Christine gasped when she saw the time on Erik's pocket watch.
"Indeed," he chuckled as he shut it once again.
"But it doesn't feel that late!" she protested.
"Because you are underground, my dear. There is no sunlight, so it can be any time you want it to be," he gestured to the house around him.
Christine considered this for a moment.
"I'm not sleepy at all," she said. "But I do suppose I should I start getting ready for bed soon. I wouldn't want to stay up so late so that I simply crash and have to sleep an entire day! But what about you? Are you going to stay up for a while yet?"
"I was thinking that I might do some composing tonight... I seem to have found myself quite inspired lately... But, ah, that is, only if it would not disturb you? It is not worth it to me if the sound of the piano keeps you from resting."
"Oh, I don't mind at all."
He waited until she had taken her leave for the night before he ended up in his workroom. He spent a little time organizing a few projects, gathering his sheet music and also his thoughts as he tried to shift his mind from Christine to music.
He truly had been inspired lately, in no small part because of Christine. She seemed to make his songs take flight in a way that nothing and no one else could, melody after melody coming to him whenever she was near, or even if he just thought about the wonderful times spent in her presence.
Christine closed her bedroom door and sighed contentedly. She didn't anticipate falling asleep very soon - she could see how easy it was to lose track of time so far away from the sunlight. She decided it was the perfect opportunity to try a bath.
The water was hot, just as he had said it would be. She was delighted at the prospect, and let the tub fill until it was nearly full. After gathering some soaps to try, she glanced back at the door before shedding her clothing and quickly settling under the water.
The steam from the water made the entire room warm, and the scent of the soaps made it smell like a garden. She closed her eyes and leaned back, letting the water go up to her chin. It was the best thing she'd experienced in some time.
She stayed in until the water grew tepid, and by then she was feeling relaxed enough to sleep. She dried off with the plush towels he had left for her, and then changed into her nightclothes. Sitting at the vanity, she used the brush that was there for her hair and put some lotion on her hands. Finally ready to sleep, she had curled up in the bed, head on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, when she heard it.
The piano. Erik was composing.
Her eyes opened a little, trying to better hear what he was playing. It was soft and floaty, and she wondered if perhaps it was going to be part of the song for her audition. She was reminded once again of why it had been so easy to believe he was an angel, and for a few brief seconds her half-asleep mind thought she was truly hearing the music of heaven. She fought to stay awake, to be able to appreciate the sound for as long as she could, but try as she might she eventually gave up and let herself drift off into peaceful slumber, wrapped in the embrace of Erik's music.
Meg slept in late that morning, or least she pretended to. She was not looking forward to seeing the Vicomte again, to facing anymore nearly tearful questions of why Christine wasn't here, so she pretended to be asleep in her bed for as long as possible until she realized that she could do whatever she wished in her own room - it wasn't as though he could actually see her to know if she was sleeping or not.
She got up and dressed and paced about before sitting in the front of her vanity mirror and trying on her new hat. She tucked her long hair up under it in various styles, tipping the thin brim first this way then that, admiring it from all different angles. The delicate pink was so lovely, and she adored the style, but only one thing bothered her about it.
It had been paid for with the money from the Ghost, and wasn't that almost like the Ghost had bought it for her? She dearly hoped that didn't somehow mean that the Ghost would see fit to begin to talk to her as well - her mother was very sparse with details about what the Ghost was like, and that was how Meg liked it. She didn't want to have to dwell on the thought of the awful specter any longer than she had to, and she hoped she never had the opportunity to meet him.
Outside her door, she could the muffled chatter and general commotion of the other girls coming and going. Perhaps today she, too, could tag along with someone on an outing. A museum, perhaps, or a picnic - anything, really.
"It's such a shame what happened to Christine," floated through the door, and Meg froze, eyes wide.
"Yes," someone sighed. "She was becoming quite good, too - I wonder if that's why? Someone must have taken notice of her."
Meg threw her door open, heart beating wildly.
"What's happened to Christine?!" she cried, her voice shrill and wild.
Francesca and Colette looked over at her, concern on their faces.
"She's been kidnapped!"
Meg nearly fell over in a swoon.
"What?!"
Surely there was a mistake? She was with her teacher!
