Christine honestly didn't know what she had been expecting, but despite his having called it a house, she certainly hadn't been expecting an actual house so far underground.
He tied the boat to a ring in the stones of the dock, and Christine scrambled up from where she was sitting, causing the whole boat to rock back and forth just slightly. Erik stepped up with a more practiced, graceful manner, and he took the lantern with him before motioning for Christine to follow him.
Her eyes were constantly drawn back to the little house, which for all appearances seemed to truly be a normal little house like what one might find anywhere else. Their first stop, however, was not the house but something a mere dozen yards away from the house. True to his word he showed her where the tunnel with the rope was, and she examined it anxiously.
"Will you show me where the top is, too? Later, I mean."
"Of course, if you wish."
The rope looked sturdy enough, but it did little to ease her worries.
"Is it easy to steer the boat, Erik?" she surprised him by asking as they made their way to the house.
"Anything is easy if you do it enough, I suppose."
"Do you think I could do it myself?"
"I can't imagine why you'd want to, but I assume you could eventually get the hang of it," he shrugged.
"But I suppose if you take the route with the rope, you leave the boat here by your house..."
He frowned. What was she getting at?
"Is something on your mind, Christine?"
"No," she said quickly.
He was confused but left it at that.
As they approached the front door he fished a keyring out of his pocket and left the lantern by the doorstep, and Christine wondered what the other half dozen keys on it were for. He unlocked the front door before pausing and glancing behind at her.
"Christine," he said carefully. "You know you can leave at any time, yes? Just say the word and I will take you back upstairs immediately, no questions asked, okay?"
"Okay," she nodded.
He pushed the door open, holding it for her. She went inside, and he followed her, locking the door behind him, hoping that she wouldn't be frightened by all the turning deadbolts sealing her in the house with him. He turned and saw she was watching him, waiting for him to show her where to go past the the little entryway. He took a deep breath, trying to straighten this jacket. She just kept staring at him with those trusting eyes, and truth be told he was quite flustered by it all. Now that he actually had her in his house, he didn't know what to do with her.
"To the sitting room," he said stupidly, and then he remembered that Christine had no idea where the sitting room was.
"Right," he nodded as though a question had been asked, but one most certainly had not.
Feeling like the greatest boor who ever lived, he walked past her in the hopes that she would follow him. A glance behind told him that she was in fact following him, and he relaxed just a little.
Christine was surprised by the entryway, which had holes in the walls with wires sticking out of them. It looked rather like what some of the places in the opera house had looked like when they installed the new electric lights, and she wondered if Erik was outfitting his home in a similar fashion.
They passed a room that Christine only got a glimpse of, but her eyes widened at it. It was filled with all sorts of things, but in the middle on a large table looked to be a large dollhouse that was suspiciously similar to the opera house. Erik glanced back again, concerned when he saw Christine pause outside that doorway.
"Come along, Christine."
She scurried to catch up with him. He led her into a room that had a fire going in the fireplace, a couch and various bookshelves full of titles that Christine longed to linger over and discover what her maestro liked to read about in his spare time. The walls that were not covered in bookshelves had a green striped wallpaper, and the room was lit with gas lamps.
But to one side of the room was a piano - and Christine stared at it, suddenly filled with nostalgia. The intricately carved spindly legs, the delicate inlay on the cover over the keys, the pale polished wood that seemed to shine - Christine had seen many pianos in her life, but this one looked just like one she'd thought she'd never see again.
Erik noticed her staring at it and it pulled his from his stupor of not knowing what to do. He waved her to the couch.
"Sit, sit, my dear - it's been a long journey and you need your rest. Would you like me to play for you?"
"Oh, would you?" she sat down, placing Jammes' slippers next to her, her eyes still on the replica of the piano from her childhood.
He sat at the piano bench with a flourish, lifting the cover off the keys and immediately jumping into playing. It was a cheery little song that Christine had heard many times before, but hearing it played by him was like hearing it in a way she'd never heard before. Halfway through he deviated from the original song, adding in his own changes to it, rearranging parts and making it come alive, adding depth to it in a way she didn't know was possible.
