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 the characters and own none of them, except for all of my original ones.
Side Notes:
Thank you to Le Chat Noir and Phantomy-Cookies for betaing! Their own wonderful writing can be found here at ffn, under the pen names "Chatastic" and "Phantomy-Cookies".
Thanks for all of the awesome reviews and encouragement, readers. You are the most amazing bunch!
The Ghost's Love Story
Nadir Khan shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his fingers drumming the top of the black astrakhan cap resting in his lap. For nearly two hours he had sat there in the cramped study amongst his Sûreté peers, fielding their questions and avoiding their distrustful eyes with growing unease.
Another minute of this, the daroga thought bitterly, and Erik will just have to find someone else to clean up his messes for him. And then he snorted to himself, suddenly finding it funny that he had been threatening to do so for twenty years.
"Do you wish to say something, M. Khan?" the steely-haired man behind the desk asked him. He paused as he flipped through the musty pages of the oath of Fraternité, his eyes looking up to meet those of the Persian's.
Nadir held out his hands in resignation. "I have told you all that I know, Monsieur. The man who called himself the Phantom of the Opera is dead; he was killed nearly two months ago during the storming of the opera house cellars. If your men had combed the tunnels as thoroughly as you claim, then you would have happened upon his body. His wife and the Comte de Chagny buried him there, so I was told."
"I cannot believe that," piped up the young man who had recently joined them, energetically leaning forward on his elbows.
What was his name? Lane? Fale? Nadir searched his mind, trying to recall the brief time he had spent in London. Hale! That was it—one of the Sûreté's undercovers at the docks.
"If you had only seen this man in action like I did," Hale continued, "you would not so easily believe that he died, either. This Erik is all genius and wit. Forgive me, M. Khan, but I think your story is a lie."
"Yes," drawled the stocky man behind the desk, dismissively. "Returning to the Comtesse de Chagny. Tell me again how she came to be in possession of these things?" He rested a thick hand upon the stack of papers next to the oath of Fraternité.
"I have told you time and again—Raoul de Chagny left them to her in a safe-box in Prague. She only recently discovered their existence. Considering the turmoil that has plagued her this past year, you can understand her reluctance to have anything more to do with them. Therefore, she entrusted them to me."
The agent nodded. "And this book, belonging to the Jacobin remnants?"
"Found in the fourth cellar," Nadir sighed. "That is why the entire tribe was down there to begin with, as I have just explained!"
"Extraordinary. Now…" The man rifled through his papers and pulled one from a large envelope. He placed the slip in front of Nadir. "Do you know what this is?"
"It appears to be a marriage certificate."
The man nodded. "One Christine Reinard, formerly Chagny: wedded in Jerusalem, but then waited to file this until exactly two days after her husband's alleged death beneath the opera house. Tell me—why would she bother to file her marriage certificate at all?"
Nadir smiled. "Who can say what was upon the lady's heart, Monsieur?"
The large man's fingers formed a steeple over his mouth and he leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. "Let us suppose, M. Khan, that this phantom friend of yours were alive—hypothetically speaking, I hasten to add. He would be of insurmountable use to the Sûreté, wherever we chose to send him: Italy, Russia, the Orient. His remarkable ability to meld into his surroundings like a ghost and then strike his foe would make him the very best of spies or assassins. If he were alive."
"He has been a ghost, a spy, and an assassin, Monsieur, and I can assure you he would have no desire to become them again." The daroga's eyebrows quirked ironically. "Hypothetically speaking, of course, as my friend is dead."
"And if your friend were alive, sir, I would remind him that it is still very possible to bring charges upon his head for his extensive list of crimes: murder, of course; the destruction of opera house property; theft; extortion; kidnapping; treason. The majority of these are enough to send him to the gallows. However, all could be conveniently overlooked if he were to offer his services to France."
"It is a pity for France that Erik is dead, then." The Persian's jade eyes narrowed, his voice little more than a whisper. "I might add that his death is fortunate for you, though. Those who force this man into a corner often find themselves at the end of a punjab lasso. If he were alive, he would most certainly hunt you down."
The agent glanced questioningly at Hale.