"The Vicomte reported her missing early this morning," Colette nodded unhappily. "I hope she's okay."
"Why the devil did he do that?" Meg demanded.
Francesca shrugged and ducked her head, embarrassed.
"None of us knew for certain when we'd seen her last, besides at rehearsal... Oh, Meg - she could have already been missing for four days!"
Meg's jaw dropped. The Vicomte certainly hasn't asked her when she'd seen Christine last - he must have started asking that question after Meg had locked herself in her room. Maybe avoiding him had not been the best plan, after all. She'd truly bungled it this time!
She ran out of the room. She needed to find Raoul and stop him before he did something stupid, but she was afraid she was already too late for that.
Blissfully ignorant of what the newspapers were printing about her up above, Christine was enjoying a late breakfast with her Angel - or rather, she was enjoying a late breakfast while Erik watched.
"Aren't you hungry?"
He shook his head, and she frowned just a little.
When she had been little and her Papa had yet to be employed by the Comte, they were often hard pressed for money. Christine could remember a great many times that she would eat all by herself while Papa tuned his violin, and she would ask him if he wanted any food as well. He'd just smile and pat her gently on the shoulder or brush a hand over her hair and tell her that he wasn't hungry. It wasn't until she was older that she realized he had so often gone without anything so that she wouldn't have to be hungry. She didn't think she could bear it if Erik had some similar reasoning behind not eating. Weren't the managers always grumbling about paying the Ghost his salary? What if her insistence on no terrible ghost tricks had made them think he'd gone soft, and they had stopped paying him? Oh, if he had to go without because of her - she'd cry, she just knew it.
"Well, how often do you eat breakfast?"
He fidgeted with his hands.
"I am not usually hungry in the mornings," he said.
"Do you eat a bigger lunch, then?"
He became very interested in an imaginary hangnail and pretended that he hadn't heard her question.
"Erik," she ventured cautiously. "How often do you eat lunch?"
"I eat lunch whenever I'm hungry, Christine," his tone bordered on defensive.
"I see. And how often are you hungry?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. Who had taught this girl how to question people like this? Why, it very nearly felt like being interrogated by the Daroga!
"I am hungry whenever I am eating lunch," he said carefully.
Her brow knit.
"Erik! That's not how you answer a question!"
He leaned an elbow on the table and propped his chin on his hand, not meeting her eye.
"It was an answer, was it not?" he mumbled.
"I'm worried about you, Erik," she fretted. "I don't think you eat enough."
He made a small noise that betrayed neither agreement nor disagreement - while he liked the thought that Christine was worried over him (to worry for someone implied one cared about them), he didn't like that she was feeling something negative and that he was the cause.
"It's alright, Christine, I assure you."
She picked at her food a little.
"The managers didn't cut your salary, did they?" she asked in a small voice. "Can you- you can still afford to eat every day, yes?"
He looked up, surprised.
"No, my dear - my salary is still the same. And yes, I could afford a great deal of food if I wished."
She nodded, feeling a little better.
"Then why don't you eat?"
He shrugged.
"I am simply not hungry."
"Well... Are you not feeling good? Are you... Are you ill?"
"No, no," he rushed to reassure her - he hated that worry he could hear in her voice. "I'm not refraining from food because I don't feel well enough to eat. I think - I think I'm just used to not eating."
"You should get used to eating, then," she nodded decisively. "Really, if I wasn't here to have meals with you, how often would you be eating?"
His blank stare told her all she needed to know, and she sighed.
"Do you eat more than twice a day?"
His eyes slid away from her, and she pressed her lips into a thin line.
"You only eat once a day?"
He cleared his throat and sat very still.
"Erik - Erik, you eat every day, don't you?"
"That seems rather excessive, don't you think?" he finally ventured.
"Erik! That's terrible!"
He sank down a little in his chair. Was it terrible? He was used to it, though.
"You really should eat every day, Erik. You'd feel better, I'm sure," she tried to coax.
"I feel just fine-"
"But how do you know?" she insisted. "How do you now you aren't simply used to how terrible you feel?"
Erik said nothing. They both sat in silence for a moment.
"Will you promise me something, Erik?"
"Anything, my dear."
"Promise me that you'll eat at least once each day?"