He finished the song and paused afterwards, not sure if he was merely considering what to play next or if he was waiting to hear her opinion of it.
"It's a lovely piano," she said wistfully. "And you play it so wonderfully."
Erik ducked his head, feeling unaccountably shy. He knew he was an expert at the piano, but hearing Christine say it made him feel bashful for some reason.
"My mother played the piano," she said. "She had one just like that, with the carvings on the legs."
She smiled a little at the memory, and Erik turned on the bench to face her.
"I'm sure she was quite excellent," he offered.
"Oh, I suppose," her smile faded, and she looked away. "I never even knew her, or got to hear her play. She died a few hours after I was born. Papa said she was a beautiful musician, though."
Erik simply watched her, noticing the pained look on face, wondering if perhaps she ever blamed herself for her mother's death in the same way he blamed himself for ruining his own mother's life. It was a heavy burned for a young heart to bear, he knew.
"I'm very sorry, Christine."
She blinked against the unwelcome sting in her eyes and tried - and mostly failed - to laugh.
"It's alright," she said. "You know- you know sometimes I really miss her, isn't that silly? How can you miss someone you never even knew? I'm terribly silly, I'm afraid."
"I don't think you're silly at all, Christine," he said softly.
He longed to sit next to her and pull her into his lap, to wipe away every tear of hers and sing to her until she felt better, to press kisses to her forehead until her little smile returned, to murmur sweet words to her until she'd never call herself silly again, but instead he continued to sit on the bench, unmoving. He stilled himself with the image he often drew to mind nowadays, with the memory he'd call to mind whenever he needed to be grounded in reality before his thoughts got carried away - he brought to the front of his mind the all-too-painful time that her tears had been caused him, the time that she had run from him while shouting the declaration of her hatred towards him.
She hated him once. She might hate him again in the future. She might even still hate him now, in some secret part of her heart. She hated him, and he would not take her into his arms and give her all the more reason to hate him, no matter how tender the emotion behind it or how well intentioned his actions.
She rubbed at her eyes.
"Thank you," she said, and she sounded like she meant it.
"What about you?" she blinked at him. "Do you have any family?"
He hesitated a moment.
"Not that I know of," he frowned.
"Oh, I'm sorry-"
"No, it's alright. My mother died some time ago, but by then I hadn't seen her or spoken to her since I was quite a small boy. It- it was not a loss for me, when I learned of her passing... Just as I am sure she felt that it was not a loss for her when she found I had left."
Christine looked somber as she listened to him.
"Was she- was she cruel to you, then?" she asked quietly.
He sighed. Christine was a sweet girl, far too sweet to hear the reality of his childhood and how his mother had hated him despite how desperate he had been for her approval. He smiled sadly. It hadn't been his intent to upset poor Christine, but it also was not his intent to lie to her.
"She was," he agreed. "She was not a cruel woman, I do not think... But she was cruel to me. She was widowed young after an accident, and I was the only child she ever had - the only child I know of, that is. I left when I was still very young, and I do not know if she ever remarried after I was gone. Perhaps somewhere out there I have a half brother or sister... Perhaps they have also found someone to marry and have children with... There could be any number of nieces or nephews out there, I suppose, but I don't know them, and they shall never know me, either."
He paused a moment before adding, "And it is better that way, I think. If they never know."
Christine bit her lip at how sad he sounded.
"I'm sorry that you feel that way," she tried, searching for some words that might comfort or cheer him but coming up with nothing.
He shook his head.
"It doesn't matter. She probably never married again, anyway. After me, life seemed to have stopped for her. She didn't keep track of time anymore, or celebrate holidays. She used to have portraits done every season, but not- not after me. When I left, I hoped that my absence might change that, but... I am uncertain if it did."
Her brow furrowed. He had said it twice now - when he left - and she still didn't quite understand what he meant. Surely he didn't-
"Erik," she asked in a small voice. "What do you mean when you say that? That you left?"
He waved a hand in a small flourish.
