A/N—In which he makes plans…

a)}—'-,- Roses to MomoxDerpy, Crystalline44, givelove1morechance, Mominator124, Serene11, and Stemwinder for their deeply appreciated reviews of Chp 12!

The Usual Disclaimer—These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Ah, my patient, faithful readers, I've left you a nice long chapter here...do please read and review!


A Second Chance

Chapter 13

Copyright 2016 by Riene

Adding electricity to his underground demesne was proving surprisingly difficult. Erik leaned back in the chair, staring at his diagrams nonplussed. The rolled copper wiring was heavier than expected and difficult to conceal, and required porcelain or glass insulators every few feet. There was also the water issue, he thought sourly. Electrocution was yet another way in which he did not wish to die.

Nadir Khan had visited the night before, bringing a set of knife switches for his experiments, and had stayed for a while discussing Erik's plans over tea and brandy. At one point he shook his dark head disdainfully.

"Erik, you should quit this place, find yourself elsewhere to live. This," he waved his hand at the diagrams, the scattered bits of wire and insulators, "this is only a distraction for you. It is only a matter of time before you are discovered again, and this chill air is unhealthy."

"Rejoin the world of men, Daroga?" he said acidly. "You must be aware of how successful that would be. Or do you merely wish more misery and strife upon my unfortunate head?"

"May Allah have mercy on you," muttered Nadir, exasperated. "There are other men walking through this city with injuries. You are older and wiser; you need merely to make a decision. Darius and I would be of any assistance you required."

Malevolent black eyes glowered in response. "No."

Nadir Khan sighed and changed the subject. The man was ever difficult.


The managers had looked at her oddly when she had requested the wooden ballet bar but had acquiesced. Mounted on the wall of her dressing room, it gave her a sturdy way to limber up and despite no longer being part of the corps de ballet, Christine had continued with her discipline of daily exercises. The deep bends and stretches helped to relieve some of the stress and tension of the day, she'd found.

The familiar routine completed, Christine rapidly changed into costume for the full rehearsal for Act III, adjusting the golden belt over her loosely flowing blue and ivory robes. Golden embroidery graced the hem of the pleated gown, matching the delicate golden sandals. Her dresser carefully arranged the headpiece and veil over her long loose curls, pinning everything in place.

"Thank you," she said softly, and Louise smiled back at her in the mirror.

"Be careful of that veil, Mlle," she warned, and departed.

Act III was intense and difficult, for Christine was onstage throughout all of it. The backdrop showed the palace of the king, all carved serrated horseshoe arches, pillars, fountains, and marble. Exotic colorful cushions had been piled to one side of the stage, and Christine sank gracefully down, arranging her robes and veil, absently pulling a tassel through her fingers while she waited.

M Lassalle entered as Ben-Saïd and approached Christine, who shrank from him, turning her face away. He turned and shouted offstage, clapping his hands, and the corps de ballet swirled on stage in a graceful patter of feet and floating diaphanous skirts. From the front of the stage Madame Giry watched with narrowed eyes as Meg and her other dancers gamboled and capered, endeavoring to cheer the sad and drooping Xaïma to no avail.

Ben-Saïd seized Xaïma's hands, raising her to her feet, and begged her to accept his love in a solo, "O Xaïma!" Christine pulled away, rejecting him. The king's envoy was angered, stamping and threatening, but was rapidly distracted by Leon and Luigi strolling on stage as Hadjar and Manoël. Hadjar introduced Manoël as the Spanish soldier who had once saved his life. The grateful noble then offered Manoël any of his possessions, in return for aiding his brother.

From far stage left Christine raised imploring hands, and Manoël arrogantly faced Ben-Saïd to demand Xaïma as his prize. M Lassalle swelled with rage at the insult, his powerful baritone voice filling the auditorium as he shouted for soldiers to seize and arrest Manoël. Christine wrenched herself away from her guard and threw herself at the envoy's feet, sobbing that if Manoël was harmed in any way she would rather die as well, by her own hand. Reluctantly Ben-Saïd ordered Manoël freed, then turned to threaten Xaïma that his love and tolerance could easily turn into hatred.