"I promise that I shall try to eat each day."
"Oh, no - I didn't say anything about trying - you will eat each day. For me."
He huffed. She was a smart girl, but he hadn't realized the extent of her cleverness until now. She somehow managed to see right through any slippery response he might give. But, maybe-
"That means in each consecutive period of twenty four hours, you'll eat something."
Confound it all! He drummed his fingers on the table.
"For you," he managed to make the words smooth.
"I appreciate it, Erik," she paused. "Well, aren't you going to get something?"
"Right now? It starts right now?" he asked, incredulous.
"Of course it does," she frowned. "Besides, I like it when we eat together..."
She trailed off shyly and he swallowed hard. He quickly stood and went into the kitchen, her cheeks red in his wake. She had taken a gamble by asking him to do it for her, and she felt it was only more confirmation of what she had confided to Meg - he liked her, in a way that was more than what a teacher felt for a student.
He swiftly returned, a muffin and some fruit on his own plate, and she was highly amused to see a similar blush on the uncovered side of his own face.
Erik contented himself with the fact that she had not specified how much food he had to eat, though he had taken extra fruit on his plate in the hopes of pleasing her. He intended to eat something (even if it was something rather small) each day now (provided he didn't forget) if for no other reason than to assuage any guilt he felt at disobeying a wish of hers. What wouldn't he do for this angel in front of him, he mused. How could refuse so small a request, if it made her feel better?
Christine brightened when he joined her in eating. Eating by herself made her feel awkward, but having Erik eat at the same time made her feel better. It had a sense of them sharing something more than just a meal.
"Are you happy now, my dear?" He made a show of sighing wearily as he picked the muffin into pieces before eating one.
"Quite," she giggled.
Meg stood in front of the Opera Populaire and looked up and down the street in a bewildered fashion. If only she could find Christine this whole thing would be over with! But where did her teacher live? She'd never told her. She had mentioned that he lived nearby, but what, exactly, did that entail? What counted as nearby? She didn't even know his last name. This Erik fellow seemed reclusive from how Christine had described him, so she doubted it would be common knowledge on the street - he probably didn't talk very much to his neighbors and it was likely that no one would even know who he was if she were to ask anyone about him. Drat her blathering tongue that had planted the idea in the Vicomte's mind! Oh, why did Raoul have do this? She set off down the street, unsure of where she was going but certain that she had to get there.
Erik and Christine lingered over the table and the platter of fruits and pastries. It amazed her that someone as good at cooking as he was also held so little interest in eating, and she mentioned it to him.
"Ah. Well, I suppose I used to eat more than I do currently. And it was easier, at times, to not have to rely on others to prepare my food..."
He cautiously left out how his cooking skills had improved by leaps and bounds on Persia - they had to, considering that the threat of being poisoned by a rival or by someone seeking revenge was an all too real threat.
"What made you eat less often?" she awaited the answer with bated breath, hoping she hadn't touched on yet another topic that would bring him pain.
"I suppose it was when I came down here," he mused. "It was rather limiting - the long journey up and down, made all the harder when one is trying to carry groceries, you know."
She nodded.
"And besides that, I didn't often like to make appearances up above - the more I go out the more chances there are that someone will see me coming or going on the Rue Scribe side. I mostly have groceries picked up by someone, but of course I still have to carry it all home myself."
She made a little sympathetic noise and sipped her tea. So many facets of life that she simply took for granted were so much more complicated for him. There were probably a dozen more things she hadn't even considered yet that Erik had to do differently because of how he lived.
"But I must say that it was rather easy to fall into the routine of not eating - with no light to mark the passage of days, and numerous projects I could lose myself in - well, I didn't miss eating too much, and time just seemed to slide through my fingers anyway."
He paused, then continued.
"And once I get started on a project, I find myself loath to stop and take a break," he chuckled.
She smiled a little, knowing how he was once he got started on something.
"Speaking of not taking a break - how is that song coming? The one you were working on as I slept?"
"Ah!" he jumped up from his chair. "Would you like to hear it? It's nearly finished, but I'd like your opinion on the ending."
She nodded eagerly and abandoned the mostly eaten croissant on her plate.