"I just... left."
"You ran away?"
He nodded.
"Oh," she sighed. "Well where did you go?"
His jaw tightened and turned away from her on the bench.
"I will tell you if truly wish it, Christine, but that is not a story I enjoy telling."
"Oh!" she cried, realizing she was being rude. "I'm sorry, never mind then. I didn't mean- I didn't-"
"It's alright, Christine," he glanced back at her, his expression softening. "You're a good girl, I know you didn't mean any harm. Would you like to hear another song, my dear?"
"Yes, please," she settled back on the couch and he immediately began what she certain was supposed to be a sweet sounding song, but after their conversation it was tinged with sadness.
She shifted a little on the couch. How she wished she could join him on the bench, put her arms around him and rest her head on his shoulder. A hug from a friend always made her feel better when she was sad, and she didn't think she'd ever known anyone as sad as Erik. He was always so quick to say kind things to her, to tell her she was sweet and good and compliment her. But who had ever said such things to him? Had anyone ever told him he was good, or had he only been scolded as a child?
She hugged her knees close to her, watching his back as he played. She couldn't imagine her life without her papa - she would have been lost without him. What kind of life had Erik known, on his own when he was still so young, all by himself in the entire world? No one to make sure he had a warm blanket when it snowed, no one to cook him soup when he was sick, no one to hold his hand when he was scared, no one to tell him stories before he fell asleep? Her poor heart couldn't bear it. Poor Erik.
The song came to a finish and he sighed. The melody had been sad, too sad - he hadn't meant to make it so, but he was certain that Christine could also tell that he had let his emotions seep into his playing. He turned to her suddenly.
"I have a picture of my mother, somewhere - would you like to see it?"
She nodded, uncurling her legs from under her.
"She lived in a rather rural little town, but she attracted the eye of a quite wealthy man, and as such she was able to afford to commission an artist to paint her quite often," he explained as he rose from the bench and headed towards a closed door at one side of the room.
Erik opened the door and searched for a few minutes in the closet, and Christine could hear the sound of boxes being moved around. He emerged a moment later holding a small frame. He stared at it as he walked it over to Christine.
"My mother," he said, holding it out to her as he sat on the other end of the couch.
Christine gasped at the delicately painted portrait of the young woman.
"She's beautiful," Christine breathed, then blushed a little as she began to notice that the woman in the painting actually looked rather like herself.
"She was," Erik agreed.
"Is this really what she looked like?" Christine tore her eyes away from the image to look at Erik. "Are there any photographs of her?"
She knew that painters often took a bit of artistic license, or perhaps the subject would request to be portrayed a certain way with a flaw or two glossed over and hidden.
A smile played at Erik's lips.
"You flatter me, my dear, but no - I'm afraid this was rather before photography was around. Erik is a bit on the older side, you see, and this was her last portrait, done a few months before I came along."
She nodded gravely.
"But this is how I remember her looking," he added.
He left out the part where her face had never worn this sweet, angelic smile when he was around as it did in the portrait, that she was still beautiful when he knew her but that her face had always been twisted into a scowl or etched with a frightened revulsion as she looked at him - a revulsion that, as a very small child, he had never quite realized was directed at and caused by him, not until he was a little older and understood that the monster in the mirror was his own face and then - then he understood, he understood and he had been crushed. He did not tell Christine all that.
"You can imagine her disappointment in me, then," was all he said, softly.
Christine pursed her lips as she stared down at the young woman who looked so much like her, but was not her. Bright eyes and sparkling smile, wavy hair in cascading curls, finely embroidered dress. Christine remembered her own horror at first seeing Erik's terrible face, and she tried to imagine that twisted flesh in infant form. She tried to imagine what it would it be like to find she was expecting a child, to wait nine long months with a head full of hopes and dreams for that child, to know that her child would be the only piece of her departed husband she'd ever have, her only connection to her beloved, and then suffering through labor and finally, finally reaching for her baby from the midwife, and then-
That same horror she felt when she first saw him.