Gabrielle flung herself onto the stage, raving, capturing Xaïma's hands and interrogating the girl about her past. The two slowly assumed center stage singing a duet, "De sa mort qui donc parle ici?" Christine's golden voice blending seamlessly with Gabrielle's richer, more mature tones. Weeping again, Xaïma realized that Hermosa was her lost mother, separated at the battle of Zamora. With her daughter in her arms again, Hermosa began to return to sanity and reason, and united, they sang the national anthem. The women finished the scene to spontaneous applause from around the theatre, and clasped hands, bowing with smiles.

Gabrielle embraced Christine spontaneously. "If we can do that again, we are assured of a wonderful opening night," she smiled.

Luigi minced up behind her, pantomiming wiping his eyes. "So sweet, just like mother and daughter," he sneered.

Beside her, Gabrielle stiffened in shock but said nothing. There were tears in her eyes. Christine glanced at her, then glared at Luigi. "I don't know what you're playing at, but that was uncalled for." He smirked and sauntered off stage. She turned back to her fellow cast member and put out a concerned hand. "Are you alright?"

Gabrielle shut her eyes briefly and nodded. "Yes, my dear. Thank you." Disengaging her arm, she walked quietly away.

They ran through the third act twice, making minor adjustments to lighting and placement before ending. "That's enough for today," Charles Dumont said, sounding pleased. "Excellent, Xaïma and Hermosa, very well done. M Reyer, Madame Giry, thank you. Ben-Saïd, a minute please?"

Stagehands began scurrying about, pushing set pieces back into the wings. Behind her, the orchestra swept into the music for Act IV in preparation for tomorrow, M. Reyer's baton beating on the podium. Wearily Christine headed toward the dressing rooms, acknowledging compliments with a faint smile, feeling utterly drained, wondering about Gabrielle's childless state, and thinking of Raoul. It had not been hard to fall into the role…Xaïma's tears had been her own.


Erik watched her silently from behind the mirror as she moved slowly about the room, gathering her things. Continuing with rehearsals through her grief was taking its toll, he observed. Christine's voice was tired as she thanked her dresser who'd come to take the costume away for repairs or cleaning. His angel had dark circles under her eyes, once the stage makeup was removed, and he was well aware she'd not had time to complete any preparations for her impending move. Her nights recently had been busy; a charity concert, a private performance at a politician's home. If only she would rest, his angel, but she seemed to be driving herself, filling her days and nights. Erik understood that, the need to be so exhausted one could not think or feel, but Christine seemed near collapse. There had been a time when he would simply have ordered her to the underground house to rest, where he would have watched her jealously, guarding his beloved and caring for her. Now she would not allow it, but his angel still needed a place of sanctuary, of respite. He frowned, an idea slowly coalescing behind his eyes.

The former Opera Ghost stalked restlessly through corridors, possessed of a need to move, to think, his mind whirling, the Persian's words echoing in his ears. Rejoin the world of men. How often had he thought of that, only to have it end in disaster for himself, and often those around him? Yet he had not been able to muster the energy to repair the underground home. Once his refuge it had become a prison, a place to nurse bitterness and hatred, a place to hide, to skulk, to observe and manipulate the world above. He pressed a palm against the damp stone corridor, catching his breath and easing the stabbing pain in his ribs. Once he had traveled, had been an architect, an artist, a designer, in control of his destiny. And also, the voice inside his mind sneered, beaten, chained, caged, spat on, driven to the point of madness, a killer, an assassin, a torturer, never forget.

But the idea, once touched, tantalized him with the possibilities. Money was no object; his "salary" from the Opera was well invested and he retained the vast majority of the Shah's final payment, a compensation the sadistic ruler had never intended him to survive long enough to keep. To live as other men…to be in a place where he need not fear the sudden rise of the lake during the spring rains or stay hunched near the fire during the bitterly cold winter months. They believed the Opera Ghost to be dead…many men were injured from the war…Christine had spoken of rooms high above the city, a quiet building, a guarantee of privacy. If he was successful, there might be a way to help Christine. It was possible…the sheer audacity of it was overwhelming.


