The Arrival
Disclaimer –Not mine ect...
A/N – I'm ill, this makes me sad. There might be a bit of a delay for the next chapter as life will be getting a little bit busy, but I'll try and get one done in time for Christmas.
KatenHaanrath – Thanks I'm glad you liked the Raoul bits. And oh there will be arguments, oh yes, there will be arguments.
Nataliia – Lol, yes it was a bit of a Holy Grail reference. I couldn't resist.
Epic Insanity – Thanks, I enjoyed writing the Gendarme parts.
Laal ratty – Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it. I think Firman and Andre deserve their own little story, so I might write them a one shot at some point. For crack purposes of course.
A pale shaft of light slunk its way across the floor of the tiny garret they had shared, the motes swirling in the evening sun.
"It's almost time, Christine." The figure on the bed told her, she knew this person was meant to be her father, but he was nothing like the kind, gentle and slightly eccentric man she had been raised by. In his place lay a shadow of his former self, emaciated and white, sallow cheeked and sunken eyed. He was little more than a living corpse.
"Papa." She could only whisper, the lump in her throat seemed to choke the sound away. There were tears in her eyes, even though she had been well aware of what was about to happen. Her father had always believed in being honest with children, even about the harsher aspects of life, even about dying. She still hadn't been prepared for this though.
Through the little oval window the sun disappeared behind the blackened chimneys and rooftops and the room darkened and seemed to grow even smaller, if that was even possible
"You must be brave, you must do what you know in your heart is right. Not just today but in all things." the skeletal creature told her "I want you to promise me."
"Please don't leave me, father. Not like this." The tears were flowing freely now and she could hardly see from them "Not like this."
"It's all right; everything is as it should be. As long as you remember me, and how much I love you, everything will be all right." he was having trouble talking, and she found that he was having to pause more and more as the rattling cough shook his body. "And when I am in heaven child, I will send an angel to protect you, so you'll know that I'll be there watching over you, and that I'll always love you. The angel of music, like the story."
"Father, no!" her sobs were getting louder now, and the room was quickly becoming engulfed in darkness.
"You must make your choice, child."
"No!"
"Christine...please." she was aware that it was not her father's voice that she could hear anymore, had he strained it somehow, did voices change when you were close to death?
"NO! NO FATHER!"
"Christine."
Her eyes snapped open as the freight train ground to a halt with a screech of the breaks. Looking around wildly in the darkness, it began to dawn on her where she was and what she had done. If she didn't know better she could have sworn that this was the dream and the distorted memory she had just woken from was the reality. If that was the case, would she be able to change anything? It had been Erik's voice she had heard trying to wake her, bringing her out of the nightmare, perhaps into a new one. It unsettled her how close he was, now that her eyes had become used to the dark she realised that he was right next to her. His presence and the raw memory of the dream made her almost break down again and made it hard to breathe.
She was talking in her sleep again. It was wrong of him to know just how frequent an occurrence that was. It had stemmed from a mild concern; his angel had been so troubled as a child, so haunted, so lost, so helpless. There had been something about her that had concerned him, so he had taken to watching her, during ballet practise, her long periods alone in the chapel or her room. He had wondered why she did not sleep with the other ballet rats in the dormitories and instead had been given her own room. But it soon became apparent that she had been placed there, not only because she was grieving her dead father but because her troubled nights were beginning to disrupt the other girls.
And so he had taken to watching over her, he hadn't been sure why. At that time it had nothing to do with the lustful thoughts he now felt for her, he had only seen a lost and lonely child with an angel's voice. Much like how he used to be in fact. Perhaps that had been the root of his over protectiveness, he did not wish for the world to destroy her as it had done him. And as he witnessed her nightmares in the flesh, the word 'father' was probably the most frequent to fall from her lips, followed by 'angel' her name for him. He had taken a secret pride in knowing that she dreamed of him. Still her grief worried him, as it bordered on obsession sometimes and matched his loneliness a little too closely.
