"I hear you have this strange notion you can get ready for a performance without any mirrors." Herbert's fingers danced along the keys as he prepared them for morning practice. Christine shot him a wary glance. "You know, women often prefer to look at themselves before entertaining a roomful of scrutiny."
Women often don't have old admirers who prefer to gaze upon them through mirrors.
"Thank you, Herbert, but I'll be just fine tonight. With or without a mirror to prepare."
"Suit yourself." He began the introduction to her first piece. "I do have to thank you though. Mol was so vexed at your demand she just about fell over. Making her move that big mirror from the dressing room was the best request I've ever seen. Blood to the head, you know. It was personally very satisfying to watch."
"I'm glad I could provide such entertainment."
Christine dug her hands deeper into the pockets of the overcoat she'd taken from Phantasma. The small mountain town had become painfully cold over the last few days and the garment was the only thing that seemed to keep out the chill. Particularly in the practice rooms, where the small stove in the corner did nothing to cull the cool air.
Again this morning she'd woke thinking warm arms were tight around her, a welcome reprieve from the constant cold. She was wrong, of course. No arms wrapped her. She'd merely kept the coat from him on again and fallen asleep.
It was a perverse attachment. Perhaps because she did not drown in it, as with other men's clothing. Or perhaps it was the reminder that she did work for the Phantom of the Opera. Or the smell and feel of the garment soothed her.
The soft irradiance of the embroidery reminded her of peacock feathers. She straightened the deep navy lapels with her fingers. Herbert's playing became louder, his subtle way of telling her she had missed her que. She bid him begin again, an apology clear in her eyes.
But Herbert did not begin again. Instead, he rose from his seat with a start and…bowed?
"I thought I could play for Miss Daaé today." Christine's entire body fissured with the sudden rush of her heart. She spun on her heel to see Mr. Y in the doorway. "Thank you, Herbert, but your services will not be needed this morning." The man left looking rather spooked, only fancying a slight nod at Christine, grabbing Sam with one hand, and placing a small pocket mirror at the piano as he left.
When their footsteps faded on the stairs, Christine spoke, "I believe you unnerved my kind pianist."
"Did I? I didn't notice." A small grin stole across his lips. It looked good on him – a grin. Christine couldn't help but mimic the action in her nervousness.
"Do you unnerve all your employees so?"
He made his way to the piano, setting down her coat in his hands and unclasping his black gloves. "It is useful for some. Maddening in others. I do like your coat Miss Daaé. Has it kept you warm?"
She blushed. She couldn't help it. And as her face heated, his eyes went from teasing to searching. That was the look in his eyes she remembered.
"Why should I let you play for me?" Whenever there was music between them, the Phantom grew his strange power over her until she was unable to resist his demands. Such past control still gnawed at Christine in the dark places of her mind. She longed to create the ethereal sounds he could pull from her in those moments, but never again could she give him such unnatural control. It would corrupt her utterly.
He sat before the keys and spoke, "I am unable to come to your opening here." He gestured to the mask covering half his face. Black today. Something new. "I thought—I hoped, I could be of use to you. I realize you have no reason to trust me."
Before he could press a key, she closed the distance and dropped the lid. "You're right. I don't." That statement was truer after speaking it aloud. She did not trust him, and that inability warred with other emotions she could not control and would not name. How desperately she wanted him to challenge her voice, to hear her and offer critique. In this, she unequivocally trusted his judgement.
"Do you want to end your contract?"
Her mind stalled at his question.
It was a natural one. Now that she knew he was her employer, she should wish to separate herself from the situation. Had he asked her two nights ago, she would have said yes, her hurt and astonishment clouding her judgement. But now? Her furious passion at discovering he was Mr. Y had cooled, and while she was sure Sam kept him informed of her comings and goings, the oppressive possession of the past did not seem to drive his actions now.
But this all mattered little. In truth, she had nowhere else to go. Familiar fears were better than unknown ones – wasn't that how the saying went? There was her answer: "No." Her Phantom nodded to himself and tension eased from his body. She had to ask him, "Surely you knew I would come when you wrote that note."
"I don't know what I thought."
"Your handwriting is rather unforgettable, Monsieur." He looked away from her then, his fingers taping a melody on the lid.
"As is your disfavor for playing Persephone, Mademoiselle." So he'd assumed she would not travel again to his domain. "What must I do to have you stay?"
"Did I not just say I would stay?"
"Like Faust, I am more comfortable when there is a bargain."
"We have a bargain. Should you not be demanding I bind myself to the contact I signed?"
His eyes flashed to hers, "I am trying to be better than before. The odds are high, however, our conversation will deteriorate to that quite quick. I've always had very little sense around you."
"Are you?"
"Am I what? Out of sense?"
"Trying to be better?"
"Where you are concerned, yes."
