Christine's Opera House performance came and went. The crowd cheered and delighted in her European sensibilities.
She smiled and bowed and thanked them yet felt hollow inside. The room was the same drab wood and velvet. The smell of barn animal and human sweat permeated throughout and the hot kerosene lights only made it the smell more powerful. All this Christine could have overlooked, if she had been able to feel Erik in the darkness.
While on stage she searched the ambient darkness, looking for a sign of him anywhere. He remained wholly hidden to her, if he came it all.
And then a week passed. No word from Phantasma came. Her name did not appear on any more Opera House bills. She took to walking the ice streets and watching the river water rush by the railroad tracks. She went to services at the church and longed to hear the organ play instead of listening to the sermon. She did not know if she would not leave or could not leave, but she stayed all the same.
A sly type of unease took hold in Christine. She had thought that if only she stayed in town, Erik would return to her, unable to stay away long. Clearly, she'd misgauged her magnetism. Yet she caught Sam out of the corner of her eye every day. Just lolling. Just watching. When she'd call for him, he would shake his head no. Be close, but not too close, Erik must have bid. It was the only thing that rose her spirits at all.
It was late in the evening on an uninteresting day when Christine's immobile unease broke. She'd not slept well and when she had, her dreams were haunted with men running in the darkness around her. Out her hotel room widow she watched Sam hover close by. It was sweet and reassuring to see him – carefully walking the cracks in the pavement, trying valiantly not to stare at the front of the building.
Truth finally set in, firming her resolve. Erik had dissolved her contract. Released her and hadn't even shed a single tear. The pain in her heart throbbed and she took shallow breaths to ease it.
Where would she go? Back to New York? Paris? Neither option seemed right. But she had no place to go and little money to get anywhere. Her sorrow twisted to resentment. Ten years and still he played with her like she was a doll – beautiful and expendable. Did he even care what would happen to her? How could he both want her close and yet want her gone?
He'd said he wanted to protect her. Didn't he realize he's always done a poor job of that? When were his plans ever with the intent to protect anyone? It had taken ten year, but had become clear – she had to be her own protector. No one else would do. It was time to tell her Phantom he had no say where she go or what she do.
He could cancel her contract, but he could not make her leave.
He would say he wanted her gone, but she wanted him. He was worried for her safety? Well then he could live in fear and guilt for a little while longer. She deserved to fuse her desire for him with his love of her. She would take nothing less.
Removing Erik's warm house coat, she drew on her own heavier coat and slammed the door behind her. Her steps filled the hallway with her sense of purpose, renewed and defiant. Sam jumped to attention as she exited the front double doors. Christine called him with her hand turning toward the train station.
"Where are we going?"
"I think it's high time I see this Spectacular you go on and on about." The boy stopped in his tracks.
"Are you sure?"
She bought both their tickets with a few coins from her pocket and did not stop to reassure him. "Do you want to sit inside or outside?"
"Outside."
.
Sam tinkered with a mess of metal scraps in his lap. He carefully twisted and wound silver wire along the threads of the pieces, creating an intricate pattern in his wake.
"Que faites-vous?" She asked.
He shrugged, "Je ne sais pas encore." He'd answered her well. He was learning.
"Are you making it for someone? It looks like a butterfly."
"Oh, that's not good."
"Why?"
"She's scared of butterflies."
"So it is for someone." He shrugged again, his face a vibrant red, and began unwinding the silver wire into a new shape.
"Why do you want to see the Spectacular?"
"Didn't you say I had to see it. Isn't Miss Meg wonderful in it?" Christine tried to keep her tone light, but it was hard.
"Mr. Y said you shouldn't come back to Phantasma."
"Do you think Mr. Y is always right?"
Sam nodded.
"Mr. Y asked me to leave and not come back." The small boy's head shot up at her statement, his fingers stilling in the twists of wire.
"But I like you. I want you to stay."
"I like you too, Sam. And I would like to stay." They sat in silence for a time, the dark trees rushing past them in the outside coach.
"I don't think Mr. Y is right about this," he whispered.
"Neither do I."
"What do we do?"
"Do you think Mr. Y will know if I'm in Phantasma tonight." The boy's head dropped back to his work, his cheeks burning. "Sam?"
"Mr. Y always knows when you're coming to Phantasma." Christine struggled to understand why that statement brought her more satisfaction than unease.
If you asked Christine Daaé to explain her emotions standing again before the Phantasma Colosseum she would be unable to tell you a single clear emotion in her heart or her head. The bravado she'd formed, so brazen just minutes before, seemed to evaporate completely as she watched groups of tourists crowd through the archways to their seats.
There were hundreds of people. She was just one of the throng. Sam took her hand. "There is a better spot for you to watch around his way," he pointed to a darker corridor to their right.
She shook her head at him. She wanted Erik to seek her out. She would not grovel to him to keep her. "No. I want to see the show just like everyone else does. No special treatment." He was disappointed in her answer but led her through the main archway.
From their seats in the middle of the Colosseum, she could see that the building must have been built into the ground. A detail she had not noticed, preoccupied as she was during her last visit. An additional tier of seats rose behind her and one below, yet the building had not looked so large and imposing from the outside. He was always good with tricks.
The lights were already dim throughout the space and the familiar smell of sawdust and tar filled the air. The center stage was a wide, round circle in the middle of the arena and thousands of ropes twisted and rose from rigging about it.
Three resounding drumbeats boomed throughout the space, reminding Christine of thunder, and the crowd went silent.
Come along and follow us.
Follow if you dare to.
Invisible voices rang over the audience.
A lone figure walked out in the near darkness to the center stage. Drumbeats began again, low and fervent, gaining speed and ferocity as they continued. When Christine felt her own heart rush at the same speed, they thundered twice more. On the final downbeat the arena flooded with colored light. The women and children around her gasped.