He had thought that time would lessen her pain but as the years past she made little improvement. For all his concern in the beginning, he had selfishly enjoyed her grief, his place as her teacher and guardian and only true confidant. He had felt exhilarated each time he dared to enter her room while she slept, as though his very presence could ward off her demons. And once again he could not resist moving a little closer to her, silently longing to put his arm around her and let her head rest on his shoulder as she slept. She looked so fragile now, ever since he had returned to the Opera House during that ill fated Bal Masque he had noticed her drawn look and sickly pallor and before when he had helped her into the boxcar he couldn't help noticing how her bones protruded under her dress. But when the train began to slow and he shook her awake he had never seen her more terrified. Was waking up to him truly so horrible? Had he ever believed otherwise?
"Come, we must leave before we are discovered." He said simply.
It was just before dawn in the town he had brought her, and the sombre pair drifted like ghosts past its panorama with its gothic churches and its walled medieval fortress. And with the darkness the whole commune lay sleeping, awaiting a new day. In spite of her warm clothes the February winds cut through the wool of her coat. It was not as cold as that night in graveyard, although perhaps it had been the dread in her heart that had chilled her so that night.
"Erik, where are we?" she asked again, feeling exhausted and frustrated at being kept in the dark. There were so many unanswered questions.
"We're in Caen, but only for a short a while."
Caen? They were in Calvados? So they had been heading north all that time. Were they going to continue on to Cherbourg and attempt to cross the channel somehow? It seemed to make sense if they were being followed. They came to station entrance, one of the only places that was already open. It was only a small building with three platforms and one rather sleepy looking man in the ticket office. The clock read that it was half past five. The timetable on the wall announced that the first train of the day would arrive in have an hour.
"Perhaps I should buy our tickets." she said thoughtfully "Then perhaps we won't be so noticeable." The news of her disappearance might not have been widely known yet, but once the papers printed it they would probably find it harder to keep their trail a secret.
He looked surprised for a moment, perhaps even a little suspicious but eventually nodded and handed her the money for two singles in first class. To her surprise she was instructed to buy them for Saint-Lo and not to the coast as she had previously guessed. And to keep her veil down at all costs.
As she paid for the tickets the elderly man in the booth gave her a concerned glance thanks to her funeral clothes and her tear stained face through the lace of her dark veil.
"Your ticket Madame?" he said. "I hope you do not think me rude for asking what has you looking so upset. And why you would be travelling at this ungodly hour."
"Forgive me sir." She said softly, making up a lie on the spot "But yesterday we received news of my poor father in law's passing and we must go to Saint-Lo at once to make the necessary arrangements." She looked back nervously at Erik's hooded figure, in the half light his face was entirely concealed "My...husband would normally take care of things like this but alas, he is inconsolable."
"Well it seems he's lucky to have a wife such as yourself. You both have my condolences." The man said, looking a little embarrassed at having brought it up at all.
She nodded with a solemn thank you and left to follow her 'husband' onto the platform.
They sat inside the first class carriage in an awkward silence, and if Erik had heard the lie she had just told he certainly didn't let on. They sat opposite one another and watched the sun rise through the dirty window over the town and bathing it in gold, providing a small relief from the cold. She realised that she had never truly seen her angel in the daylight before. For even when they had been outside in the cemetery, the winter days were so short that it was already dark and so overcast that sunlight would not have made much difference. As she gazed across at him, his unmasked side in profile as he looked out the window made him almost look like any other man, if it were not so striking. There was something so dangerous about his eyes, yet so clear as though they could see into her soul. The rest of his features were equally strange, like a collection of oddities combined to make something truly unique. She suddenly felt the strong desire to see what lay beneath the mask again. The first time had been so brief that she barely caught a glimpse, and she could not decide if it was the face that had scared her or his sudden, intense anger at her seeing him.
He suddenly met her gaze as though he had sensed her staring at him and she lowered her eyes, embarrassed that she had been caught. He probably didn't appreciate being gawked at.
She was staring at him. It was irrational and he knew it, but years of being stared at had left him wary and self-conscious under her gaze and he instinctively turned his face to the window so that the mask was hidden at least. He had not let anyone look at him for over five years until now, not even his messenger, Madame Giry, had seen him in the flesh since he was a child. He had returned to Paris a broken man, unhinged and almost dead. Something in him had snapped back then and he had grown weary of the world. He had been hiding in the darkness waiting for death until he heard her voice.
