Paranoia had seemed to consume Erik's judgement and it was as though he thought Christine would leave at any second, never to return again. Her reassurance that her leaving would never be an issue calmed him to some extent. Nevertheless, he still clung to her every movement, wanting to go wherever she went, like a newborn craving its mother. He knew how desperate his actions were, but he could not help it and when her mere presence was not enough for him, he had boldly attempted to touch her, simply for more grounded reassurance. To touch is to believe, he thought, and his hand would reach out to take hers or his long fingers would itch to close around one of her curls, wishing the two would entwine. Timidly, he would pine for her, but he would always draw back into himself one way or another in fear of soiling her.
Christine saw these attempts and although she did not rebuke them, she often wondered why he did not allow himself even the smallest of comforts. At times, she caught him watching her, but she was certain that he did not know of her awareness of the fact. His stare was too unnerving to ignore and too intense to return, and so she was placed in the position of tolerating his company without needing to engage him in conversation.
Ever since that dreadful night when she had found Erik with the poison, he had been persistent not to leave her alone. She suspected that he was merely persistent not to be alone, himself. Wherever she ventured, he was always there, watching, sometimes seen and sometimes unseen. What shocked her the most was that he would even trail behind her as she retired to her bedchamber at night, almost as if he was escorting her, vigilant to dangers she knew were not there. A tender goodnight always lay upon his lips before he quickly retreated back to his own room, but she did not mistake the loneliness that shone in his eyes.
One evening, Christine had been peacefully lounging in the library, reading a book and absent-mindedly toying with her dress skirt. Erik had thankfully brought her an array of clothing after that first night and she had been all too eager to hurl her costume into his arms and command that he get rid of it immediately. It pleased her to know that she would never have to look at it again.
When she had just turned over a page, she sensed another presence in the room, but for a few short minutes she did not nothing but continue to read. When the silence soon became bothersome, however, she placed her book down on the armchair and whipped her head around to face Erik.
When her father, God rest his soul, had passed, Christine had come to live with an old associate of his named Madame Valérius, who had eventually allowed Christine to call her Mamma Valérius, much to her own glee. Her father had made frequent visitations to her home to perform on his violin, bringing life back to the old woman's otherwise dead face. Ever since her husband had been taken from her by the ravages of time, she had longed for something to fill those empty hours, and the violinist and his daughter had proved the most excellent company. When Mamma Valérius had accidentally happened upon the young Christine singing to herself, she had exclaimed how the girl's voice must have made choirs of angels envious.
The old woman had continued to shower her with affection and encouragement until the day when Christine had reluctantly agreed to an audition. Being somewhat a patron of the arts herself, Mamma Valérius' influence was the only thing that had secured Christine's place at the Opéra de Paris at first. Her voice, though endearing, had lacked the maturity and strength the other members possessed, and she was instantly looked down upon, accused of buying her way in.
Christine endured their speculative glances and whispers for Mamma Valérius' sake, knowing that she was pleasing her by joining the company. It was as instinctive as breathing, how much she dearly loved to sing. She knew that she did not possess the voice or the ability to be what her guardian wanted her to be, and yet she persisted over the years.
There was only one other who heard the potential in her rusty voice and he had become her rock in a raging sea of turmoil and uncertainty. He had cared for her, moulded her, encouraged her, and it was now his presence from which she was shying away.
She knew of Erik's declarations of love, but she could not let go of the past so easily. Fearing that she would not be able to love, or even care for him in the way that he wished, she found herself inevitably holding him back from true happiness.
"Christine?" he said, pulling her out of her deep procession of thoughts.
Having edged closer without her noticing, Erik now stood by her side, his hands clasped in front of him and his mask staring blankly down at her. He shifted and his hopeful eyes lit up in the glow of the fire as her beautiful face turned to him in a slight daze.
"May I join you?" he asked. "Only if it would not disturb you, of course. Would I disturb you in staying, Christine?"
Surprised by the calmness in his voice and beguiled by his unexpected courtesy, she shook her head slowly and watched as he glided over to an overfilled shelf and started to browse through the titles before choosing to sit behind her, at his desk by the wall. Christine returned to her own book, occasionally peering over the top of the tattered spine to spy on her strange companion. She had become so accustomed to keeping an eye on him now that the riveting words on the page were not enough to pull her into the story again.