Meg Giry in tight-fitting men's riding attire and hip cocked askew, smiled widely, lifted her hand, and directed music to fill the space in a way Christine had never heard before.
Dancers and acrobats and all manner of acts filled the floor below, smoothly transitioning from one feat to another, creating a moving tableau so vibrant and arresting that Christine didn't know where to look. It truly was spectacular. Over the commotion, Meg welcomed the world to Phantasma and Mr. Y's Spectacular. She bid them join her in the strange and exciting imagings they were about to see. And in the burst of light and smoke she disappeared.
The scenes melted into one another, shifting performers and colors as the music changed. When Meg returned, it was by rising from a rock in the middle of the stage, a large blue mermaid tail encasing her legs. Her golden hair looked nearly white under the spotlights, falling in endless curls past her waist and covering the exposed skin of her upper body.
And at last, the bathing beauty of our show!
Bathing beauty, say hello!
Christine couldn't help but compare the sheer magnitude of all Phantasma to Don Juan Triumphant. Erik's previous work paled in comparison to this lush and exciting display of otherworldly sights. The vibrant colors alone made the older work even more drab in her memory.
And yet.
Any yet, as exciting and exhilarating as everything was, Christine could not shake the feeling that there was an inescapable sadness throughout. A melancholy she couldn't quite place. But it was there: a living, breathing part of the throng.
She felt him then, a light, ghosting caress at the base of her neck. The tingle of his touch drizzled down her spine in a slow stroke, pooling in her stomach. He may want her gone, but he could not stay away. A fuzziness began to fill her ears and she swerved in her seat, looking for the darkest shadowed corner she could find. Realizing that she would not decipher his eyes in time, Christine bent her head to Sam and asked to take her to the better seating he'd recommended.
Sam jumped to attention and pulled her hand until she rose. The fuzziness dissipated instantly.
"Up there," Sam pointed to a set of wooden rafters, two flights above the farthest mezzanine. The people around them paid the pair no mind, still too enthralled with acrobatics before them.
"Aren't you coming?" Sam didn't answer, but merely looked up. Furrowing her brow at the passive face on her little guide's, she followed his gaze to see Eric standing at the top of the stairs. She shouldn't have been surprised, it was exactly what she'd wanted, yet her heart gave a start at his sudden appearance nonetheless.
She lifted her skirts and took to the stairs, the music around her deafening and the vibrations of it reverberating through her body in a strange, unholy type of way. It wasn't until she was next to Erik on the landing, protected by a gently wrapping structure around them, that the sound muffled to a tolerable level.
Christine spoke first, "I thought we agreed. No hypnosis." She imagined his swollen eyebrow arching under his mask.
"I thought I had released you from your contract."
She would ignore his provocation for now. She'd ended nothing, and his presence here, now, with her, must mean something. She looked out over the performance. "It really is spectacular, Mr. Y." She could see him frown out of the corner of her eye. "I had to see it for myself."
"And you think it is spectacular." Christine wasn't sure if his statement was a question or not. Leaning forward, he braced his hand on the thin iron rail lining the landing.
"Meg looks beautiful out there. The audience hangs on her every word."
"Yes. She does command their attention well." A small spark of jealously flickered in Christine's heart at Erik's tone. Meg had had so many more years with him. He'd probably written hundreds of songs and spectacles for her. Still she'd stood there and let him be beaten.
Would there have been any world where it all could have been Christine? Was this the plan from the beginning for the Populaire?
Those thoughts where foolish. Nothing so wonderful as this would have ever manifested in Paris.
"You should have left last week, Christine."
"I did not wish to go. I like this little town."
His hand gripped the iron and she barely heard his murmured plea, "God give me courage."
Christine stepped back, unwilling to see his face when she asked, "Are you really sending me away?"
"Yes." He turned, and her gaze fell to the floor. "'It will be safer for you if you go."
She couldn't bear to tell him she had nowhere else to go. "What if I don't care about being safe? What if I want to stay?"
"Christine –"
"I don't want to leave. I won't."
His hand rose to capture her chin, but he stopped before he touched her skin. The longing in his eyes warred with a familiar look of madness. "Woman, please do not tempt me past reason."
At his words, she quieted. She waited, and found she had little fear for what would overtake him. Erik's madness flowed in waves of rage, however, all the people around him now he had pulled here. He would not lose all sense in this safe haven he'd created. Then again, he had warned her he had little sense where she was concerned.
Or, with astonishment she realized, perhaps she didn't really care if anyone else got hurt. As long as she was allowed to stay beside him. Her stomach fell for reasons wholly unrelated to the man beside her. Had her empathy really whittled away to so little? Raoul's words came rushing to her ears – There is no heart left in you Christine. When did you become so cold inside?
Christine took his hand. She had no courage to speak words of love, but tried to speak the truth, "If I wanted to leave you, I would have done so when you revealed yourself me. I've chosen to stay. I want to stay."
He placed the crown of his head at hers. Tears – his tears – began to fall lightly on her cheeks. Her heart swelled in hope. She would win. He did love her and would keep her.
"The train to New York leaves tonight at nine. You should be on that train Christine."
His hand was cold in hers, taunt with tension, but he did not pull away. "There is nothing so dangerous as you, Erik. And I am safe with you. I don't wish to leave." Don't send me away.
The thunder of drums filled the arena and shattered their quiet intimacy, the cheers of the crowd returning to their ears. All at once, Erik released her and she shivered at the loss of his fingers intwined with hers.
Searching for his eyes, Christine lifted her head. He was already backing away from her as though desperate for the space. His eyes – those vibrant mismatched eyes of his were dead inside. "No one is safe with me. I want you gone from my sight and out of this town by morning."
.
I apologize if my French is horrendous.
