"And which river does the Lackawanna flow into?"
The Susquehanna, Christine absently answered while she marked the children's arithmetic at the back of the schoolhouse, Charlotte asleep on her lap. Hanna nodded in approval when Thomas answered correctly.
"And which river is closest to the Susquehanna?"
"The Allegheny," Sam hollered from his seat. He was very proud that these answers came easily for him. They should, he'd heard them often enough.
"Sam remember to raise your hand." Christine smiled to herself. "And what river does the Allegheny flow into?"
The Ohio River. When the students collectively answered correctly, Hanna passed out sweet mints from Mr. Y. For the last three days, class ended in this geography lesson and the children seemed delighted by the certain routine.
And like the days before, the children began to whisper amongst themselves as their candy melted in their mouths. It was at these times, her constant worry would blossom again in her chest. They were all so little. What is something terrible would happen? Especially to those without parents. How could she, a woman with relatively little money and no power, protect them all?
Like their elders, they spoke in hushed tones about what was to come next, trading what their mothers had said, or what they'd overheard from other Phantasma performers. To stop them would only cause more fear or more children's gossip – both of which would only lead to trouble.
Hanna smiled tightly from the front of the room, excusing the children early to end the chatter.
Sam stayed, hugging Christine's shoulder as she corrected his math. "You did well Sam." Elijah refused to look up from his new book, The Count of Monte Cristo.
"I could have done better. Sevens confuse me."
"I don't know why," Elijah answered, eyes still firmly in his book. "Seven. Fourteen. Twenty-one. Twenty-eight."
"What's seven times three hundred forty-two?"
Christine counted five seconds, "Two thousand three hundred and ninety-four." There was no question in Sam's mind that his friend was right.
"Show off."
"Run off to Mr. Y now," Hanna slid more chalkboards on Christine's desk, "He'll be expecting your help tonight before the show." With a nod, he took to his mission and rushed out the door, the other children quickly following.
"You're sweet with Sam," Hanna commented, sitting down opposite Christine.
"He's a good boy. Smart, charming. They all are. I don't want to see them get hurt."
"He is a good boy." The teacher looked toward the door the children had gone through, replaying a memory she would not share.
"What happened to his parents?"
"His mother died giving birth to his little brother. The child did not survive. And his father died a few years later."
"How did Mr. Y find him?"
"Like he found most of us." Christine set her chalk down, her full attention now on Hanna. "Miss Meg did most of the finding, I reckon. Maunch Chunk is a small town with hard work in it. We do our best. The railroad is better than the coal mines. But word gets out when a strange man sets up shop in these parts. Word got around that he paid better wages and had better conditions. People gravitate toward that."
"And the children?"
"He has no perversions. He allowed us to build this school and he fed and clothed the orphans. The only reason he gives Sam errands is he kept getting underfoot." A wistful smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, "Mr. Y would find him in all sorts of wires and contraptions in the fun house. 'How does this work? What does this do? Can I make the sparks happen?' It was dangerous. Sending him off with letters or an errand kept him out of trouble and out of Mr. Y's hair."
If only Hanna really knew about his hair. "I can imagine. It's a taste of Mr. Y's own medicine."
"What do you mean?"
At the quizzical look, Christine paused. How did she answer without giving too much away? It was clear the people of Phantasma enjoyed they mystery of its owner more than whatever the truth would be. Somehow she knew the truth would disappointment them. "He used to fiddle with things and it mostly ended badly for him."
It was an understatement of the century.
"So you did know him before."
"Before?"
"Before all this."
"Yes."
"And is he how you left him? Still the same strange dreamer?"
"No. Yes… he's different, and yet, the same – is that how you see him? A strange dreamer?"
"Most of us just call him strange. But he's created all of this. And Phantasma is something like the future, I believe. So, yes. He is a strange dreamer." Christine's heart softened at the explanation. It was the kindest one she'd ever heard about Erik. It was a far cry from 'monster' and that pleased her to her core. These people understood him in a kind way; they weren't afraid of what they didn't know. "Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"Where does he come from?" At Christine's face, Hanna clarified: "I mean, surely you met him in Paris, but we have all these ideas about where he came from. I think he's from someplace hot. He's always so bundled up in the cold. Since you knew him before, I just assumed you knew."
But Christine didn't know. She'd never even thought to ask. She'd just assumed that he had always been living there – in his unremarkable little home by a lake at the bottom of the opera house. She'd just assumed he'd been born of the world fully formed and methodical. To think some place, or someone, had molded Erik into what he had been was too sad, too horrible a thought. What a childhood that must have been. A childhood fit for no one.
Shame and tenderness flooded Christine's cheeks. Erik was a man who deserved respect and protection and the world before Phantasma had given him none. She had given him none. All because God had deemed such grace and mastery could not also be beautiful. "Mr. Y has only ever been a mystery."
