Christine awakened the next morning to the sound of a beautiful melody on the pianoforte and the smell of a hearty breakfast rather than the typical oatmeal. Eager to begin the day for once, she sat up, pushed herself out of bed, and adjusted the robe she'd taken to wearing constantly. Absently, she ran her fingers through her hair-
She remembered she had none as soon as her fingers touched her still-healing scalp. Instead of luscious, shining locks, all she felt was the bumpiness of forming scars and smarting, raw flesh. Her fingers came away coated with the crusty mixture of sugar and medicinal ointment. That's right- I have no hair now. I am bald. The realization was not so much painful as novel, until she remembered something from her first days in Erik's home beneath the opera. He did so love my hair. He never dared touch me, but sometimes he would stare, and...
A lump formed in her throat as she recalled what he had told her. He does love his beautiful things. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she blinked them away. Breakfast awaited, and with it the first real music she'd heard in ages. It was the happiest tune she'd ever heard him play. Even his favored selections from Mozart had always been morose. If he was happy, she would be happy for him.
With some effort, she put on her bravest smile and pushed open the door.
Ahmar was gorging herself on a small pile of cooked ground beef, a larger portion of which Christine saw was the main ingredient in a breakfast hash on the stove. Erik had strung up another lantern in the kitchen, and a third just over the hearth, bathing their little home in a bright, warm glow. If she squinted, it looked just like sunlight through high windows.
Erik, who had ceased to play when she entered, looked up from serving the hash onto two plates. Ah, it's good to see we will eat together. Maybe one day he will not hide himself from me with that mask, she thought wistfully. "Good morning, Erik."
"And a good morning to you, Christine," he replied as he gallantly pulled out a chair and set her plate before her. She sat and breathed in the steam rising from the food, which almost resembled the city dump in color and consistency. Thankfully it smelled far better, and she identified bits of potato, onion, bell pepper, and cheese in the mix.
"This smells wonderful, but it doesn't look like breakfast. What sort of dish is this?" He placed a glass of deep red-violet liquid just next to her hand along with a cup of water.
"American, much to my surprise. I was not aware that our friends across the Atlantic were capable of making passable breakfast food- or any passable food, for that matter, everything of theirs seems to come canned," he chuckled. Then he sat down and began to eat almost immediately. Christine could have sworn he pushed his mask aside an extra centimeter.
It perplexed her to see him in such a fine mood, to the point where she felt like checking his temperature to see if he was delirious. Still, if he was content for once, she wouldn't spoil it. "So…what has you in such a wonderful frame of mind this morning?" She hoped her smile looked teasing and not freakish as she took a few bites of (surprisingly good) hash.
He swallowed and gazed at the table for a few seconds, thinking. Then he readjusted the mask so as to turn his gaze to her without impediment. "You… You may not remember, but you asked me if I still loved you last night." From his careful pronunciation, she inferred that he had practiced this statement.
"I remember," with some embarrassment, she added to herself. It was a stupid question.
"You were asleep when I answered, so I decided I should answer you this morning," he explained, very reasonably. "I-" he halted as if forcing the words out. "I love you most ardently, Christine. And while you may never return my affections, I count every day with you a blessing."
She sat in stunned silence. He still loves me. I suspected, but now for him to confirm… Even with my shame, the corruption of my body… Without virginity, without even a hint of beauty left, without home, family, funds, or the voice she once had, he still loved her. If she hadn't cried so much the night before, she'd have begun to do so again, from happiness. Her mouth trembled, and her throat tightened with the swell of unnameable emotion in her chest.
He sensed she could not speak at the moment, and so pushed the glass of red liquid towards her. "You need not speak- but if you can see my feelings for you in a positive light, take a sip of Persephone's draught." He leaned back again. From the way his eyes darted from her eyes to her hands and back again, she knew he was anxious. "If not- if you wish only to heal and be free of me, drink from the water; I will not stop you."
And here he has set before me another choice- pomegranate or water, stay or go. Oh, Erik, when will you know that you need not give me choices? Despite her affectionate frustration with him, she reached for the red glass and took a long sip. The acid stung her lips, but it was intensely sweet on the tongue. When she turned her eyes back to his, he was staring with the wonderment and adoration that at one time frightened her.
At last she regained the ability to speak. "You don't need to ask if I wish for your love or for freedom, for they are one and the same to me." She paused and took a deep, steadying breath. She had oft considered her regrets, what she should have done differently in the past year. Then she waited for her chance, and now was the time. "Only give me time, Erik, and in that time, I will learn to love you in return, as I should have." Her small, somewhat deformed fingers clumsily grasped his long, bony digits.