But Erik hadn't asked to exist. He hadn't asked to look as he did. Christine could understand disappointment, and even fear at first, but she couldn't understand a mother not loving her child. Especially not over something like that. His mother hadn't done anything that warranted or earned such beauty, just as baby Erik hadn't done anything to deserve such a face. Fate was a mere coin toss, and it could be cruel at times, but that did not mean that the people affected by its cruelty had to also be cruel in return.
With that in mind, Christine thought that perhaps she had no right to judge her. Perhaps she didn't know the extent of what it was like. As Erik had said, it was so long ago, in a little rural town, probably filled with superstition. What would it be like for a young widow to have a child like that? Was she shunned by the rest of the town? Did they whisper about her whenever she walked into a room? Had little Erik been seen as a portent of doom? Sitting here in comfort and safety, it was easy for Christine to say to herself that she would love her child even if it had a face like Erik's, but if she were suddenly in his mother's place and time, would she still find it so easy?
Her thoughts became distracted by the how and why of what would lead to the reality of her imagined scenario, and the only possible reason she would ever need to be truly concerned over having a child that looked like Erik was one that made her cheeks feel too warm.
She handed the painting back to him, smiling kindly and hoping that the images that were in her mind a mere second ago weren't too clearly written on her face.
Erik's heart skipped a beat to see her smiling at him. Ever since their long ago agreement to pretend that the things in the past had not happened, he was never quite certain if, in all the times she was so kind to him, she was pretending or not. Did she truly hold some sort of distant affection for him? Or was she merely being polite, the same way that she'd smile and say hello to a stranger on the street, only to have forgotten all about them as soon as they were out of view? He was deeply ashamed to admit that to him, it didn't matter. He'd take whatever she saw fit to give him, fake smiles, feigned interest, politeness for politeness's sake - and just like a beaten dog at her feet, he'd lap it up and beg for more.
"What was that room we passed before we came in here?" she suddenly asked, changing the subject.
"Ah, that. It is my work room."
"Work room?" she was curious. "What kind of work do you do?"
He shrugged.
"All sorts. Just things, here and there. Would you like me to get you some tea? I'm afraid I've been a terrible host in not offering sooner," he fretted, standing up.
"Tea would be lovely, thank you," she replied.
He quickly left to prepare the tea, and Christine found herself all alone.
work room
What a terribly vague answer he had given her. She was plagued with curiosity about it and all the things she'd glimpsed inside. Surely... surely she'd have time to sneak just another peek at it and then return here to the couch before he finished brewing the tea.
She tiptoed out of the room and down the hallway before creeping inside to get a closer look at that dollhouse she was wildly curious about.
It truly was a very large dollhouse, or what looked to be a dollhouse, at least - a scale replica of the Opera Populaire, and she marveled at the intricate detail. She carefully approached it and brought her face very close so that she could admire it. She let out a little gasp at what she found inside.
It truly must have been a dollhouse of sorts, because it had little dolls inside. Carefully carved figures were strategically placed inside - she could see little Andre and Firmin in the managers' office, a miniature Madame Giry holding a letter behind the concierge desk, a tiny Carlotta painted with a scowling face was standing backstage, and in the audience - in Box Five, to be exact - was a small Erik, complete with miniature mask covering half of his otherwise brooding face. She grinned at how he watched the little stage, his bright eyes staring down, and she followed the doll's gaze to the stage, only to gasp again.
It was her, a little Christine doll, her articulated joints allowing her arms to be lifted up and hands outstretched as though she were basking in the applause of a full house after a glorious performance.
Christine - the human Christine - had always wanted a dollhouse when she was a child, but due to how often she and her father moved, her having one had never been feasible. She had constructed one, once, of a small little crate that someone had tossed into the garbage, just a simple house with one room and three walls and a ceiling - but it had been far too small to fit the only doll she owned, so she simply had to pretend. It was still more of a house than she and her papa often lived in.
She leaned in closer to get a better look at the Christine doll. Her tiny doppelgänger had a radiant grin and a little wig of gloriously curly hair, her makeup was applied perfectly and she seemed to very nearly shimmer and glow. Christine had never seen a doll as fine as this - it was the most delicate and exquisite creation she had ever seen. Oh, was this how Erik saw her?