"It is all true," Hale said evenly, "especially the part about the lasso. You should have seen what he did to that Russian revolutionary in London. The body was rather contorted and blue from the effects of this lasso, and there was nothing to do with it but dispose of it in the Thames."
The agent's hardened face paled considerably. Pressing two fingers to his temples, he closed his eyes for a minute as if deep in thought. "Well then," he said at last, "it is a shame this phantom is dead."
Feigning a slight cough to hide his smile, the Persian nodded and rose from the chair. Stretching his limbs and back, he replaced his astrakhan cap and turned to go.
"However," the agent continued, "if he were to someday find himself alive, and opera houses or any other buildings, properties, or peoples complain of being harassed, kidnapped, or murdered…" The agent paused, his face once again that of iron. "We will not hesitate to hunt him down, either."
"Of course."
"You might also wish to tell the Chagny family and Madame Reinard, wherever she is, of the Fraternité's struggles to regroup. We were never able to apprehend all of them, you know, and I am most certain that those who remain at large would like nothing better than to see these particular aristocrats destroyed."
Nadir inclined his cap to each of the men and strode through the door, nearly slamming it behind him in frustration.
ooOOoo
Erik tugged the brim of his black hat down a little further, shielding his eyes from the sunlight reflecting off the bright white snow. Peering through the window of the brougham, he scowled and wiped away the thin layer of frost that had once more clouded the glass. The old brick building that served as the Sûreté's headquarters was an imposing place, anonymous and unadorned compared to the more splendid structures in its vicinity. He pulled his new pocket watch from beneath his great coat, flipped it open, and sighed. Nearly two hours. The longer the daroga spent conversing with the Sûreté agents, the more difficult it would be for himself and his family to slide into obscurity.
If two months spent in the isolated mountain villages of the High Tatras had taught him anything, it was that he and Christine could not live the rest of their lives in a cramped cottage without one of them driving the other mad. For all of Christine's patience and compassion, she had a strong will about her that clashed with his obstinacy when given occasion to. And Jean-Paul possessed twice as much stubbornness as his mother. To even consider keeping the child shut away during the long winter months with nothing to entertain him was ludicrous. Music lessons, after all, would only hold the boy's attention for so long.
So it had been decided that once their child was born, their summers would be spent in Starý Smokovec—a mountain village nestled in the High Tatras, and their winters amongst the anonymous hustle and bustle of Bratislava or some other city. However, if the Sûreté were always breathing down his neck, just one step behind him as they had been for the past two months, then his small family would never have freedom to go where they pleased.
A sudden rush of cold air, followed by an aggravated "hmph" pulled Erik back to the present. The Persian quickly climbed into the brougham and closed the door, dropping into the frigid leather seat.
"And how did your visit with our gendarme friends go, daroga?" he asked pleasantly, tucking his pocket watch away again.
Nadir stared at the inappropriately jovial man across from him. His irritation warmed to a rage that turned his face red.
"So flippant. So secure in your anonymity. There I was, blatantly lying to the chief of La Sûreté Nationale himself, assuring him of your demise and risking my own credibility within the organization, all because you cannot bear to work with anybody who protects people and interests other than your own."
Erik's face darkened. "You may have forgotten, daroga, that it was you who first encouraged me all those years ago in Persia to break from my life as an assassin and spy, and do some good with my remaining years."
"They will give you a full pardon, Erik. Does that not mean anything to you?"
"What do I care for their laws?" Erik snapped.
"The Sûreté is not Mazenderan—"
"It is all the same, Nadir, no matter how you label it. You and I are not so very different creatures, save for the badge of authority upon your person. We have both violated the laws of humanity. What makes what I have done a crime, and what you have done, justice?"
Silence met his question. At last, the Persian spoke, his words cool and even.
"The Sûreté will find you eventually, you understand. They are fairly certain that you are alive, and when they finally track you down, you will hang, Erik. Can you not even pretend to work with them? Think of Christine and Jean-Paul, and the little one who will be with you before long."
"It is for them that I am trying to put this part of my life behind me!" Erik exclaimed, his voice becoming hoarse. "When I sent Mas Quennell to his grave, I swore to Christine that he would be the last. I want to be a father and a husband—not a killer."