With a sigh like the wind, he bent and pressed his forehead to her knuckles, and wept for joy. "Christine- you have made your Erik so very, very happy."
…
In a little apartment across the city, Nadir Khan was also having a very good morning. After a delicious home-cooked meal (instead of snails), both he and Biyu retired for the evening- to the same bed, that is. Now, waking late in the morning with every inch of skin pressed to her, he decided that this was the sort of life he wanted: one with plenty of lazy mornings and late nights with his beloved.
He closed his eyes and readjusted himself so as to leave one arm about her waist and the other arm under her pillow. Unfortunately, Biyu was already half awake and squinting at the wall clock. "What- what time is it? Oh, bother," she grumbled. Then she twisted around, never leaving the warm cocoon of blankets and limbs. "We are quite tardy for work."
"Stop moving," he half complained. "Work can wait." He left a quick peck on the skin of her neck, very glad that they both wore high-collared shirts to the office.
"Not when the Comte de Chagny is due just after lunch," she reminded.
"He is? I was not aware," Nadir teased, laying little kisses up and down her cheek and temple. Actually, he was very much aware- the count was influential in French foreign policy and had already funded several politicians' trips abroad. In particular he sided with the British, for commercial reasons more than noble intent. Khan had always wondered how Raoul de Chagny, a shallow boy, could have such an ambitious and cunning brother.
Biyu pushed his face aside with a slight laugh. "Stop that, your facial hair tickles."
"Oh? That's not the impression you gave last night," he said in mock confusion. She ignored him and rose from the bed to bathe and dress. The Persian groaned in protest. "My warmth!" Biyu just gave him one of her somewhat snarky smiles.
"Come now, you'd best dress as well. I did not work my way up in the world by missing a day or two." Then she ducked into the privy and ran the tap to take a quick bath. With a sigh, he threw off the covers and started pulling on articles of clothing. Thankfully his suit from the day before was mostly unwrinkled. Or at least, it seemed smooth without his glasses on.
Once clean and clothed, Biyu was kind enough to brew him a cup of ginseng tea- for energy, she said. While he found it very bitter, it left him awake and aware without a large breakfast. The embassy was not far away, so they walked together. Yet again, however, she refused to walk on his arm. At the door he asked why she did not hold his arm like most ladies did.
She considered his question for a moment. Nadir thought she made an elegant picture, with her red-painted lips and high, tight-bound hair. "I have never subscribed to the traditional roles of most women, either in China or France. Besides, it would be unprofessional to hold you at our place of work, no?"
"Well- no, I mean…" he spluttered, but she was already heading inside to begin the day's labor. With a long-suffering sigh, he followed. Maybe if we just work together for a few more days, we can arrange for a dinner at a restaurant again- this time without the mice!
…
Nadir had expected the count to walk by his desk without a second glance. After all, what was a mere clerk in comparison with matters of national security? He had not expected the grand Comte de Chagny to descend the stairs and stride towards him with definite intent.
"You there, I recognize you," the brawny man said. His ice-blue eyes glinted in a way he didn't quite like. "You helped my little brother rescue his sweetheart." He stuck out one strong, pale hand. The Persian clerk rose and found that the count was a head taller than him, with a crushing, callused grip. This was the hand of a man who handled weapons as proficiently as he wielded a pen.
At the next desk, Biyu watched from the corner of her eye. To anyone else it seemed as if she scribbled away with secretarial work, but he knew she was keeping a careful eye on the goings-on. I suppose she always did dislike nobility as a rule.
"I suppose I did, M. le Comte," Nadir answered evenly; or rather, as evenly as he could while craning his neck to look up at this giant of a man. He'd never considered himself short until now. Good God, women must throw themselves at him.
"Please, call me Philippe," he insisted as he released Nadir's hand. "After all, you saved my brother's life." Suddenly his persona was all warmth and friendliness. "As annoying as he can be at times, I suppose I owe you."
"Annoying, yes, that's…a good way of putting it," he said without really thinking. With all the trouble Raoul had caused for himself, the opera, and his underground-dwelling friend, 'annoying' was the mildest word in his vocabulary regarding the young viscount.
Philippe laughed heartily, chest and belly shaking with mirth. "I see you're well-acquainted with him! You seem a fine man, you must join me for lunch and regale me with tales of your little excursion under the opera. Of course, I did read the papers, but I am eager to hear of this phantom fellow straight from the horse's mouth, as they say." His blue eyes twinkled again. Nadir found himself disliking that conniving glance even more.