"Mon Dieu," breathed Nadir, confronted with a sight he'd never expected to see again. Erik raised a sardonic eyebrow and led him back to the study. Though the underground house was chill, Erik wore only a thin shirt and waistcoat; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing scarred pale arms wiry with muscle. Nadir recognized the old smudged dark brown marks of shackles around his wrists,and the round, slight indentations where morphine had once entered the raised blue veins, amid other thin white and reddened scars. The antique table which served as his workspace had been swept clear of all electrical apparatus and now held blueprints, diagrams, and scribbled notes in a familiar spiky handwriting.

"Doost man, what new devilment are you playing at now?" he asked warily, and Erik turned gleaming black eyes to him.

"I have decided to take your advice," the former palace architect of Mazenderan said silkily. "It was you, my old friend, who urged me to return to the world of men…but I prefer to do it on my own terms."

Nadir leaned over the drawings, frowning. "Where did you acquire these plans, Erik?"

"You need not concern yourself with that," he said lazily. "They will be returned to their proper place in good time…not noticeably different."

Nadir frowned, noting the two separate sets diagrams which on first glance appeared identical, and leaned over to study them.

"See, here, and here." Erik's bony, ink-stained fingers jabbed at the drawings. "An added wall there, a passageway here."

Nadir shook his head. "Lover of Trapdoors, I see you have forgotten nothing."

Erik laughed mirthlessly. "I have learned that lesson too many times, Daroga. Never trust, never assume. I may attempt a return to the world of men, but I will have my escape routes well prepared in advance."

He sighed. "So why have you summoned me, Erik? I cannot believe you only want to talk."

Glittering black eyes focused on jade-green ones. "I need your help."

Twenty minutes later Khan emerged, a folded sheaf of pages in his hand and most shockingly, a sizable bank draft in his coat pocket. He shook his greying head…Darius would never believe it.


His imagination captured again, Erik threw himself in this new project with fervor, relying on the Persian and his manservant for some errands, taking control of others himself. The lethargy vanished; he did not sleep, quivering with impatience as night fell around the city. Some of it was more difficult than expected. Though his hands had lost none of their old skill, his slowly-healing battered body could only be pushed so far and required more rest than his impatient mind wanted to tolerate. Still, the initial phase of his scheme was coming together smoothly. An atelier would be his, and perhaps a sanctuary for her. It remained to be seen if she would consider his offering a gilded cage.


Christine found herself looking forward to the final rehearsal for Act IV. Now only a few days separated their final days of practice until opening night. M Dumont waved a cheery greeting as she passed through the foyer and even M Reyer nodded a brusque welcome from the orchestra pit as the musicians began their warm ups. She passed through the wings amid the stagehands and technicians, emerging into the back corridors.

Ahead in the hallway, Madame Giry strode imperiously toward the managers' office, pausing outside to incline her head. Approaching, Christine could hear their raised voices and saw her friend's mother shrug and turn away, only to stop and smile.

"Christine." The older woman put out her hands. "How are you, my dear?" Her dark eyes searched her former protégé's face.

Christine managed a tremulous smile at the older woman's concern. "As well as can be expected, Madame, thank you," she said softly. "I am grateful for the rehearsals keeping my time occupied."

"We are here if you wish us, ma petite," she said gently. "You need only ask." Christine squeezed her hands in response.

"I know," she said shakily. "And I'm appreciative. It's just…I don't want to talk about it. Not yet."

The dark eyes smiled sadly down. "I understand." She paused, hesitant to say more as the irate voices behind the door increased in volume again. Christine inclined her head curiously.

"What are they arguing about?"

Adele Giry raised her eyebrows and lifted one shoulder in a disdainful shrug. "Something about money. I will ask my questions later. This is obviously not the time." She touched Christine's cheek gently. "I will see you at rehearsal."