In the kitchen, Erik finished preparing two cups of tea - one with extra lemon - and took them back to room they had been in, which was now surprisingly devoid of Christine. He frowned at the stillness, stopped in the doorway. How the devil could he have lost her already? He quickly left and began to search for her. Had she tried to flee him? Was she trying to escape? His heart ached at the thought. Hadn't he told her that he'd take back up whenever she wanted? She didn't need to run from him like that.
She examined the finely stitched dress the doll was wearing. It didn't seem to be a costume she had ever seen before, and it was most certainly not a dress she owned in real life. The skirt had layers and layers and the bodice was cut with fluted ruffles and there was the most delicate lace at the sleeves. If Christine didn't know any better, she'd say the dress almost looked like a wedding dress...
She squinted her eyes, trying to make out if the little doll version of her was wearing a ring or not, but before she could tell if her other self was truly married (to whom? How absurd) a soft noise in the doorway drew her attention. Erik stood there staring at her, holding a teacup in either hand, bemused.
"Your dollhouse is magnificent," she whispered with awe and envy.
"It's not a dollhouse, Christine," he sounded terribly put out. "It's an architectural model."
He entered the room and set the tea cups on a table before showing her how the model opened up, giving view to each new slice as another part was pulled to the side.
She watched with unbridled wonder as he showed it off, a work of spectacular genius, in her mind. The retort that had been on the tip of her tongue - if it's not a dollhouse why are there dolls in it - died as she took in all the myriad details.
"How did you ever find such a thing, Erik?"
He glanced at her.
"Find it? I made it."
"Made it? All by yourself? Whatever for?"
"It's an architectural model, as I said. It was to show what the opera house would look like after it was completed - a way to convince those with the funding that all their money would be worth it."
Christine stared at it a while longer.
"Did you get it from the architect who built the opera house?"
He turned to her, eyebrow raised.
"I am the architect who built the opera house."
Her eyes widened.
"Oh," she breathed. "I had no idea."
A thought suddenly occurred to her, and she played with her fingers nervously.
"Were- were you very young when you started building it?" she asked shyly.
Construction on the Opera Populaire had started twenty or so years ago, she knew - what she didn't know was how long it might take one to become good enough of an architect to construct such a building.
He frowned. He realized she was hinting at wanting to know how old he was, but even he didn't know that.
"A little older than you, I'm sure... I couldn't have been out of my twenties, I don't think."
She nodded slowly.
"I see," was all she said.
Erik was glad that her questions were focused on anything other than the doll he'd created of her - a doll he'd certainly never intended her to see, especially not in that dress. Perhaps she hadn't noticed. He turned the model building about until the scene with the Christine doll in the wedding dress he had designed was safely out of her view. Her attention was now drawn to all the various items on the room instead of the dolls, and he was grateful - until he wasn't.
In his haze of unthinkingness, he had forgotten that his house was in no way prepared for visitors of any kind. As such, there were numerous things lying about that he would have otherwise packed away before Christine could catch sight of them.
She was staring at the marble bust in the corner, but it wasn't the carved figure that caught her eye, no - it was the wig placed over it that made her curious as she looked at it. It looked practically exactly like Erik's hair, and she knew she shouldn't stare, but she simply couldn't help how her eyes slid over to Erik and settled on his hair. His face was blank but his shoulders were stiff, and she looked back at the wig - the spare wig, that is, and she had a realization.
"Oh," she said it so quietly she didn't even know she said it out loud.
Why did he wear a wig? She thought of why he wore the mask, and her mind suddenly shied away from the thought of what might be under the wig and tried to think of other things. She didn't need to know what was under the wig.
She turned to take her teacup off of the table and inhaled the steam coming off of it.
"This smells wonderful, Erik. Thank you for making it."
His shoulders relaxed.
"You are quite welcome, my dear. Come, let's take a look at those slippers that belong to your little friend."