Partly as an excuse and partly because he really did intend to, Nadir said very politely: "I'm afraid not today, M. Philippe. You see, I have a pressing lunch date with the lady at the next desk." He gestured towards Biyu, who nodded and gave the count the tiniest of smiles.
The big man gave a sort of half-bow towards the woman, leering with his gaze more than his facial expression. That leer set Nadir's dislike of the count in stone. "Well, I must say you are a lucky man." What he said wasn't rude, but he could tell when and where a man let his gaze linger a bit too long. "Tomorrow, then? No- better yet, Monday. I am quite sure your employer would not mind your absence for a few hours."
The steel in his blue gaze revealed the command behind the words. Join me for lunch or I will tell the head of the embassy you have slighted me. One did not simply say no to a de Chagny, particularly one who poured so many francs into the cause of foreign relations. Nadir had no choice but to comply despite his aversion. "It'll have to be Monday, then," he replied with veiled reluctance.
When the count left (presumably for another political engagement) Nadir returned to his desk with a disconcerted frown across his forehead. Biyu matched his frown with one of her own. "I don't like him. He has something wicked and savage about him," she muttered. "Your friend under the opera had better watch himself."
"I don't like him either," Nadir agreed. "He was a little too curious for my taste- wait a minute, how do you know about all that?" he hissed in shock. It had been months since the scandal, and fame faded quickly in a world of fast-paced news.
She went back to shuffling and signing papers. "The count is not the only person who reads L'Époque. They never said the 'phantom' died, so that must mean he is alive, and he is your friend," she explained.
"Oh."
…
Late into the evening, Christine whimpered a bit as she held her arms out for Erik to unwrap at the customary post-dinner bath time. After almost two weeks of intensive care, she was impatient for the burns to heal. She didn't want to look at them either. Erik never said anything when he helped her wash and reapply medicine, but she could tell from the expression in his eyes that her skin was in critical condition.
Her hands had healed enough that she had no need to cover them, but in the past few days Christine had begun to understand why Erik always wore a suit over every possible inch of skin. Every time she looked down at her hands, she either stared long and hard or looked away with a slight sense of nausea. They were scaly and slightly warped, nothing like the soft, pale hands she'd had before. On those occasions that she stared, she could even see the dim shadows of a few veins beneath the discolored skin.
When Erik moved to begin undoing the linen wrappings around her torso, she held up one hand, wincing at the roughness. He gave her a curious nod. "What is it? Have I hurt you?"
"No, it's just... I want to do it." Her gaze turned downward, where she was still bundled up in his robe. Erik moved like he was about to protest, but apparently thought better of it.
"Well. At least let me do your shoulder blades." She nodded her consent, fiddling with her fingers. The nail on her ring finger was gone, completely burnt away, and was beginning to grow over with skin. "Lift your arms." She did, eyes turned upward as he unwound the cotton down past her chest. She'd never looked at her wounds before, but a sort of morbid curiosity overcame her disgust. She knew from Erik's analysis that her skin was healing somewhat, but still raw and painful.
When he was done with her shoulders and the small area of her back that she couldn't reach, he withdrew his hands. "Are you quite sure you want to do this alone?"
"Yes," she answered rather abruptly. "I mean, wouldn't it be silly if you bathed me all the time, even after I am healed?" Once the words left her mouth she cringed inwardly from embarrassment. Her reasoning worked, however, and Erik stood to leave.
"Oh. I see." He twisted on the tap for warm water and headed headed for the door. "Once the tub is full, you'll turn the water off?" She dipped her head to show she understood. "Very well. Do not hesitate to call for assistance should you require it, Christine." Then, with a touch of the dry humor and the smile that she loved: "I would dearly hate to find you drowned."
Once he had left the washroom, she continued to unwrap herself. Bit by bit, her body was revealed- and oh, what a travesty was laid before her eyes. The burns were healing, and the skin had crept a few inches across the raw flesh, but it was still hard to believe this was better than her prior condition. The raw patches extended down her legs, all the way down to her feet. There were little pale islands of regrowing skin, but for the most part she looked like she'd had sections of her outer layer cut away.
She could only imagine what her face looked like.
After a glance at the rippling, shadowy surface of the bathwater, she edged her body into the tub and closed her eyes against the sight. Perhaps when she was healed, she would be brave enough to face herself, but for now… For now ignorance was bliss.