"Watch out, Mlle Daae," called a stagehand, maneuvering an artificial tree into position. Christine stepped backwards quickly, feeling awkward. Swiftly she glanced up at Box five again, seeking a flash of white from a mask or gloved hand, but only darkness met her eyes. She frowned; it had been some days since Erik had made his presence felt, though she knew he would remain unseen. Even now it was unusual for him to not attend to matters around the Opera House.

"Looking for something?" Luigi murmured in her ear and she jumped.

"No," she said icily and he laughed.

"No because there is nothing now. No patron, no protector, no one. You are all alone aren't you, little Christine? A pity, no?"

Outraged, she turned but he was gone, swaggering across the stage with his hand on Manoël's costume sword.

Gritting her teeth, Christine moved to the wings awaiting the rehearsal to begin and for her entry cue. The backdrop was in place, the gardens of Ben-Saïd's palace, with artificial trees, shrubbery, and marble benches scattered about the stage, with walls and arches to the side. Heat and light flooded the stage as the technicians moved their huge lamps into position and she could hear M Reyer's querulous voice demanding to know when they would begin.

From the center stalls Charles Dumont settled his clipboard on one knee and began shouting directions. The theater went silent. Luigi minced to the center from stage right, attempting to appear furtive, risking his life to find Xaïma and singing "Que puis-je à présent regretter?"

Gabrielle, waiting beside her, gave Christine's hand a small squeeze. The stage manager nodded and Christine made her appearance, moving gracefully toward Luigi and trying to school her face into what she hoped was an expression of yearning and not distaste. He clutched her hands, interweaving his fingers so tightly she gasped, and began to sing their duet, "Sans moi tu veux mourir?" The painful clasp nearly choked Christine's voice but she continued the song, agreeing to commit suicide together rather than submit to Ben-Saïd's desires.

Hermosa rushed forward, seizing Xaïma's shoulders and turning her away from Manoël. Gabrielle then took her hands and accused Xaïma of leaving when they had just been reunited, while Manoël and Xaïma implored her forgiveness. M Lassalle made his entrance from the back, sending Hermosa and Manoël into hiding. Christine shrank back, feigning terror, as he caught her by the shoulders and again tried to convince her of his love. After several tense minutes of increasing refusals, Ben-Saïd struck her across the face and began to forcibly advance his intentions. Luigi lunged out of hiding to save his beloved, and the angered Ben-Saïd circled him, sword drawn, as the two men sang their hostile duet, "Lui! Manoël, encore!"

Hermosa reappeared, rushing forward to throw herself between the two angry men, trying to convince Ben-Saïd to let her daughter leave. M Lassalle angrily refused, and Hermosa, whirling about in a swirl of flying skirts and veils, seized Manoël's blade and stabbed the king's envoy in the ribs. At his shouts, soldiers, led by Léon Melchissédec as Hadjar, rushed onto the stage, swords drawn and surround Hermosa. The dying Ben-Saïd angrily threatened Xaïma, but Hadjar reminded his friend of the aphorism of the Koran to leave madmen be, and the king's envoy reluctantly concurred, releasing Hermosa, Manoël and Xaïma to leave unhurt. Holding hands, the reunited lovers ran offstage, to the ending crescendo of the orchestra and cheers of the extras.

"Excellent, everyone, most excellent," called the director. "That's enough for the day; be prepared for a full run-through next time." He rose to his feet, handing the notes and script to his assistant, heading over to speak with the stage manager.

Relieved the afternoon had gone well, Christine returned to her dressing room, rubbing her sore hands. Damn the man, why must he constantly be so hateful? He had a superb voice, but his poisonous personality and hateful actions had gained him no friends or respect amongst the cast. There was a rapid pattering and Meg's impish face appeared at the door.

"Meg! Come in," Christine smiled. "I've not seen you all day."

The little blond dancer rolled her eyes. "Mamman has kept us busy, but we are freed from bondage now. Would you like to meet me for dinner?"