Instead, she turned in her chair and looked at the figure on the other side of the room. He was not facing her, but she could see that his shoulders were hunched and she took this opportune moment to study him, propping her elbows up on the chair arm and drooping her chin into her palms. A flicker of fire bled across his form and she could see the edge of his black mask, the mask he was never without. She pursed her lips then, and, before she stopped to think of the consequences, blurted out, "Where is it?"
At this, Erik's back stiffened, but relaxed so quickly afterwards that she doubted he had even moved at all. "Where is what?" he asked.
Standing up in one smooth motion, almost daringly, she narrowed her eyes and stood her ground. She had spoken out of terms, uncontrollably, and now she had to brace herself for what was to come. "Do not pretend to be ignorant with me. You know of what I speak."
In truth, Erik did know. She spoke of that awful substance, the poison—her bane and his release. Every time she had tried to bring the subject up, he had dismissed it with the flick of a hand. He did not wish to remember that night... the night she had found him on the floor. Weak. Vulnerable. Pathetic. He had begged her silently to never speak of it again and he had foolishly thought that she would comply.
Christine flinched at the harsh noise of his book slamming shut and she withdrew from him immediately, backing up until she had almost reached the wall. She watched anxiously as he stood, showing off his mocking height, before he jerked his arm to the side, casting the book from his grasp and making it hit the shelves with a violent thud.
"Now," he said, his voice a deep rumble within his throat, like the roll of thunder before the strike of lightning. "Would you like to clarify what it is you are talking about?"
If his goal was to intimidate her then he had succeeded, her words failing to form on her tongue as he approached. "I-I... The..."
"You mustn't stutter, Christine. Spit it out," he growled.
As she moved her head to the side, strands of thick hair fell across her cheek and she prayed that they were enough to hide her trembling face. "The vial," she whispered.
"I do not think that it is any concern of yours," he snapped, narrowing his eyes.
Wondering why he felt the need to shut her out, she turned her head back to him and was alarmed at the close proximity of their faces. Startled, her words once again seemed lost in her mouth. "I-I—"
"Enough," he cooed, control straining his voice as one long finger came up to hover over her lips. "Enough," he repeated softer than before. Christine stared at that finger before looking into those cloudy eyes that were fixed upon her and her alone. "You are frightened, aren't you? Forgive me... please, forgive me. Sometimes, I do not know why I react the way I do." His voice wrapped a cocoon of silk around her and Christine felt herself instantly relax, despite the nerves which arose from his prolonged and engrossed stare. Her glances dropped in modesty and she did not even move to stop him when that raised finger began to trail across the line of her jaw and up the curve of her cheek.
As he dared to touch the siren before him, tracing skin with rough fingertip, Erik fought to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. Had he ever known such softness before? His free hand twitched, wishing to take her hand, to hold her in his arms like any other suitor would, but it did not stray from his side. It was only when her eyes caught his in a steady gaze and he became entranced by the intensity which quietly burned within them that he paused. Fear flickered across his face, obscured by the mask, and soon he became flustered, unsure of what to do with himself and of why she did not push him away.
A bundle of nerves herself, Christine did not know which impulse radiated through her more fiercely; the want to step away from his childlike curiosity and those quivering hands that bore the stains of men's blood, or the incomprehensible need to collapse into the heat of his body, to drown in an awkward embrace, to finally show him the care he had never known.
Searching her face, Erik stared, waiting for an answer, a rejection, anything to appear and tell him what to do. But no such answer came, only her locked attention, the hefty weight of her neutral expression doing nothing to calm his racing heart.
Wanting to escape her gaze and taking a chance, he slowly brought his face closer, dipping down to bury the mask within a thicket of hair. Christine froze at this before bracing herself against the wall, her hands pressing firmly to it as she wondered what it would be like to melt into the structure and simply disappear. The uncomfortable pressure of the mask against her skin pulled her away from such unrealistic thoughts and cemented her to the room and to the awareness of Erik leaning helplessly into her. She saw his hand move with the greatest uncertainty before it tangled itself in her curls, lightly stroking and pulling on the strands. But when she felt his warm breath dance against the crook of her neck, her eyelids shut in a moment of bewildered contentment.