Hanna smiled then at Christine, a knowing, somewhat saccharine smile. She saw the pitiably selfishness Christine languished over in her mind.
"The mask, why does he wear it?"
An easier question, to be sure, but just as dangerous to answer. "Why does it matter?"
"It doesn't. I'm simply curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."
A laugh burst from Hanna's chest. At the sound, all the tension in the room evaporated and Hanna's smile seem friendly again once more. "Fine. Then tell me what it's like to kiss him with it on." Christine couldn't help but laugh with her.
"Frustrating." She flushed at the memories of Erik's lips on her own. Heavens, how she hated the hinderance it could be in kissing him deeply.
It was a remarkable delight, to speak of loving him casually, with very little stigma coloring the conversation.
Hanna sobered first and took Christine's hand in her own, "Be careful tonight," she warned.
"Why would I need to be careful?"
"I just feel it's appropriate to caution a lamb before it walks willingly into slaughter." Christine's face lost all color at Hanna's words. "I'm sorry, Christine. That was not a kind thing to say." She rose to collect her things and leave. "I just mean that tonight is dangerous and several men have many plans. I fear that Mr. Y, even in his brilliance doesn't know about all of them."
"Hanna, if you know something, please tell me."
"I don't. I don't really know anything. But rich men and foolish men are all the same, no matter the shoes they shine. To them vengeance is justice and they cannot be reasoned with."
Christine's gaze bored into Hanna's, demanding she tell her more. "What are the strikers planning to do?"
"Hanna I need to borrow your yellow—" Christine turned at the familiar voice, raspy and warm behind her. Mol Weaver stopped at the sight of the two women. "Well, hello."
"Mol."
"Christine." She smiled tightly, "Have a good day." And like that, Christine was dismissed, the conversation with Hanna completed without clear answers.
It doesn't really matter what they're planning, my love. All that matters is my plan.
Christine made her way from the small village back through the maze-like paths of Phantasma, careful to appear inconspicuous to the families enjoying the amusements. She had no mind of the cold that blew around her, or the hours her feet lingered on the trail. Instead, she took in every view of Phantasma she could, trying to see through Erik's eyes.
It really was a marvelous place. Strange, yes, but still wonderous in its own way.
Did you find none of it beautiful? None of it beguiling? Was there not some small part of it you could find to love?
A familiar melody reached her ears from a man playing the hand accordion before the carousel. For a moment, Christine swore she could feel the warm breezes of Montmartre ruffling her skirt. Homesickness for Paris only deepened her melancholy. It was a place she would never return to, if bound to him.
To love the Phantasma was to love Erik. He'd said as much. She'd been drawn to everything in the amusement park, even in the fun house, though the affinity unsettled her and the fear still lingered in her body. What was she, if she found such strange things beautiful?
She loved Erik. She knew what that said about her.
Even before all this, he'd enthralled her with his voice and creativity and brilliance. For the last ten years she'd longed to be lost in that thrall again, if only he'd been alive. And now, standing before him, in a world of his own making, she cowardly held fast to social convention, though she demanded differently for herself.
The shame of her selfishness and hypocrisy burned in her chest. It wasn't that she did not love Phantasma. It was that she did not understand it. When she looked at his creations there was a sharp sadness in all of it, as though no one would ever really understand the true beauty. She included herself in that assessment. She could appreciate the spectacle and marvel at the genius, but truly understand it? Christine feared she did not have the mind for that.
Would he respect her if she could not fully understand him? Love her, yes. He'd already proven he could love her and love her passionately. But they would need more, or eventually he would grow tired of her. She could not watch his love turn to hate – or worse, apathy – not when she would never be able to let him go.
He had asked her if she could love him. Could. Not did she; not had she always. Could she. As though the last weeks of their romance promised him nothing.
It was time to tell him. To say that she loved him, was in love with him – that she had been for so long, she knew no other type of love. She'd hoarded her love for him, wallowed and mourned in it, and would now protect it at all costs.
She prayed that he would hear her and believe her words. She prayed that he would listen.
.
Dearest readers - I want to take this moment to wish you the Happiest of Holidays and sincerely thank you for all the reads, comments, and reblogs. This story has been a steady part of my life now for over a year and I'm so glad that you are enjoying it as much I have. Truly, thank you.
I also wanted to let you know that there will not be an update next Saturday (12/26). After the Halloween crash, I don't want to take any chances. (Poor Chapter 15 still glares at me about it.) INSTEAD! There will be an in-verse one shot called The Christmas We Deserve releasing on 12/22. I will be posting it as a separate story from this timeline, so if you want more Erik/Christine/Orphan children sweetness (it's totally K rated) be on the lookout!
