Christine hesitated. Inside the house? Surely there was nothing dangerous inside the house, they were the only ones there, no one else around, just her and him, what could possibly happen with just the two of-
"Oh," she said softly. "Oh."
She picked at her nails and fiddled with the watch's chain, not meeting his eye, but he wasn't even looking at her anyway.
"Are you- are you very worried, then?" she finally asked. "About being a threat?"
She had borrowed a book from Sorelli once, one that she had recommended to her, a most scandalous book (really, where did Sorelli even find a book like that? Christine has asked her where she bought it - she had been very curious), and it told a sordid little tale about a married high society woman and her secret lover. A particularly memorable passage had described the ardent passion of her lover, of how his desire for her had overwhelmed him, causing him (much to the delight of the woman in the story) to ravish her on the spot, not giving a care about her husband just downstairs. He hadn't asked her or thought about the consequences - he had wanted her, and so he simply took what he wanted, rational thought be damned.
Was that what Erik was afraid of? Was it really like that in real life? Did he- did he desire her, then? And would that desire truly overwhelm him to the point where she'd need a locked door to keep him from-?
"Are you not worried?" he asked, disbelieving.
She frowned a little. She didn't believe for one second that a man would have no control over his actions if he truly didn't want to do something like that - surely any word to the contrary was merely an excuse after the fact. That kind of idea made for interesting reading, but - stories were not real life. After all, women had passions, too (no matter what polite society might have one believe to the contrary), and they still managed to have self control. Surely men were not such base creatures as to lack a certain amount of self control, not if they truly wished it. If Erik wanted to avoid doing something like that enough to create a lock on the door to her room, then surely the lock was not needed because he truly didn't wish to force her and thus would not.
But still- she hesitated. Erik knew himself better than she knew him, he certainly knew what it was like to be a man. If he truly thought she needed to lock her door, then perhaps he had good reason to say so. He had always tried to be on his best behavior around her, but she still could catch glimpses of things that hinted to her that he was... not entirely well in the mind. Whether he had always been that way or if it was induced by two decades of living in such solitude, she wasn't certain - but she was certain that he was still her friend, and she was certain that she still enjoyed him and his company, and she was certain that he still had a good heart (thought he might be misguided at times, still, underneath it all, all the hurt and misfortune life had bestowed upon him, she was certain that his heart was good). But perhaps it was different for him because of that unwellness - perhaps he was merely trying to warn her against something he was aware of that she was not - perhaps he was not always as in control of his faculties as she thought he was.
She dared to look right at him, meeting his eye with a brave face.
"I don't think you'd ever hurt me, Angel."
His hands gripped the back of the chair he was standing in front of, his knuckles turning even whiter as his eyes slid away from hers, unable to match that brave look.
"You are far too trusting," he murmured.
She flipped the watch cover open and stared at the little hands as they counted down to the inevitable moment she would enter her room and prepare for bed.
She didn't think she was too trusting, not in this case - it's not like he was a stranger, for goodness's sake! This was Erik! She'd known him for ages, really. They'd spent so much time together so often, surely if he were going to lose control and do something he would have already done it by now?
"Perhaps it is you who is far too worried. Do you sleepwalk?" she asked.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Erik does not sleepwalk, he assures you."
"Do you ever lose time where you can't remember what you did? Do you find yourself in places and not remember how you got there?"
"No, never."
"Do you ever have fugue states?"
"Christine, really," he admonished. "How would I know if I were in a fugue state?"
She pressed her lips into a line as she considered this, studying him.
"What if I'm in one right now, Christine?" he fretted. "Who could even tell? What if- what if I change, somehow? Become... worse?"
"Well, you're still quite charming in your fugue state, I must say," she joked.
"Christine, please - this is serious," he pleaded. "What if you got hurt through some action of mine?"
She shook her head and threw up her hands.
"For Heaven's sake, Erik - you're not a werewolf! I highly doubt you're going to murder me or- or force yourself on me just because I was in your home when the clock struck midnight."