Nadir measured him from the other side of the brougham, his glinting jade eyes softening a bit.
"Finally," Erik continued fervently, "I have the chance to live in peace—wade through 'quiet waters', as you put it. I will not let it pass me by! Surely you can understand this desire."
Nadir nodded sadly, the wound upon his heart caused by the death of Papi Nitot apparently as fresh and raw as it had been two months ago. "There can be no peace for some of us, du stæm—not completely. We must learn to endure the turbulence so we might enjoy those quiet waters when they come." He reached beneath his gray woolen coat and removed a piece of parchment, unfolded it, and handed it to Erik.
It was his pardon, contingent upon a lifetime's service with the French Sûreté.
"It is either this or an existence spent running from the gallows," Nadir said quietly. "You must ask yourself which will offer your children a better life."
Erik read over the formal script, his fingertips brushing the red wax seal upon the document. At last, he sighed, holding out his hands. "What would it take for them to let me live as normal a life as possible? Perhaps if I tossed them a bone…"
"You could agree to do very rare, special assignments for them—something that no one else is able to do."
"You mean assassinations."
"I was thinking more along the lines of espionage."
"As incompetent as the Sûreté is, I would be forever in their employ!" Erik watched the stony-faced man for a reaction, then folded his gloved hands in his lap. "I am listening."
"You and your family will be well-protected and allowed to go most anywhere that you please, as long as you report your movements to headquarters. When you are away on assignments, the Sûreté will see that Christine and the children are safe and provided for—"
"—They could not protect her, before—"
"And—" The Persian paused, his eyes meeting Erik's for the greatest impact, "You would have easy access to information regarding the Fraternité and their dealings."
Erik grimaced, the implications of Nadir's last statement not lost upon him. "So," he muttered, "the rumors are true, then. The Fraternité has begun to rebuild itself."
"I am afraid so. While the oath named hundreds of men, only those members listed before the assassination of Tsar Alexander are implicated by the documents discovered in Prague. Those who joined after the assassination cannot concretely be charged with anything. Each of them swears they knew nothing of the assassination, and no proof can be found to suggest otherwise."
"And the Comte de Chagny?"
The Persian's mouth curled in a half-smile. "He was declared legally 'dead' before the financing of the Narodnaya Volya began—financing that was documented, anyway. And as only hearsay links him to any involvement in the Paris Commune…"
"He goes free."
"Correct."
Erik slowly nodded, his immoveable stance beginning to waver. Turning his eyes back to the fortress-like building of La Sûreté Nationale, he studied the brick walls for some answer to his dilemma. If the Fraternité should ever re-emerge as a competent foe, there was no doubt in his mind that they would seek their revenge upon the Chagny family, and subsequently, his own.
"Very well, daroga," he yielded, his gaze returning to his companion. "I will accept the Sûreté's kind request of service."
The Persian's tight features at once relaxed. "Praise Allah," he breathed.
Erik held up a hand. "I will accept, but only upon the condition that they not seek me out themselves. If the Sûreté wishes for my assistance, they must go through you, my friend. I trust you to know what I might be bothered with and what could be done by anybody."
"I am sure that could be arranged."
"And I'll not be sent away for months at a time. Any espionage work that I might be able to do can certainly be accomplished in a matter of weeks."
"We shall see," the daroga replied carefully, unwilling to commit himself to a promise he might not be able to keep.
"And lastly, no assassinations. If I am forced to kill someone in the line of duty, so be it. Anything else—" Erik held up his hands in a gesture of futility, his eyes gleaming fiendishly.
"Yes, I know," Nadir said, his own mouth twitching. "You promised Christine."
"And you know what she is capable of, daroga."
"Very much so." Nadir laughed and held out his hand. "It shall be an experience having you on the side of the law for once, du stæm. I am afraid this will change our relationship immensely."
"Not so much, I think. After all, you must still be responsible for knowing my whereabouts and movements. This seems to be your life's curse."
The Persian nodded and settled into the icy leather seat of the brougham, still chuckling. The two colleagues continued in comfortable silence as the cab rattled over the dingy-white streets of Paris, the snow crunching beneath the wheels. Before long, they were passing by the ritzy town houses of the 16th Arrondissement.