"If you really believed I would leave, you wouldn't be this calm." He said nothing. His silence confirmed her suspicions. He knew he had the better hand. He was just being kind. A bitter thought rose within her, "Or your infatuation with me has ebbed." His jaw worked, yet he said nothing. "You have done evil things."
"Yes. And they haunt me."
Christine wondered if that was true.
She took a deep breath, "The terms of my contract where quite generous. I will stay. With only a few additional conditions." Squaring her shoulders, she held his gaze, "No hypnosis. No manipulations. No spying. If you impose upon me your will or your person I will leave and owe you nothing."
With the morning light at his back, his face looked as pale white as porcelain, the cut of his cheek bone sharp and hollow. His eyes, which had always held such an unnerving luminescence from within, only looked like a man's eyes, mismatched in color though they were. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Agreed."
Swooping his arm behind him, he adjusted himself on the seat and opened the keyboard lid.
"I have one more term for our bargain." His fingers hovered over the keys. "I want your name. Your Christian name."
"That is not technically a term."
"Fine. I wish to call you by your Christian name for the duration of our contract."
"Names have power."
"Yes. They do."
He pressed the first cord of Rossini's Tancredi aria without releasing her gaze. Of course he would acquiesce. Had he ever denied her? Only once. "Erik. My name is Erik."
Christine's fingers absently brushed over the gilded spines of Mauch Chunk Library's poetry collection. With very few friends and Winter coming on, she found the building full of books a welcome, albeit quiet, friend.
Normally her thoughts would be occupied with the textual challenge before her. English was an impossible language in written form. Poetry, in particular, proved rousing practice. Today, however, a single word overpowered all her thoughts.
Erik. He'd give her a name and it was Erik. Enteral ruler. True king. The lunacy of the name's meaning was not lost on her. What irony. It fit him, though.
His name was Erik. Opening night faded into the background of her thoughts while memories consumed her, taking on a different color now that she had a human name for her torment.
He had a name. Without one, he'd been more a specter than a man. Where once his actions had the trappings of a demonic immortal, now they became the desperation of a man – a talented, artistic man. It was not that naming him gave him any less culpability in his actions, but now Christine was able to fully let die the haunting notions of the otherworld which clung to the memories.
A man had ruled the Opera House. A man had crafted ethereal harmonies. A man wore the mask. A man had manipulated her. A man had demanded an impossible choice of her; one that, no matter the choice, would leave all parties unhappy.
A man had nearly killed her fiancé. A man had killed Joseph Bouquet and Ubaldo Piangi.
A man had sent her away from him after a single kiss.
The fundamental difference in knowing the Phantom's name was this – the Phantom was a demon who could not be reasoned with or repent of his sins. Erik the man had a possibility for redemption. If he wanted it.
And Christine wanted that for him.
After a day in his presence with music about them, Christine felt his absence at last night's performance. For how badly everything ended in Paris, it was still undeniable that they were drawn to each other when music was involved. She was better when he was involved.
A familiar voice pulled Christine from her blind reverie, "Porter honey, you must be more careful around Mr. Y."
"He needs to be more careful of me." Christine peered through the bookcases to see Porter Cummings' hands tightly wrapped around Meg Giry's waist. Her chest tightened at the sight of her old friend. She looked the same, though her features had fully grown in; her nose was still sweet and small, the end still slightly upturned, and her hair still shown a blonde so pale it looked like sun-bleached wheat.
"Yes, he does, but he is—can be a madman. I'd hate to think you'd get hurt in one of his rages."
Porter trailed wet kisses down Meg's neck. "You're such a peach."
"I'm serious, Porter."
His fervent ardor froze immediately, though his hands stayed firm, "He's a thin, strange man. I bet I could kick all the teeth out of his crazy head. He's got nothing on me. Don't put yourself in the middle of this sweet girl. When in doubt, just rip away the mask and he'll crumple to ugly bits."
Meg quieted and let him return to his exploration. "I just worry what would happen to Phantasma if the stri—"
"That," his voice rose, "is none of your concern. Do not speak that word to me." Christine's own shoulders hunched protectively at the tone in his voice. She couldn't fathom how Meg stood tall before him. Porter walked around Meg, until his chin rested on her shoulder, "Meggie you know I'll always take care of you. Whatever happens to that freak charlatan, you'll be taken care of. You want Phantasma all to yourself? I'll make that happen. You want jewels and flowers? I'll ship them in from New York with more admirers. You want the new French girl gone? I'll make that happen too. You want her—"
The rest of Porter's words did not reach her mind. Meg's eyes had found her own through the stacks and what Christine saw there was weary, angry, and cold.
Christine raised her eyebrows, offering help, but Meg turned on her heal to face Porter. When she had done that as a child, it was meant as a diversion for Christine to run away from whatever patron had come to explore the ballet girls. Meg had always been much more charming than her. But more so, Christine did not wish to linger and have to talk to Porter Cummings after eavesdropping on their conversation. Her feet carried her quickly from the library and did not rest in her room until long after dinner.