She managed the words without stuttering too badly, but she was certain her own face was as red as his.
He clenched his jaw.
"Not a werewolf, perhaps, but still a monster," he muttered, and she frowned.
"No, you wouldn't hurt me," she insisted. "Not on purpose, at least. Would you? Surely you don't want to harm me?"
He looked stricken, as though he'd be sick at the very thought of harming her.
"No, no of course not! I don't ever want to hurt you, Christine, or ever see you get hurt."
She smiled and gave a decisive nod.
"You see? So neither of us have anything to worry about, then. You've always been as gentle a lamb with me, Erik, and I don't know of any reason why that should change now, do you?"
Erik didn't look entirely convinced, but he nodded slowly in agreement.
He only wanted for her to feel safe - and how could a young woman feel safe going to sleep in the house of a man she was not related to? Was Christine just putting on a show of bravado? Was she just trying to be polite when she insisted that she trusted him? It was all well enough for her to say she had nothing to fear, but he was certain she'd be locking her door all the same. A traitorous little voice in the back of his head told him that perhaps she didn't fear him like that because she didn't think he was like other men, that she discounted the fact that he was still a man with the thoughts and feelings and urges of a man - but he realized that it was far more likely that she hadn't even considered anything like that in regards to him before. She probably thought of him like her father, probably had never considered the possibility that he thought of her in that kind of way, that he might be attracted to her.
Still, he had only meant for her to feel safe, for her to know that she was safe when she stayed over. Surely she would feel safer with a locked door? Surely he would feel better knowing that she felt safe.
He would also surely feel better knowing for a fact that he couldn't get into her room while she slept even if he wanted to - for even though he was fiercely adamant that he would never force her to do anything she didn't want to, thoughts would intrude into his mind with possibilities of what he could do, and he found it highly distressing (even now that voice taunted him with all manner of vile things he could do to her - he could simply keep her there in his house and never let her leave - no one would even think to look for her here - there was no one around to hear her scream). The more he tried to fight against these horrible thoughts he didn't want, the stronger they seemed to become. It was true, however, that they tended to leave when he ignored them, or when he didn't focus on them, but how he could simply ignore the proof of how evil he truly was when such things appeared in his mind? He didn't want to keep Christine prisoner in his house, didn't want to think of that bottle of chloroform he had tucked away somewhere and how unresisting she would be, but still, still the thoughts came up, and if he were the kind of monster who could think that up, then surely it stood to reason that he might also be the kind of monster who would act on such a thought? But his terrible mind couldn't mock him if she was safely out of his reach, and that was one of the two reasons that had prompted him to create the lock - to prove not only to her that he didn't intend anything when she spent the night, but to prove it to that horrible little voice in his head as well.
"And anyway," she continued. "I do still remember how to turn a lock, Erik. It might be a little more complicated than a regular lock, but I dare say I can manage."
"Christine," he colored a little under her teasing. "I didn't mean that-"
"It took a genius to create the lock, but it doesn't take one to know how to operate it, you know," she shook her head, her eyes twinkling.
"Now- that's not fair, you're a very clever young woman," he protested.
"Do you always remind 'clever young women' how to perform simple tasks, Monsieur Opera Ghost?" she raised an eyebrow.
He sputtered.
"Oh, Christine- I- I didn't mean to insult you on your birthday, my dear-"
She rose from her chair, pushing it back in to the table before smoothing out her skirts.
"Well, I suppose," she drew the word out.
She turned to leave and was halfway out the door when she paused and turned back to look at him, a wicked smile on her face.
"But Erik," she said evenly. "Does that mean you'd insult me if it wasn't my birthday?"
"Go to bed, Christine," he said firmly, but he was grinning as well now.
"Goodnight, Angel."
"Goodnight, dear."
Her mood stayed light as she made her way into the lovely little guest room and shut the door. She went once more to look at the wonderful tub in the bathroom.