Erik rapped on the top of the coach, signaling for the driver to halt.
Nadir abruptly sat up. "Why are we stopping?"
"I have some business to attend to before I return to the train station. You may come with me if you like, but I will only be a moment."
The daroga's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No tricks, Erik."
Sighing, the masked man pulled an envelope from beneath his black coat and showed it to Nadir.
Nadir blinked in surprise. "The Comte de Chagny?"
"Simply business regarding Jean-Paul's inheritance. Or lack thereof," he added ominously, then quickly stepped out of the brougham and strode to the door before the Persian could object.
ooOOoo
"Enter," replied Philippe de Chagny to the rap upon his library door, his intense gaze not leaving the leather-bound book in his hands. Motioning for the visitor to sit down, he hurriedly finished the paragraph, marked his place with a ribbon and closed his book before glancing up. His face immediately blanched.
"Monsieur le Comte," said Erik.
"Monsieur Reinard." Regaining his composure, Philippe rose and tersely gestured to the black walnut wingback opposite him. "Will you not sit down and tell me what business you have with me?"
"You know very well why I am here," the masked man replied acidly. He tossed a creased parchment on top of Philippe's lap, then meticulously folded his long frame into the proffered chair, his narrowed eyes never leaving the Comte's face.
The Comte scanned the letter, frowning. "This correspondence was intended for Christine alone. Or perhaps you have taken to reading her mail?"
"Oh, I can assure you that when my wife read how you planned to disinherit Jean-Paul, she was more than willing to let me handle the matter." Erik leaned forward, his words a menacing hiss. "I shall speak plainly, Monsieur. I do not take kindly to threats of blackmail, especially where my son is concerned."
"Stepson," Philippe murmured.
Erik's hand abruptly slammed down upon the arm of his chair. "He is my son!"
"He is a Chagny!" Philippe fired back. "Therefore, he must be raised with his family if he is to ever learn how to be a Vicomte, and certainly if he is to inherit. I am sorry, Monsieur, but there is no other way. Either the boy lives at the estate, or—"
"He is my son," Erik said quietly. "I love him."
Philippe's tirade died away as he observed the masked man. He stiffened, then cautiously lifted his face to meet Erik's steady gaze, searching for some sort of deception. "How can that be?" he said at last. "You hated Raoul."
"Yes. I have lately discovered that hate has not served me well. A common-enough plague upon humanity, so Christine would have me to believe." Erik sighed and reached under his cloak, pulled out a thin coil of rope, and rested it upon his knees.
Swallowing nervously, Philippe folded his trembling fingers in his lap. "What—" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "What is that for?"
"I had originally planned to use this to threaten you, Monsieur. Threats and violence have become a way of life for me, you see. However, I have always rather liked you," Erik explained. "Believe me, the last thing I wanted to do was destroy such an impressive ally, especially after the great service you afforded my wife and me beneath the opera house."
"Monsieur," the Comte said hoarsely, "all I want is to make some sort of amends for the past. To have Raoul's child with me, as a true part of our family…to be a father to him, as my actions have deprived him of his own father…. That is all I desire." Philippe exhaled. "Perhaps my threat to disinherit the boy was rather extreme, but—forgive me—I saw no other way. I know very little about you, sir, and what I do know does not seem to be suited to fatherhood."
"I could say the same of you, Monsieur."
Philippe nodded civilly. "Touché."
Slowly, the leer faded from Erik's face and he grew quite serious. "Jean-Paul is a good child, like your brother was. He is smart, as well, and will make a fine Comte someday, whether he lives with you or with us. However," Erik continued, "he is only three. He needs his mother. Whatever your opinion of me or Christine, do not make him suffer for it."
The Comte turned weary eyes to the fireplace, then rose and strode over to the mantle. Upon the mantle was a replica of the Borda, the training vessel Raoul had served aboard for several years. He ran the tip of his finger along the tiny mainmast and rigging, his face etched with sorrow. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he patted the dampness from his refined brow. Finally, he turned back to Erik.
"Summers," he said in a weary voice muffled by the handkerchief. "Send Jean-Paul to the chateau during the summer months, and he shall retain his father's title."