"Why did you lie like that?" he asked suddenly, becoming tired of the silence and the unnerving feeling of her eyes on him. She flinched a little; as though she expected to be scolded.
"I'm sorry." She replied shakily. "I should not have spoken."
"On the contrary I thought you were rather convincing, your acting lessons must be proving successful. But then you always were a natural at it." He said coldly, she was avoiding his questions again. The train began to move and slowly accelerate away from the station. "I can't help but wonder why you're here. It seemed as though you and your lover had a unique opportunity to be rid of me once and for all. Two opportunities in fact, and yet you refused to take either of them." A flash of anger passed across her face, and it seemed as though he had hit a nerve.
"Is that what you thought I wanted?" she replied in a choked whisper, she looked like she had been fighting back tears all morning but one escaped this time. Why did he always do this? He wanted her attention so desperately yet whenever it looked as though she might break down one of his self imposed barriers he pushed her away mercilessly.
"How can I know what you want when you don't even know yourself?" he growled.
"And how am I meant to know when all you've ever done is lie to me?" she countered, the tears were falling freely now and they made him feel wretched. "I can forgive you for not wanting to reveal your identity. But did you have to assume another which was so...personal to me?" She watched the landscape as it blurred past through the window.
"I only wished to help you, Christine." He told her earnestly, that much had been true in the beginning. She had been so melancholy and the angel story had been the only thing that seemed to make her smile, so when she had assumed that he was the angel in question, he didn't have to the heart to correct her and tell her the horrible truth. "Everything I have done has been for you. And I may be more demon than angel but I am still the one you confided in all those years, that hasn't changed. We could rebuild that friendship, if you'd only allow it."
"You just disappeared, Erik. I didn't know what to do. I thought you hated me." She cried "I thought you were a dream, he let me believe you were just a dream." She was obviously talking about the viscount, and he felt the irresistible urge to march straight back to Paris and strangle the boy with his own cravat.
"He did what?"
"I thought he would understand, but he didn't believe me at all. He bought me a doctor, Erik."
He felt as though he was going to be sick. All that time he had been wallowing in his own self pity and plotting to snatch her away forever as a punishment for her betrayal, he had been the one to betray her. He had broken her dreams and abandoned her in one fell swoop. No wonder she had gone to the boy for help, he must have seemed like the only dependable thing around. And instead of protecting her like he heard him promise the ignorant fool had merely dismissed her as mad and sent her to the nearest charlatan physician. He should never have left. If he had only talked to her, explained things, then perhaps none of this would have happened.
"Erik? Are you all right?"
He sighed and handed her his handkerchief although he felt on the verge of crying himself. He would do so in front of her though, not again.
"Forgive me, I was out of line. We clearly have a lot to discuss, but this is not the place for it and we will be arriving in Saint-Lo soon."
"How much farther must we go?" she asked.
"Only a short way, and then you will be able to rest properly without any bad dreams."
"How did you know it was a bad dream?"
"You were calling for your father in your sleep, you seemed rather distressed."
"You are certain that is all I called out?" she said, looking around worriedly as though some invisible spy was watching them. He had hoped that she would describe her dream to him like she used to, but it was too soon for that. He had loved hearing about her dreams, especially when they were about him. It had made him feel powerful to know such intimate details about her. As her angel he had been her secret keeper, her confessional.
"Yes I'm certain."
The conversation on the train had shaken her somewhat. She had hoped that they would be able to discuss things but not so soon and not when his temper was so unpredictable, it had made her give away more than she had wanted. It had been foolish of her to believe that they could simply talk things over and return home and everything would be all right. Wherever they were going, it was unlikely that she would be able to return to Paris. She had stood up for herself though and that was more than she could ever have hoped for. Once they had reached the next town and stepped out of the carriage they had made their way towards the edge of town. It was nearly eight o'clock on market day and their mourning clothes only earned them a few sympathetic glances. They stopped once more to buy some bread and other supplies, which she once again offered to buy. They eventually reached a stable on the outskirts of the town and Christine noticed a familiar head peering at her over the stall.