She hadn't been planning to take a bath until the next evening, but she was sorely tempted. She spied a basket that had been left on the counter, and it was filled with all various manner of brand new soaps and bath oils in several different scents, as though whoever had bought them couldn't decide and simply got one of everything. She didn't suppose Erik used scents like violet and rose (and besides, those were scents she wore quite regularly - she felt oddly warm to think that he had noticed something like that about her) and she realized with a smile that he must have put these here for her. Did he intend for her to use the tub, then? She left the bathroom, her mind made up to make use of the soaps the next time she visited.
She took her nightclothes out and brought them back with her to the bathroom again. She normally changed while standing next to her bed, but even though she knew her door locked something just felt better about having an extra door behind her while she changed in Erik's home.
She sighed a little and scolded herself. It was nothing to feel so awkward about, she chided at her mind while she unbuttoned her blouse. There was nothing embarrassing about wearing nightclothes to bed, she assured herself as she loosened her corset. Why, it would be silly to wear anything else! She removed her skirts and petticoats, the cold air making her shiver and she quickly slipped the nightgown on before wrapping herself in her dressing gown.
She wondered if was always so cold down here, and that led her to wonder what Erik wore to sleep in. She thought of him, not that far away, possibly even changing into his evening wear at that very moment - she was sure that whatever he wore, it was quite fine looking - all of the things he wore always looked so fine - and she felt unaccountably warm again.
She picked up the pocket watch from where she had left it on the nightstand and looked at the time. She determined there was enough time to read the rest of the book she had borrowed, but she lingered over the watch a moment longer, studying its intricate design and wondering if perhaps Erik had carved those patterns into the silver cover himself. She then set it on the nightstand once more and began to read.
She read until her eyelids felt heavy, and she put the book aside. She was about to fall asleep when she remembered something vital - she hadn't locked the door. Her eyes flew open, a little more alert now.
Christine sat up against the pillows on the bed and stared at the lock on the door, chewing on her thumbnail. The little lock seemed to stare right back at her in eager anticipation of her choice. Would she turn it?
She frowned.
There were so many reasons she should - and shouldn't.
There were many kinds of men in the world. There were the leery, unwholesome sort that you could tell something was off about right from the start - all of the girls at the opera house were familiar with that sort, not only from various patrons but also from some of the stagehands like Joseph Buquet. Then there were men who were actually gentlemen, trustworthy men like dear Raoul who would gallantly sacrifice themselves before letting any harm befall a lady - it would be utterly unthinkable that a man like that would ever cause harm of any sort to a woman.
But sometimes, sometimes there were men who seemed to be perfect gentlemen, who said and did everything right and weren't off-putting at all, but after one got to know them - after one was alone with them - they revealed their true self, which was a monster.
Christine thought Erik a gentleman, but he seemed convinced that he was a monster. Was he?
If it were Raoul on the other side of that door, she'd leave it unlocked and go to sleep without a care in the world. If it were Buquet on the other side, she'd check twice to make sure it was locked and push a dresser in front of it for good measure.
But it wasn't Raoul or Buquet. It was Erik on the other side of that door.
Was the Erik that type? If the door was unlocked, was he going to open it sometime during the night and watch her, was he going to attempt something lewd and improper? Surely he wasn't, surely he would respect her and the sanctity of her private room.
She huffed and rolled her eyes. She should just lock the thing and be done with it. Erik wouldn't be offended by it - he wouldn't even know unless he had intentions of entering the room, and if that were the case she had no qualms about offending him.
But doubt crept into her mind.
What if, in an unexpected and sudden moment of oafishness (she had those sometimes!), she accidentally broke the lock and was unable to fix it? What if some calamity should befall her during the night and she was unable to get herself to the door to unlock it and reach for help? Erik had insisted that once it was locked from the inside, there was no other way to enter - or to leave.
She glanced fearfully at the pretty walls and lovely curtains. As much as she loved the room, she didn't want this to be her tomb!
She renewed her chewing at her nail with fervor.