Erik's thin fingers tightened around the lasso, then tucked it away beneath his cloak. He leaned back in the plush chair and thoughtfully studied his anxious companion. "Christine will agree to one month annually, provided she is allowed to accompany him."
Philippe sighed, obviously displeased. Nevertheless, he graciously acquiesced. "You would be welcome too, of course."
Erik's lips pursed sardonically. "I doubt that. However, thank you all the same." He watched as Philippe exhaled in relief, tucking away his handkerchief.
"Well then," the Comte said, not quite trusting his voice, "give my fondest regards to Madame Reinard and prayers for wellbeing when the child comes. She had a difficult time of it when Jean-Paul was born, from what I understand."
"I have been told." Erik rose, briefly grasping the Comte's offered hand then pulling his away just as rapidly, in a hurry to be on his way. Philippe walked him to the door, making no more attempts at polite discourse.
"I wish you and your family all the best," the Comte said crisply. "In all honesty, I do not think that we shall meet much after this."
"Adieu, Monsieur de Chagny," Erik answered. He slipped his cloak over his shoulders and strode to the waiting brougham, determined to leave Paris behind him once and for all.
ooOOoo
In truth, though the Comte's warning regarding Christine's difficult labor struck a chord within him, Erik's centermost fear lay upon his child's—their child's—unknown face. If he had to watch his child grow up to experience the same sort of terror and rejection that he had endured, the guilt would be too much. As Christine's time drew nearer, however, and she grew wearier, her face more white and drawn, Philippe's words were pushed to the forefront. Soon, he found himself silently praying not that the infant would be born normal, but that it would be born alive.
When the moment of truth finally arrived one blustery December night and he crouched outside their bedroom door, his wife's cries of pain filling his ears, his petitions became pleas.
God, I don't care what our child looks like, he prayed fiercely, whether it has an ugly face or a monster's face, or a face like mine. Just let him live. Let him live, and let Christine live, and they will always have my love—wretched thing that it is. Let them live, please, let them live. Let them live—
"What are you doing, Papa?"
A small, inquisitive voice broke through the intensity of his mantra. Erik opened his eyes and gazed at the solemn, anxious face of his three-year-old son. Brushing a hand over his eyes, he took the young Vicomte's hand in his and led him away from the door and the sounds of his mother's labor.
"I was asking God to take care of your Maman and the baby," he answered honestly. Settling into the faded chair with the broken spring, he pulled Jean-Paul up next to him, ignoring the metal as it dug into his back.
"Oh," said the boy thoughtfully. He was quiet for a moment, and Erik could all but see the wheels churning in his head. "Why is Maman mad at you?" he asked finally.
"What makes you think Maman is mad at me, Jean-Paul?"
"She told you to go."
Erik sighed and smoothed a pale hand over his clever son's hair. Christine, in her bohemian ways, had originally planned to discard convention and allow her husband's presence when their child was born. It had seemed like a good idea, but plans were hardly ever ideally executed.
"Because I was bothering your mother and Gospazha Borochova, and making a horrible nuisance of myself. And we know what happens when we make nuisances of ourselves."
Jean-Paul nodded empathically. "Maman gets angry when I am naughty. But it goes away."
"Your mother is an infinite resource of understanding."
Another cry echoed from the closed door. Jean-Paul whimpered and wrapped his small arms around Erik's neck, pressing his face against his shoulder. He rested there in silence for so long, that Erik thought he had fallen asleep. The only sound in the homely parlor was the snapping of the fire and the faint strains of Russian from the bedroom as Rivka Borochova encouraged and soothed the struggling mother. Erik's arms wound tightly about the child, fighting the overwhelming urge to go back to the room he had been evicted from.
"Papa?"
"Yes, Jean-Paul?"
"Is Maman hurt?"
"Well, she—" Erik momentarily panicked, struggling to come up with a satisfactory answer for the boy. "Your Maman is working very hard right now, so you can have a little brother or sister."
"When I get hurt, Maman kisses me and then I get better."
"When everything is over," Erik promised, "you can give her a kiss. It will make her feel better, I am sure."
Jean-Paul relaxed, apparently satisfied. "I want a brother."