Erik exhaled deeply, absorbed in her friendly warmth and the lack of tension in her body, but beneath his ease grew a deepening anxiety. She had not moved since he had approached her. Surely she was not accommodating him? No, no, she was merely appeasing him. His anger had pacified her, but what must she think of his actions? Bold. Reckless. Why did she not move then? Repulsion. Fear. He should not have touched her.
As if burnt, he withdrew sharply from her and stumbled backwards. His face was hidden and under the control of its lifeless prison but Christine could see how his chin trembled, how it betrayed his otherwise stiff demeanour.
"Forgive me," he pleaded again, his head drooping and hands now wringing at his side. "Christine," he laughed humorously. "I have once again tainted you with my wickedness. Once again you have allowed a monster to touch you!" Slumping his shoulders over, he created the illusion of an even thinner frame. "You are my weakness," he whispered, his voice fervent with impassioned distress, clutching at his heart as he continued, "and here you are within my grasp. I... I..." Suddenly correcting his posture, he seemed to regain his dignified conduct in a matter of seconds before he walked with some seemingly great purpose straight past her and through the door. Christine lagged behind him, confused over his erratic behaviour. "I have a present for you," he called over his shoulder. "Come."
"A... present?" Flustered by his words, she ran a hand over her hair, wary of the blush that now stained her cheeks.
"Yes! A present," he called behind him. "I had thought to give it to you at a later date, but I just could not wait any longer. Besides! Arrangements have now been made... Yes, they have been—oh, just a moment, if you will." He then strode into his bedchamber and she waited nervously for him to return, thankful for the time alone to collect her thoughts. As she neared the door, however, she could hear his muffled words of irritation. "Where is it? Where is it? I could not have lost... ah! Here it—" A sudden clatter interrupted his words and then all fell silent.
"Are you all right?" Christine asked, concerned, as she hovered by the door.
Erik cursed under his breath as he stood in a pile of fallen sheet music and binders. He had carelessly left her present on the floor and had apparently made use of it as a second desk for his compositions. His eyes darted about the mess, wishing to clear it up, but the object in his hands held too great a purpose. The rest would just have to wait.
Christine nearly tripped over herself as he suddenly came tumbling through the door, carrying a large white box complete with red ribbon.
"Here," he said, practically shoving the box into her arms and she stumbled, a little surprised at the given strength behind the gesture.
"Oh." She peered around and underneath the object and raised an eyebrow, wondering more about his behaviour than the gift itself. "Um, thank you."
He sighed and swiftly turned her around on the spot before gently guiding her towards her own bedchamber. His strange act left her struggling to find the words with which to scold him for jostling her out the room. "Do not thank me," he chided. "You do not yet know of its contents."
"I know," she managed. "But—"
"Hush. Now, I want you out of that room as soon as you are ready. I would like to see."
"See what?" she asked him, but it was too late. He had already placed her in his wanted destination and had closed the door on her.
Christine stood, silently glancing between the latch and the box before quickly dropping the latter onto the soft covers of the bed. Begrudgingly, she lifted the lid and with a high gasp tumbling from between her lips, she stared at what was within.
Reaching out with eager fingers, she grasped the mountain of material and flung it out of the box, pressing it against her body for further inspection. It was a dress, beautiful, elegant, and she regarded it with awe. She ran her hand over the different textures, feeling the slight roughness of the sleeves edged in frill, the smoothness of ivory silk and the layered ruffles which completed the long skirt. A ghost of a smile flickered on her face as she laid the dress down on the bed with the intent of trying it on.
With one last glance towards the door, she stripped off her clothing, leaving it in a messy bundle at the foot of the bed, before running a hand over her constrictive corset and frowning over the dress. It was only then that she began to wonder about the intent behind it, the thoughts fighting to flourish in her distracted mind. She soon had the dress placed on her body, however, and, noticing that the box also contained a pair of boots, she snatched them up and placed them on her feet before turning to the mirror.
Though never one to be vain, she simply could not help but appraise her reflection, nor could she stop from walking about the room, parading her dress skirts around her legs as she twirled.