Despite all of her teasing of him and insisting that she knew how to work locks, the fact of the matter was that she had broken a lock on her door once before. And that had been an ordinary old lock that she had jammed, somehow. Erik's lock was rather complicated, though she felt embarrassed to admit it. What if she rattled one of the little parts inside and the door ceased to be able to be opened? The previous time she had been able to kick the door down (which had been followed by a hefty fine to pay for the repair of the door of her dormitory), but this was not the kind of door she could break so easily.
She trusted Erik, she truly did - but there were things he simply didn't consider the same way other people would consider them. The whole business with the Angel was proof enough of that. He had been respectful enough afterwards, yes, but who knew what other awkward or improper situations he would consider normal or appropriate? There was no way of telling until they were in the middle of one, and by then it would be far too late.
She got up and paced the room a little. There was a small shelf on one wall, and it held a number of strange trinkets - a number of seashells, a glass marble, a little locket (she opened it, and it contained a tiny painting of an eye with few tiny pearls around it, which she recognized as mourning jewelry), a shard of colored glass, a rhinestone brooch, a silk ribbon that had faded with age. They all were likely his mother's, she realized, and suddenly turned to look at the furniture. It all had seemed rather feminine in a way the rest of his furniture did not. She wondered why he kept it all, kept even her mementos of the past, considering the things he had said about her.
There were many long years he had existed, but she wondered if, perhaps, he even knew very many people that well - perhaps despite everything, his mother had still been the closest thing he had to family. He was apparently friends with monsieur Khan, but they seemed to be on edge around each other. Christine had no family left, but she had very dear friends who helped fill in the gaps she felt in her life, and she had a host of other friends that weren't terribly close but still very supportive - but who did Erik have? Was there anyone? Had there ever been anyone? She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling very somber. Christine knew hardship and trial quite intimately, knew what it was to feel alone - but Erik, it seemed, truly was alone and had been for a long time. Poor Erik.
The dolls he kept now seemed less a novelty and a little more sad - he probably barely interacted with actual people ever since coming down here. And still, after renouncing the world and society and going down into the earth to hide and live however he pleased, he still created an almost shrine to the mother who had treated him in such a way that he felt it necessary to run away from home at a young age.
Her thoughts consumed with the past, she crawled back into bed, settling down on the soft mattress and pulling the sheets and blankets up around her. She stared up at the ceiling, still illuminated by the lowest amount of light coming from the gas lamp, her head resting on the plush pillow, and she thought about that woman she had seen in the little painting that Erik had showed to her. The comforting silence of the house conspired with the way the warmth from her body suffused in the plush bedding, and she drifted off to sleep.
Erik finished cleaning the dishes and the kitchen and milled about aimlessly. He was brimming with nervous energy, but he didn't want to disturb Christine. Usually he played the organ when he felt like this, but now with her here trying to sleep, that was out of the question. He refused to go in his work room lest he have to face the plans for their shared house (he was not ready for that, not yet), so he decided the best course of action would simply be trying to sleep. Perhaps by the time he had finished preparing for bed, he would start to feel more restful.
But by the time he was in is coffin and staring up at the ceiling, he still didn't feel restful. His mind was too busy.
Christine was here, in his house! Precious Christine, sleeping mere yards away, trusting him so sweetly, acting as though he wasn't the vile wretch he knew himself to be. And she had called him 'Angel' not once, but twice! His hands clutched the edges of his blanket as he unconsciously smiled at the memory of her words. And it was her birthday - it was such a special day for her, and yet she chose to spend it with him. His heart was so full it could burst.