They stayed by the piano until the afternoon, Christine becoming absorbed into his obsession with perfecting the song. He played each possible ending for her and she gave her thoughts on each one, thought it was very difficult for her to pick between them.
"They are both good, yes, but which do you like better, my dear?"
She ducked her head.
"I don't know. I like them both," she hesitated, a little shy. "I like all of your music."
He chuckled and played each one again, turning to look at her on the couch when he had finished.
She shook her head and buried her face into the cushion, embarrassed.
"Both," she whispered.
He clicked his tongue as he turned to face the piano once more, straightening out the unfinished sheet music.
"Endings don't work that way, Christine," but he had already resolved to write down both endings for her - it was a song for her, after all. He would save both versions in the folder he had tucked away, the folder labeled 'Music for Christine' - music inspired by her and written for her, brought into existence solely because of the muse she had provided for him, so how could it ever be anything else than a gift meant to be given back to her?
She didn't know about the folder, not yet, but one day he was going to bind them all into a book and present them to her. He knew just the occasion, too - after she headlined as prima donna for a few seasons, she'd surely be in great demand at opera houses all over the world. The book of music would make an excellent goodbye gift. Something to remember him by once she was far away and free and wouldn't be seeing him again.
"I'm afraid I have some errands to run, my dear. I will return in a little while," he smiled kindly at her as he rose from the piano bench.
"Oh, can't I go with you?" she sat up, looking a little disappointed.
"They are, ah, ghostly errands, Christine," he said awkwardly.
"Oh! Oh, I see. Well, I'll wait here then."
"I will be back in time to begin cooking dinner," he assured her as he left.
He hummed a little tune to himself as he locked his house and set out across the lake. He couldn't remember when he had last felt this happy and light. Probably the last time Christine had stayed with him, but even then he had still been hounded by lingering anxiety. He was amazed at how much he trusted her, trusted her in a way he'd never though possible. He had found it was easy to open up to her and spill out almost any secret of his life - she should be spared the gory details of Persia, of course - but he hadn't hesitated in the least to explain about his eating habits and other details that, had it been anyone else, he would most definitely have withheld.
Composing around her was easy as well. It never had been, in the past - he had written quite a lot in Persia (on the violin, as pianos were hard to come by) and he had always had to deal with the nosy Daroga barging in and asking "oh what's that song Erik" or "I like that song play it again Erik" - the old fool couldn't even tell the difference between a half-baked mishmash of notes and a polished, finished song! He'd always stop playing as soon as he knew the man was near, or if anyone was near, really. It broke his concentration terribly and he hated having people hear something that he wasn't yet finished with.
Except for Christine, of course.
There was something different about her, something calming about her presence that made him feel like it was okay to let her hear the process and not just the finished piece. It was one of the many reasons he loved her. Oh, he would keep her by his side endlessly if he could!
He stared out across the water, steering more by muscle memory and years of practice than by actual sight. His mind was busy elsewhere and his eyes fell to the pole in his hands.
Poling a gondola was a skill he had picked up in Italy, but he knew it was likely a little too difficult for Christine to feel entirely comfortable with. Perhaps a paddle would suit her better - she could sit, then, and paddle her way across the lake. Surely climbing down the rope was too dangerous for her in all of her skirts.
He let his mind linger on Christine's skirts just a moment before he tried to pull his focus back to the main issue - finding a way for Christine to be able to visit him whenever she pleased.
He could make a second boat, was already making plans for what he'd need to complete it. He'd need a way to hide it, of course - out of sight from any who might find their way to the edge of the lake, but close enough at hand that she could easily access it.
There was a little spring in his step and a smile on his face as he made his way down the tunnels to Giry's office. It would be a simple enough errand, leave a note for the managers, speak a word or two to Giry, and then he could be on his way to Christine again and all would be right with the world. He knew he had only been gone a very short time, but he missed her.
He slipped into Giry's office and carefully placed the envelope on her desk before hiding himself once more. About ten minutes later Giry walked in and locked her door. She glanced this way and that about the room as though she was greatly distracted.
"Good afternoon, Madame," his voice boomed from the corner opposite where he was hiding, and her eyes focused on the spot.
"Please, Monsieur," she began, her voice trembling. "I know it is not my place, but - oh, please have mercy on Christine Daaé."