She stopped in her tracks as she noticed the box was not yet empty and so she went to see what was left. She thought that perhaps it was a hat or a pair of gloves to go with the ensemble, but no, there was no hat and there were no gloves. Instead, she saw a folded pile of delicate lace, lined with intricate patterns of tiny hand sewn swirls and flowers. She clutched wildly at the material as it was lifted from the box and into the light almost ceremoniously.
"A veil?" she whispered, fighting the urge to rip the fabric from her body. "Dear God, this... this is a wedding dress. No. No, surely not. No, it cannot be... I have more time..."
Practically running back into the living room, she found Erik pacing and flapping his hands behind his back, only stopping when he noticed her.
"Oh, Christine," he sighed, looking her up and down in wonder. "You are a vision."
"I am... flattered," she spoke hollowly as troubling thoughts flew through her mind. "Tell me, Erik," she began calmly, hoping he would explain all of this swiftly, "where did you purchase this dress?"
He chuckled as he strolled over to her, pulling the veil from her hands and fixing it in place atop her head. Aghast at his nonchalance, Christine waited patiently for him to reply, anxiously watching as he untangled the material at the back so it flowed more elegantly before he stepped back to admire his work.
"A magician never reveals his secrets," he said cryptically, taking another step back and sighing in delight, sprawling his hands out in the air towards her. "The dress is to your liking, then? Yes?"
"Yes," she replied slowly. "It is beautiful."
"I am so glad, and it is comfortable? I tried to see to—"
"Yes, Erik," she interrupted. "It is comfortable, but I must ask—"
"Excellent!" he cried, beaming to himself. "You shall have no worries over wearing it for the rest of the day then."
"Pardon me?" Perhaps she misheard him. "Erik, this is a... a wedding dress, is it not?"
"Why, yes," he replied brightly.
"Then... why would I want to wear it all day?" she asked, her voice an innocent droll as her skin tingled in apprehension of his answer. She already knew what he would say.
He turned to her in barely contained enthusiasm as he exclaimed, "Oh, did I neglect to mention that today is our wedding day? Silly Erik! Silly, silly Erik. Now, come, we have much to do."
"No!" she cried out ardently, snatching hold of her dress skirts and presenting them as if they were coated with something most foul. "I will not be rushed to the altar! If we truly are to be wed—"
"Which we are. Today. I have all the arrangements made."
She swallowed a biting remark and continued her words from before. "If we are truly to be wed so soon then I..." Her words faded into a silence as a string of questions entered her mind, each and every one of them lined with a new sense of hope in prolonging her fate. "Erik? Did you even obtain permission for us to wed? I do not think Mamma knows about any of this! Were you going to tell her? Where you going to tell me? And where is the church?" she demanded, a little rattled, yet glowing with determination. "How are we to get there on such short notice? It is customary for the bride to know all these details before the wedding day, Erik. Surely you do not want a flustered bride beside you?"
As she saw him pause, she smiled inwardly, prematurely victorious, believing that her words had done enough to sway him. But they had not. "Do not concern yourself over the documentation. I have said that I have everything sorted. But, you are right," he added, tilting his head upwards in thought, "I do not want a flustered bride. But fear not, Christine, we shall travel on horseback and, if you wish it, I shall explain all to you on the way. Come."
"Ha!" she exclaimed, taking a large step away from him. "You will need all the luck you can get to march me down the aisle today."
"Ah, but you have forgotten one detail, Christine."
"And what is that?" she asked, raising her eyebrow.
Placing her hands on her hips, she tried to look as fierce as her petite body would allow, but her posture slumped as he suddenly strode towards her and yanked the Vicomte's engagement ring off her finger, hardly registering her yelp as he slid in into his jacket pocket.
The protest in her mouth turned dry as she saw what he then produced from the same pocket. In his hand, he held a little velvet roped bag. Holding his free hand beside the other, he tilted the bag until two objects tumbled out onto his upturned palm. Two plain wedding bands glistened there in dull candlelight, sparkling, inviting and ever frightening.
A grin spread smugly over his chalk like skin as he curled his fingers around the rings. "I make my own luck."