But then recalled something else and frowned. Christine had said her birthday wasn't that special. His poor dear - that wouldn't do! Birthdays should be special - not everyone had the privilege of having one. And Christine was such a good girl! She deserved a special birthday. He wondered a little while about how she had spent her birthdays as a child - did she have big parties with other children? Or did her traveling lifestyle mean her birthdays were small affairs, with only a gift or two from her father? Her father - how terrible it must have been for him, celebrating the day he had lost his wife. Had he still made sure to make the day happy for little Christine? Erik's own father had died before he was born, but he briefly wondered what his life would have been like had it been the opposite for him - if his father had lived and his mother had died in childbirth. Christine always spoke highly of her Papa, of how proud he was of her and how he loved her, so surely he didn't blame Christine in the least (Christine was entirely blameless, anyway, how could it have ever been her fault?). But Erik thought that his own father probably would have abandoned him in the woods as an infant, looking as he did and considering how his mother blamed him for ruining her life, surely his father would have blamed him for the loss of his wife and disposed of little Erik.
He bolted upright in his coffin. He didn't like that train of thought, and besides, he needed to think of a way to make the day special for Christine. But how? He had certainly never been to a birthday party before, had never had a birthday himself. But - he had read a lot. Birthdays should have cake, should they not? He would bake her a cake.
He got out of the coffin and wrapped a fine robe around himself, pausing a moment before adding the matching hat, then went to the kitchen.
As he pulled out mixing bowls and various utensils and all the ingredients he needed, his mind wandered to that other thing - that thing he had been debating himself on. The gift he had bought for her in a moment of impulsiveness. Should he give it to her? Was it too much? He didn't want her to feel burdened by it, like she owed him something simply because he had given it to her. It had been expensive, but he didn't care about that. He only cared about seeing her happy. It was technically the kind of gift a friend could give another friend, but unfortunately their friendship was complicated was by certain things, not the least of which happened to be the fact that he was irrevocably in love with her, which was surely clouding his judgment. It wouldn't be an odd gift at all if it were given to her by Meg or Colette, but coming from him... He sighed. He had plenty of time to consider it, he supposed - he didn't feel like sleeping at all that night.
When Christine awoke she had a brief moment of not knowing where she was. But then the previous day came flooding back, and she turned her face in to the pillow and smiled. She had slept soundly the entire night, no noises to bother her, no spring digging into her back, no scratchy linens against her skin. She squirmed a little under sheets before stretching and yawning. Feeling more awake, she reached out for Erik's pocket watch. The cover flipped open and gasped at the time - she had slept rather late. But still, she felt wonderful and couldn't find it in herself to regret it - she so rarely slept that well above, rarely felt as rested as she did right then.
She rose and leisurely dressed for the day, glancing at the door, at the strange lock. She took her time in front of the mirror, brushing out her hair (Erik had left a beautiful brush on the dresser for her, and even though she had packed her own brush, she used the one he had supplied instead), and chose to forgo pinning her hair up for the moment. In a rush of wild impulse she pulled her lipstick out of her bag and applied it to her lips, leaning in close to the mirror, her hand working fast before she lost her nerve. She had been intending to wear it when she went back up, when all the other girls would surely be looking for her with dozens of question - but for some reason she couldn't explain, she wanted to wear it down here, too, even though there were no other mirrors besides the one in her room, and even if Erik was the only one who would see it.
Erik was sitting at the dining room table reading a book when Christine finally found him. He had been dressed for hours at that point, had dressed after he finished icing and decorating her cake. He looked up from the book he had reading ever since dressing for the day and felt a moment of speechlessness.
She was so very lovely. She looked well rested, and her hair was down, curls hanging appealingly over her shoulders, a surprised smile on her lips - lips that were, he noticed, painted that same charming shade they had been the previous day.
"Happy birthday, Christine," he said as she walked closer, staring at the cake.
"Oh, Erik! Oh, it's perfect! Did you- did you make this?" she brought her hands to her face, delighted.
"I did," he supplied a plate for her.
The cake was not very large in diameter (large pans were unnecessary for him, there were none in his kitchen because who else would he ever be cooking for besides himself?) but he had made up for that by making it several layers high, a sweet jam in between each layer of cake, surrounded by icing and topped with chocolate and fresh fruit.
"It's perfect," she sighed as she sat down.
He fidgeted anxiously with the book in his hands, and it was as though he was watching the whole scene from very far away when heard himself say, "I have another gift for you, too, my dear."