"César!" she cried reaching out to stroke the animal's nose "I had wondered what had become of you." The dark horse for all his fearsome looks had probably been the gentlest creature in the whole opera house and he nuzzled her hand affectionately while her companion paid the groom to prepare a cart for them. It seemed logical for the horse to be here; Erik must have used him to move his belongings out of the Opera and planned ahead so that they would have transport once the terrain became more remote.
The last leg of the journey was long and cold, but the beauty of the country landscape more than made up for the chill in the air. The sky had grown cloudy and Christine hopes that it would stay dry until they reached their destination. They kept to the smaller roads and were met with small, picturesque fields surrounded by stone walls and little farm houses made of the same grey stone with slate roofs and whitewashed shutters. It all seemed a little gloomy now, but she could imagine a summer in a place such as this could be wondrously beautiful. The exhaustion of the previous night eventually caught up with her and she found herself nodding occasionally before suddenly waking and finding that they had reached somewhere entirely different to where they had been before. She spent the rest of the journey in that strange place between waking and sleeping until she felt the wheels beneath her come to a halt and smelled the salt in the air.
Mifroid did not get back to headquarters until dawn, spending the night in the Opera house cellars had made his arthritis play up and he felt his fingers protest as he unlocked his front door. It was no fun getting old. He sighed heavily. The events that had gone into the small hours of the morning had not been pleasant. Clearly his theories regarding Christine Daae had not gone down well with her fiancé and one thing had led to another. He and the viscount had had words. Not all of them were civil. He would not be surprised if the little pipsqueak made a complaint about him. He hoped that wasn't the case, he had become rather fascinated by the case at hand. It wasn't often that he found a criminal that could outwit him. After all that was what this Phantom character was, a criminal, there was no sense in romanticising it, a brilliant criminal but a criminal nonetheless. The man was a puzzle, and Mifroid was obsessed with puzzles. It was one of his many eccentricities, and he would spend his evenings solving anything from word-games to calculus problems, and once he started something he would not be able to stop until it was solved. After the colossal dead end they had reached that night he could only read over the statements that had been taken, instead of attempting to sleep like everyone else.
After they had found the hidden exit behind the mirror, he had sent orders for patrols to take place around all the main stations and roads out of the city, but knew in his heart that it probably wouldn't work. Either they had left the city already or they were laying low somewhere until all this blew over. De Chagny had insisted that they follow the hidden tunnel but even after investigating a few yards of it, it became clear that not only was the route part of a labyrinth of tunnels but was prone to flooding and cave-ins and all sorts of other hazards. A full search would take time and planning and money, luckily the third seemed to be under control as the young viscount seemed to have unlimited funds at his disposal. That very morning he had already gone to all the newspapers with an add calling for any information. Mifroid had shrugged at that idea. It could potentially help them, but they could also end up with a lot of false leads. The public was annoying like that. And what sort of description was he supposed to give of a man that kept his face hidden?
For a moment, one brief precious moment, she was reminded of the house in Perros. The salty wind brought back a flood of memories, of a more innocent time where there was no death and love was simpler. She and her father would stay up late by the fire and he would teach her about music, and philosophy, history, politics, anything that would take their fancy. Or he would tell her stories, some of them from books and some he just made up as he went along. She had liked those ones best of all. Perhaps one day she would write them all down.
She opened her eyes grudgingly and the daydream was over, he was still gone and no amount of clinging to the past would bring him back. Raoul could not bring him back, although it had been nice to remember. She had always been fond of him, but years of boarding schools and high society had changed him somewhat and she sometimes felt as though they were from completely different worlds. But there was still a glimmer of the kind hearted boy she had once played with on the beach and she had clung to what seemed the only familiar thing in a constantly changing world. She had been so frightened, the angel she had put so much blind faith in was not an angel, and had abandoned her and started harassing the opera company. Father had promised that when he was in heaven he would send the Angel of Music. He had promised. But there was no angel, and if there was no angel, then that meant that he had not made it into heaven...
The town they had arrived in was part of a small natural harbour and the tide had come right in and flooded the salt marshes that lay beyond the little grey houses, with their neat stone walls and their slate roofs. From their spot on the top of a small hill she could see other towns in the distance across the river estuary and fishing boats upon the murky water that reflected the cloudy sky. The weather that had been cold and bright inland had become colder and overcast, threatening rain. A few hundred yards away was a little church with a graveyard that was modest but well cared for. And on at the edge of the village she could see the ruins of a great tower in a black stone, only two of its walls standing as though the thing had been cut diagonally down the middle. Spiral staircases leading to nowhere could be seen in the brickwork and the battlements were nothing but a mass of ivy and bird's nests.