"I would love to. Give me time to change."

Meg gestured at her own damp outfit and blotted her perspiring forehead. "Yes, me too. I'll meet you at the Rotonde as soon as I can." Christine nodded and Meg dashed away before her mother could direct her elsewhere.

Dinner with Meg would be a welcome break from the exhausting week. Swiftly she removed the costume and draped it across the chaise, dressing rapidly. Louise would be along any minute. As she emerged from behind the dressing screen a sharp rap came from the mirror and Christine's head snapped up, startled, as the mirror dropped slightly and slid sideways. Erik stepped through, his eyes glowing golden in the gas lit room.

"Christine, I have a request of you." She looked up at him, surprised at the eagerness in his velvet tenor voice. "Will you meet me tonight by the café? I have something I wish to show to you, here in the city." She took a breath and he raised one hand admonishingly. "No, no questions, please. Will you do as I ask? I do not wish to explain just yet."

Slowly she nodded. "At what time? I am meeting Meg for dinner."

"Seven, I think. That should give us plenty of time for my errand, and you to have your dinner."


The café was across the street from the Opera House, on the rue des Mathurins. The evening air was pleasant, but Christine drew the collar of her light cloak about her face uneasily. Meg had been full of gossip, the latest stories of the corps, who was seeing whom, and what scandals had taken place in the dance halls, but Christine had seen her safely to a cab some minutes earlier. Couples walked by, perhaps on their way to comic theaters, the dance halls, and restaurants, but the shadows were growing longer and she was alone.

"Thank you for being so prompt, my dear," a voice spoke by her ear and Christine whirled, her hand on her heart. He raised his visible eyebrow at her startled reaction and stepped from the shadows, an ebony cane over one arm, wearing a well-tailored street suit of fine dark wool and a hat pulled low. She had rarely seen him outside of the Opera House. His long pale hands were gloved in the finest kidskin, and were it not for his height and extraordinarily thin frame, Erik might have been any gentleman out for an evening stroll.

With a sharp whistle he hailed a cab and courteously handed her up into it, tersely giving the driver an address, then settling across from her, keeping his face in the shadows of the interior of the brougham. They rode in silence for several minutes, finally stopping at the building she had visited with M. Fournier some weeks ago. "Shall we, my dear?" he murmured, gesturing.

He shook his head at her questioning look, his dark eyes gleaming. Without speaking, they climbed the shadowed flights of stairs to the top floor landing and he removed a brass key from his pocket, unlocked the door and stepped back. Christine entered and stopped, surprised.

Gone were the dusty rooms, peeling paint, water stains, and musty odor. The foyer was lit to a golden glow by electrical lights, a graceful console table stood against the wall. The room widened out into the salon as she remembered, but creamy white draperies flowed from the windows now, and the walls were distempered a warm ivory. Moving forward as if in a dream, she heard Erik quietly shut the door behind her, watching her reactions. The lights softly glowed, a stage set waiting for players. She turned around, raising puzzled blue eyes. "Erik, I don't understand."

He had not moved from where he stood in the entry foyer, slowly pulling off the gloves and dropping them on the table, watching her. "It is simple enough, my dear," he said quietly, but there was an intensity in his eyes that unnerved her. "I have been thinking it over, and as you and my dear friend Nadir are fond of pointing out—I cannot keep living under the Opera House. I wish to live as other men. The rooms you spoke of seemed ideal, so I had Nadir contact your agent, who was only too willing to lease them to me."

Her wide eyes watched his face warily. "And where do I come in to this, Erik," she asked bluntly. "I know you too well; you are not telling me the whole truth."

He sighed. "Christine, do not make this difficult. You have only two weeks to be out of your flat. I am offering you somewhere to live until your preparations are complete."

"I will not live with you!" she snapped. "It is immoral and indecent!"

He raised a disdainful eyebrow. "I was not suggesting that. You would be here and I would remain at the underground house until you found other accommodations."

Silence stretched out between them. Her blazing eyes met his cool gaze. "Christine, you have very little choice."


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