A/N: Well, looks like I'm updating on time. Hooray. Enjoy.
Chapter Eleven
Later that night, Erik lay beside Christine in silence, his body curled intimately around hers by course of natural chance. He didn't know if she wanted him to be so close to her, or if she wanted him to hold her, or if she wanted him to leave, or if she even cared what he did. He didn't know if she regretted what they'd done, or if it even made a difference in her life.
She'd removed his mask before she'd allowed him to touch her. Initially, he felt discomfort in exposing himself so completely before her, especially when he recalled the last time she'd seen his face, but then she'd kissed him, and all was forgotten.
The room, only moments before full of sighs, cries, and whispered names, was entirely still...until her broken sobs shattered the quiet.
Now he had no idea at all of what to do. On instinct he leaned and placed a comforting kiss on her cheek and held her closer to him, which only proved to make her weep more passionately.
His blood ran a bit cold then. Obviously he was not wanted here. Obviously he'd made a horrible misstep in judgement, and obviously she wanted nothing more to do with him.
He rose from the bed and collected his clothing from the ground, all the while his world being colored redder and redder. He pulled on his trousers, then his shirtsleeves, then most importantly, his mask. He'd been a fool ever to let it go, in more ways than one. He'd laid his heart, his very soul out to her, let her know everything about him, and made himself entirely vulnerable. All he got in return were scornful tears of shame and regret.
As he dressed, her sobs had turned to near wails, and he crossed the room quickly in disgust and hurt. Before slamming the door behind him, he called, "Deepest apologies, mademoiselle."
Even though they were spoken by such a beautiful voice, Christine had never heard uglier words.
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Miford had bid farewell to an extremely distraught wife early in the morning to catch his third train to Kalmat. She'd protested, of course, even reduced herself to tears over it, but Miford had no time to comfort her. The train left at ten o'clock.
His policeman's clairvoyance told him that this would be his final trip devoted to the Opera Ghost, though out of complete desperation or out of victory, he was unsure. Either way, it was a relief to know, and he couldn't help but hope for the latter of the eventualities.
The train didn't seem to move quickly enough as he calculated the time it would take him to reach and search each of the three small sea towns. Given their size and assumable layout, Miford knew they couldn't take too long, perhaps a day, with a day's travel in between each. Seven days, approximately, was all he had before he'd be finished with this, one way or another.