There was a figure down there in the ruins of the keep. A man in a black coat similar to her own, and for a horrible moment it seemed as though he was looking right at them. Perhaps she was only imagining things, the trauma of the night before and the exhausting journey had left her skittish and paranoid. The brief hours of sleep that she had managed had only left her feeling more drained and achy from sleeping in a sitting position in the cold. Still it was the most she'd slept for several days as her childhood insomnia had returned with a vengeance once her angel had disappeared. It had not been a good off season.
As they reached the house the reality of what she'd done began to hit her and she only hoped that her rash decision had not made things worse. The thought that they might be pursued had been her main concern until now, although the fear still lurked in the back of her mind. Now the much more daunting question plagued her, what now? Did he truly expect her to live with him forever in this strange little town? And as what, as his pupil, as his wife? All sorts of possibilities ran through her mind. Could she live with someone like him, and be content? His temper suggested otherwise. Running away with the Phantom of the Opera was an incredibly foolish thing to do, and she knew it. She also knew that even if he killed a thousand men, his music would somehow be able to redeem him, and that was why she could not change her mind.
The house certainly was interesting. Once the tall wooden gates were opened the building, which had been almost completely concealed behind tall stone walls and evergreens still dusted with frost from the morning. The building was in the same stone as the rest of the town and seemed newer than the other houses but designed to be in keeping with the more medieval architecture of the castle ruins. The front door was made of heavy oak and stood beneath a graceful Gothic archway. There was a small courtyard with its own barn and its own well, understandable since they were quite far away from the rest of the village. Like the castle, this building also had a tower which attached itself to the corner of the house like a limpet and overlooked the sea, although this one looked as though it had been added purely for decorative effect and not as a Norman stronghold.
As she climbed down from the seat of the cart Erik quickly locked the gate behind them and handed her the key to the front door and the bundle of supplies they had bought, silently going off to tend to Cesar. The gesture was so ordinary that it seemed almost bizarre. She had never seen him do anything that could be considered an everyday activity until today, unless you counted rowing a gondola, but that was really only an everyday activity in Venice and didn't count. The heavy clouds that had been threatening rain for the past hour began drizzle and Christine shivered a little as she felt the freezing drops on her cheeks, she wished that she was only shivering from the cold. But somehow she managed to muster the strength to open the front door.
"What do you mean deChagny's called in La Sûreté?" Mifroid barked at Verlan across his desk. "Hasn't he heard of too many cooks spoiling the broth?"
"Well technically this sort of thing is more their area, sir. And you did accuse the man's fiancé of being an accomplice to murder, some people don't like that." His long suffering colleague replied.
"Just what are you trying to tell me, Verlan?" he'd been pouring over the statements from the previous evening for so long that his eyes hurt.
"I'm trying to tell you that we've been...relieved of our duty in a manner of speaking. You see the boy's parents didn't appreciate having their son's affairs splashed all over the front page and only agreed to help his little search party if he used a less obvious law enforcement body, and refrain from getting the papers involved of course."
"I was afraid of that. So we were just the muscle hired to scare away some ghosts."Mifroid said darkly. "Why do we have to have multiple police forces anyway, it's idiotic. Perhaps we should start another organisation to police the police when they intrude on each other's territories."
"Ah but then who would police the police that police the police?"
"You're not funny."
"And you're bitter, lieutenant."
"Preposterous."
"Because La Sûreté turned you down when you wanted to join them."
"This has got nothing to do with that!"
"Because you punched Chief Inspector Farge."
"I didn't know it was him. How was I supposed to know he was undercover?" Wait, undercover! That was it! He would have to thank his subordinate later for giving him the idea.
"Either way all we can do now is put the word out and hope for the best." Verlan sighed, and Mifroid suspected that had become as attached to this case as he had. "And they'll need copies of all the statements we took." Mifroid nodded sullenly, and handed the pile of papers over. Except one, the very important one. The one marked Antoinette Giry. Bloody Sûreté.