A smile played upon Erik's lips and, fleetingly, he was able to forget his fears. "I think you must be content with whatever your sibling is."
The entire night passed and then part of the morning before Christine's long labor drew to a close. Jean-Paul had long ago drifted off to sleep on the hearthrug. Ze'ev Borochov, his own two children wrapped in furs upon his back, had trekked through the snow to the reclusive cottage at first light, only to find that Rivka was nowhere near finished in her assistance to Madame Reinard. The two men sat in complete, uncomfortable silence for several hours, grimly listening as Christine's strained cries became more and more frequent. Erik's head dropped into his hands, his fingers threading through his black, unkempt hair. Never had he felt so entirely helpless to act; for all his knowledge, and skill, and understanding of medicine, only time and patience were of any use to his wife.
Finally, one last, drawn-out scream sent him over the edge. Leaping up from his chair, he pushed through the closed door and went to Christine's side, ready to beg her forgiveness for leaving her alone. Clasping her hand in his, he wiped the wet strands of hair from her ashen forehead with his other.
"Christine, Christine, my brave wife," he soothed, lifting her fingers to his face. And then he halted, Christine's hand brought only halfway to his lips: a shrill, high-pitched wail resonated through the room.
"Thank God," Christine sobbed, her damp head falling back in part exhilaration and part exhaustion. "The baby is fine, Erik! He is all right! He wasn't crying, and I was so afraid—"
"We haven't even seen him yet," he said dazedly. His eyes closely followed Rivka as she finished her work, carefully avoiding any glimpse of the child's face. Smiling, the woman whispered gentle Russian words to the infant, tucked the cloth more tightly around it, and placed the red, squirming thing in Christine's outstretched arms.
"Look at our baby, Erik," Christine murmured with delight. "Open your eyes!" She nudged him with her shoulder and he did as she asked. His gaze swept over the tiny infant in his wife's arms, his heart pounding as he took in its beautifully flawless nose, pink lips, splotchy cheeks. His child's eyes were mere slits of unfocused blue burrowed in its squashed face. Erik watched, awed, as the wide irises struggled to take in the new world around him, to make sense of color, and air, and light.
"My son," he whispered incredulously. "My perfect, brilliant—"
A thought suddenly struck him, and he realized with chagrin that he had not yet obtained a vital piece of information from the Russian midwife.
"Malchik?" he inquired.
Gospazha Borochova shook her head and smiled, her dark eyes shining with laughter. "Devochka."
Erik blinked several times, the impact rocking him back on his heels as the image of his genius son—subconsciously conjured for months on end—bid him a swift farewell. Touching a long, thin finger to the infant's cheek, he began to chuckle softly.
"What is it?" Christine asked, her own joy-filled eyes never leaving the yawning face of her little one.
"Christine," Erik breathed. "We have a daughter."
ooOOoo
May, 1886: The High Tatras, BohemiaThe overcast sky was a welcome sight when the heavily wooded trail broke through the mass of larches and spruce. Christine followed her husband and son as the path emptied into a clearing entirely carpeted with yellow crocus.
Christine's breath caught in her throat. The Carpathian Mountains stretched before them, their snow-capped peaks blindingly white and remote, like an untouchable sphere held just beyond reach. She paused to inhale the smell of dank earth and air. It had been a long time since she had truly been out-of-doors—first the long winter months, and then days of rain and muck that had followed. But now that Lina was a bit older, and the weather warmer…
Evelina. Christine smiled as she remembered Erik's strange, stubborn insistence that their daughter be named such. It meant 'life', he had explained, and as their little girl was now life to him, it seemed fitting. Upon further prying, he told her that he had once met a man in the Rumeli Hisari who had a little girl called by the same name, and it had left an impression upon him. He refused to tell her anything more, however, and she wisely decided not to press him about it. Erik would always have his mysteries.
So 'Evelina' it was, and 'Evelina' certainly suited Christine's very fidgety, very vocal daughter.
"Maman!" shouted her other very vocal child—now no longer a toddler, but a wild boy of nearly four. "The lake is this way!" Ahead of her, she saw Erik turn to her son and say something to him, pointing to the ground. Jean-Paul cupped his hands over his mouth, calling to her again. "Papa says to watch out for the mud!"
