
"You truly feel that you must leave, then?" she whispered hoarsely.
"Yes."
The woman stared absently at the painting of the travelers hanging on the wall. "And there is nothing that I can say or do to convince you to stay?"
Her angel paused in thought, carefully weighing her question. At last, he shook his head.
"No."
The ashen woman nodded and slowly rose from the bench, tightly hugging her sleeping child to her. She made her way across the galleries, passing by the giraffes, whales, insects, snakes, birds, and squirrels as if in a dream, vaguely aware of the man trailing behind her. Just before she entered the grand hall he caught her elbow and turned her to face him. The look of devastation upon his face cruelly tore at her soul. For at that very moment, she knew their hearts beat as one. The same heart, same soul.
Same loss. And the tears trickled down the rivets of her face.
"Christine," he whispered, placing a soft kiss upon her temple. "I wanted to say goodbye here instead of at the house; give you a more pleasant memory, rather than the bad ones we have created over the past several weeks."
"Not all of them were bad," she murmured dismally.
He gently brushed away her tears with his thumb, wrapping his long, thin fingers around the curve of her neck. "Please understand that this must be done—if I remain any longer, this sorrow that haunts us will only increase. With my past, we could never have a normal, happy life—"
"—I don't want a normal life," she fiercely interjected. "I want you!"
The masked man closed his eyes and inhaled, his hand on her neck tensing. Slowly, he let it drop back to his side and stepped away, his gold eyes glistening with determination.
"No," he spoke, the finality in his voice rigid and unyielding.
The Comtesse wearily stepped out of the hansom and into the cold air, the yellow windows of their London residence warmly glowing through the darkness of the Noël eve. Erik silently placed Jean-Paul into her arms, then made his way over to Murray and Hale, thanking them for their efforts.
She stood at the door and waited for the masked man, shivering as the frosty night wind swirled under her cloak and through her clothing.
At least Jerusalem shall be warm, she thought cynically, then grimaced as useless tears again threatened.
Erik tentatively swept around her and fiddled with the lock, pushed the door open, then jogged down the stairs again to bid Murray and Hale farewell. Christine drearily walked into the foyer and lowered her little son to the floor, removing his mittens and hat, and unfastened her cloak.
Strong arms suddenly wrapped around her waist, lifting her from the ground. She yelped in surprise and struggled against the grasp, her captor swinging her about the foyer in a swift circle, laughing merrily in her ear.
"Joyeux Noël, my darling girl!" the man cried, and lowered her to the ground, pulling her into a sturdy embrace. The Comtesse wormed her hands out of the tight grasp and pushed away from the bold gentleman. She stared up at him in complete and utter shock, vaguely aware of a door opening and closing behind her.
"What is the matter, my pretty Madame," the avocat cooed. "Has my surprise left you speechless, or did I dislodge that wretched hard bustle you insist upon wearing?"
"H-Henri?" she cried, and the man laughed again, planting a kiss upon her white forehead.
"The very person, darling!" The avocat's eyes darted from the flushed face of the Comtesse de Chagny to the masked man standing in the doorway, whose gaze was piercing, hard as stone. "I have decided to join you for your Noël festivities. Are you not pleased?"
"Merde," Erik cursed under his breath.
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.
If you are itching for more Fraternité and don't want to wait for an update, visit the little POTO "Frat party" on my website, for some interesting story-related diddies. I try to add something new for each chapter. See my profile for details.