The front door creaked open as Christine timidly crept inside, her mind swimming with questions. So this was Erik's house? Why did he own a house if he wasn't going to live in it? She felt as though she was intruding somehow into a private space, but the whole idea was stupid since he had brought her here and given her the key to the door. She found herself in a long hallway that ran down the middle of the building and also contained the staircase everything was dark as the shutters had been closed and the hall had a neglected damp smell to it. Not a soul had been here for several weeks. There were four doors downstairs and Christine quickly found the kitchen and noticed that it overlooked a back garden once she opened the shutters. She couldn't help smiling at how nice it looked; the range had been cleaned up and looked brand new and the room was bright and spacious now that she had let the daylight in, complete with a pantry and small scullery near the back door. She hadn't cooked anything in years, not since her father had died, and even longer that she'd made anything more interesting than clear broth once he became too ill to support them financially. She almost liked the idea of keeping a house again. A house that was currently very cold and dark from being empty for so long. Christine resolved to at least make herself a little useful and easily found some wood and kindling in a basket by the door. Erik had certainly planned ahead for outside there was a woodpile large enough to see them through until spring.
The fact that he had a house like this and still chose to live beneath the opera house was a complete mystery for her. The thought of him owning a house at all seemed alien in itself. At first she had thought that his face had made him feel the need to remove himself from society, but perhaps he'd had a life before all this, perhaps there had been time when he had been like other men.
He came in through the back door to find her poking at a fire in the range. She was still wearing her coat and gloves, her hat had been unpinned and left on the kitchen table along with the food, leaving her dark hair cascading messily down her back. The scene surprised him, for some reason he had never imagined her doing anything domestic. He had always assumed that he would take care of everything and look after her. She had always struck him as helpless and alone, he liked to imagine that she needed him and it stung a little to think that she probably didn't. But of course, she'd practically been her father's nurse for two years; of course she would know how to light a fire. He felt like an idiot just standing there as she turned to look up at him.
"I thought I should warm the room up a little." She said a little sheepishly.
"Are you hungry?"
"Not really." He couldn't help but agree with her on that one. His appetite was not exactly healthy and neither was hers for that matter. But he would not let her get ill again.
"I know you're not but you must eat." He said.
"I don't think I can." She replied bluntly, and he decided not to press the subject. She had been doing so well before her debut, and he couldn't help but feel responsible for her drawn look and slightly too delicate frame.
"Perhaps later then. Would you like to see the rest of the house?" he asked. He'd put a lot of work into making the old place look nice for her and found himself eager to show it off, strangely nervous about her reaction. It was only a few bits of wallpaper and furniture, but like his music Christine was the only critic whose opinion mattered to him.
She nodded and he proceeded to show her the dining room with its large oak table and matching chairs. The living room which he had doubled up as the music room and contained the old grand piano that he'd tuned and restored to its former glory. It was nothing compared to the organ but there was no room for an instrument that size in the house, and dismantling it and having it transported would have been too conspicuous. That didn't mean he wouldn't miss it though, but if it meant that he could be with Christine he'd had sacrificed a million organs. The room also contained the rest of his collection of instruments that had been small enough to bring up from the cellars. Some had been bought and some had been lying broken in the rehearsal rooms for years before he lovingly restored them and some had been acquired during his travels. He couldn't help but feel a little swell of excitement at how she examined each one, smiling nostalgically at the violins. If she could learn to trust him they would be able to write masterpieces together and thought made him almost delirious with joy. His music combined with her voice, there would be no equal and perhaps her music as well, if she showed an interest. He had every confidence that she would be able to. Then perhaps a creative partnership could grow into something deeper, something more than the relationship between a teacher and his student. But it was too soon to think of that, he had earn her forgiveness first, and then her trust. They had hurt each other beyond compare but the fact that she was here at all meant there was still hope.
"Do you know how to play all of these?" she asked, lifting up a long thin instrument and eyeing it curiously "I don't think even I've seen half of these before."
"Yes, I've played all of them at one time or another. And that's a kanmancheh, it's a Persian instrument." He replied.