Christine readjusted her little girl in the cloth sling that Rivka had fashioned for her and hurried to catch up with the rest of her family, carefully sidestepping the rich brown mud along the path. When she finally joined them, they were already busy spreading out an old quilt on a dry patch of grass. Settling onto the ground with her daughter, she closed her eyes and listened to the soft breathing of her child.
It was difficult to fathom that only a year had passed since she had walked the hot, dusty streets of Jerusalem. Had it really been so little time? Every single one of the friends she had shared crowded quarters with at the Notre Dame de Sion, save her little boy and her husband, had all but vanished from her life in the course of that year, separated by skewing paths or by death.
She thought of Norry, the gruff old servant who had valiantly tried to protect her as she fled from country to country. The loss of his only child had been too much for him. He was now content simply to finish the remainder of his years amongst his flower gardens and vegetables.
And Nadir Khan, with his protective, sometimes overbearing ways. Yet he had been thus for a reason, and his fight to see Erik use his genius for good resonated deep within her. She saw very little of him now, only twice since they had parted ways in Paris—once when he had traveled to the Tatras to claim Erik for service to France, and once when Erik had returned. Even then, he had only stayed two nights. It had been long enough, nonetheless, for Christine to witness the gleam of pride in his eyes after holding his friend's infant daughter for the first time.
She thought of Henri David, her naïve, boyish advocate who had been more in love with love than with her. Enamored, he would have blindly followed her to the ends of the earth, desperately snatching up the crumbs of friendship she offered him like a starved puppy, had she not crushed his illusions of love that fateful night in Prague. Christine could not help but think that if she had allowed Henri to follow her to Istanbul, he might still be alive. Grimacing, she quickly shook the thought away. While many might bear some responsibility in poor Henri David's demise, it was Mas Quennell who had ultimately killed him. Dwelling on the sad affair would not bring resolution, only more grief.
Lina yawned. Christine tucked the swaddling cloth more tightly around her tiny body. She smiled down upon her beautiful daughter, noticing for the first time the small flecks of gold forming in her eyes. Erik is wrong, she mused with sheer fascination. She has inherited something of his face. Christine suddenly found herself aching to share her discovery with her lost friend, Papillon Nitot.
Papi would have treasured her little girl, just as she had Jean-Paul. Tears stung her eyes as she recalled their last days in Jerusalem—days spent basking in the adoration of her new husband while gingerly walking on glass around her estranged friend.
Papi had loved Raoul: That truth could have made the two women fierce rivals, had there not been a difference in their status. And yet Papi had loved her, as well—she knew that now. Raoul's death had bonded them in a way she had not truly recognized until it was too late. They had both been mothers—alone and struggling along as best as they could to raise their little men without the help of a father. They had both lost the true loves of their lives. Yet through that, they had found each other's friendship.
"Maman! Look at me!"
Christine brushed away the tears from the corners of her eyes and smiled, waving to Jean-Paul. She watched him hop along the edge of the lake, his black curls bouncing as he chased after the lake frogs—now frantically leaping out of his way and into the water. Jean-Paul, satisfactorily muddy, ran up the hill towards her. Erik followed behind, lengthening his stride to keep up with the child's youthful energy. Plopping down on the blanket next to her, Jean-Paul gently patted the top of Lina's head, then began to breathlessly tell her about all of the slimy-skinned amphibians he saw in his romp along the lake. Erik sat next to her as well, casually propping himself up on his elbow and stretching his long legs over the rest of the blanket.
"Jean-Paul," Christine said, "come here, sil vous plait." Settling her sleepy-eyed infant on the blanket behind her, she pulled out her handkerchief (a gift from her husband) and tried to wipe a streak of dirt from the squirming boy's face. She frowned at him, and he reluctantly went still until Christine had cleaned away the offending mud to her contentment. The boy scooted away from her hands and turned to Erik, a grin suddenly breaking through his scowl.
"Papa has dirt on his face, too!"
Lifting an eyebrow in mock disdain, Erik pinched the handkerchief from Christine's fingers and brushed it across the left side of his face. "Better?" he asked the boy.
Jean-Paul shook his head. "The other side, Papa." He snatched the cloth from Erik's fingers and reached up towards his white mask. "Let me do it."
The levity of the moment died away as quickly as it had arisen. Before the boy could touch his mask, Erik carefully averted the child's reaching fingers and firmly grasped his hands, pushing them away. Confused, Jean-Paul froze in his pursuit and stared up at his father, his eyes widening.
"Erik," Christine said quietly, silently pleading that Erik would not become angry at the boy's harmless mistake. Anguish, however, not anger, was clearly written in his face. Erik simply sighed and turned his face from her, looking out across the lake.
Her little son's inquisitive nature, however, was not so easily waylaid.
"Is that a mask?" Jean-Paul questioned.
Erik stilled. "Yes. It is not real, you see?" he tapped on the rigid piece of porcelain, then allowed the boy to run his fingertips over the cool surface, exploring the contours of the mask, the eyehole, the cheekbone. "My real face is beneath the mask," he explained.
The child looked perplexed. "Papa, why can't people see your real face?"
The only sign that Erik had heard him was a slight twinge in his jaw.
"Papa?"
"Because, I—" he answered unevenly, "Because you cannot, Jean-Paul."
"Why not?"
Erik gritted his teeth and looked to her for help.
Christine opened her mouth, ready to tell Jean-Paul to leave Erik be and go play. The words died upon her lips, however. Maybe she was weary of seeing the ever-present, aching mix of hope and despair that haunted Erik's eyes, or the way he coldly turned away from her son at the slightest mention of his mask. But some mad character seized control of her—insanity, or determination—and for a moment, the words that she very nearly spoke, Let him see you, Erik. He will understand. He will love you anyway, seemed as though they belonged to another.
Yet in the end, she did not utter them. After all, it was not her face—her secret—to tell. So she sent the boy away, telling him that he was not to ask such questions. When he was gone, she lifted Evelina into her lap.
"Someday they must know, Erik," she said as she played with her daughter's little fingers. "Both of our children."
Her words hung there in the stillness, the cool May breeze suddenly heavy and stifling. Horror filled Erik's features and he shook his head.
"Christine, please don't ask it of me."
"They will need to know the truth."
"They won't want to know the truth! They will hate me for it—"
"Can I go back to the lake?" Jean-Paul interrupted, running back to the blanket. "I want to find another frog."
"Of course." Erik numbly rose to his feet and followed the child. Christine watched as they strolled down to the water's edge and took up their exploration of the shoreline, as if the nearly earth-shattering moments had not even happened. Jean-Paul pointed to something in the tall grass—Christine could only assume it was a frog—and made a dive for it. The frog, however, leapt free, leaving the boy with a face full of sod. Erik took out his handkerchief, then tucked it away again in resignation as the filthy child urged him to follow further along the lake.
Christine laughed at Jean-Paul's childish antics, her heart pounding with love for her son until she thought it would break. For at that moment, as he ran along the lake's edge, she saw another little boy…a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy, splashing into the cold Brittany sea after a red scarf.
Raoul. Her dearest friend, who had offered her everything, yet asked for nothing in return. There was a time she had thought it had been wrong of her to marry him. As she watched Raoul's child walk over to Erik—a man cruelly shunned by humankind as a monster—and trustingly place his small hand in his, she knew that she had made no mistake.
When she had dreamed of the Brittany coast, allowed her memories of times past to embrace her with warm familiarity, Raoul had been there with her. He had told her that to save Erik, she would have to help him face himself.
It would not be her, however, that would one day do the seemingly impossible.
It would be her son.
Somehow, Providence had taken the most wretched of lives and woven them together, turning that which was once ugly and despondent into something beautiful. Something right.
Christine closed her eyes and let the spring wind skimming over the waters touch her face, cooling her flushed cheeks and neck.
Somewhere beyond her, she heard the soft, steady breathing of her little girl. The laughter of her son. The kind, lilting words of the man she loved. Somewhere beyond her, the quiet waters of the Tatras' lake lapped and rippled, its placid music interrupted only by the faraway splashing as two sets of feet trod along its shore. Somewhere beyond her…
And she felt such peace.