"You've been to Persia?" she said, eyes widening with surprise. Did she think he'd always lived in the bowels of the opera house?
"Yes, but that was a long time ago." He replied and refused to make any further comment on it, that was a time he truly did not wish to reminisce about. "Come, I'll show you the library."
Christine's mind reeled at his answer, she wanted to ask a million more questions but there was a look in his eyes that made her stop in her tracks and silently put the strange stringed instrument back on the shelf where she's found it and followed him through to the library. So he owned a house and he had been to Persia. What other secrets had he been hiding from her?
The library wasn't as large as the front room, or perhaps it was the same size but the sheer amount of books and papers made it seem smaller. It was filled from floor to ceiling book, some that she recognised, some that she's never heard of and some that were in different languages entirely. Some were almost certainly in Arabic, others in English, Italian and she could have sworn that there were a couple in Chinese on the top shelf. Could he understand them all? She knew he was a genius, that much was apparent from his music, but this was getting ridiculous. Her father had been a genius, Erik was something else entirely.
After the library he took her upstairs where he only showed her three of the four rooms. The forth she assumed was his bedroom, of which the thought alone left her nervous and grateful that the door had remained firmly locked. There was one bathroom, a fairly empty guest bedroom, and why wouldn't it be empty, who on earth would want to stay the night with them?
"This is your room." He odd companion announced looking oddly nervous as he opened the last door. "I thought you might like the view."
She couldn't hold back a gasp as she stepped into the room. Unlike the dark and slightly oriental look of the rest of the house, her room was light and airy and decorated in a collection of whites and blues with a circular alcove in the corner which she realised must have been the inside of the tower and she could see for miles through its large window, not only the town but the whole harbour. All the furniture had been stained white like driftwood and included a large wardrobe and chest of drawers, a vanity and a small desk in the tower complete with writing paper and pens and a small brass telescope on a stand. The bed was made of brass with white linens and a cheerful blue quilt concealed behind while gauzy bed curtains. There were collections of shells and pebbles on the windowsill. She couldn't deny that it was beautiful and a lot of thought had been put into it, right down to her favourite colour. She didn't know how to feel about it.
"Erik, I think I could eat something after all." She said quietly to the dark figure in the doorway.
Once he had left she closed the door behind her and sat by the window, feeling a little overwhelmed. Not just by the room but by everything that happened. For in less than a day she had left her fiancé and everyone she knew to follow a man she barely knew but couldn't live without, a man who terrified her and fascinated her in equal measure. Below her she thought she caught a glimpse of the man in the dark coat again walking up the road they had just travelled, from the corner of her eye, but when she turned to look there was no one there. Perhaps she was only imagining things.
She absentmindedly looked through the drawers of the vanity and noticed they contained all the powders and face creams, soaps and hair oils that she had used in Paris, which struck her as a little odd. He must have gone through her things to find out what she liked, which deeply unsettled her but coming from the man who could have verily easily watched her change from behind her mirror, it could have been a lot worse. It was a lot worse, she realised when she opened the wardrobe to find it full of clothes. He had literally thought of everything, from day to day wear to outdoor dresses and even a few formal looking ones as well as a collection of undergarments and nightgowns in the chest of drawers. She could only hope that he'd taken her measurements from the wardrobe mistress's records and not from taking her underwear when she was away from her room. Still the selection of outfits looked well made and impeccably tasteful, unlike the pink monstrosity Raoul had presented her with on the night of the masquerade. She had felt like a ball of candy floss in it. She felt unclean from sleeping in her clothes and travelling all morning, and the hem of her skirts were probably filthy from their little adventure in the sewers. So she filled a bowl of water in the bathroom began to quickly wash and change for dinner, pausing for a moment to examine the cut on her back.
She had asked for food. That meant that she wasn't miserable at least. And she had seemed pleased by the room. He couldn't help feeling happy about that. He wanted her to be comfortable with him after all, so he had chosen the nicest bedroom for her and decorated in a way that he thought she would like. Something simple and cheerful with elements of the ocean. He knew that she liked the sea that was why this place had struck him as being perfect. The kitchen was already beginning to warm up and the light outside was beginning to fade into a murky sunset behind the heavy veil of the rainclouds. After he had finished cutting the bread and slicing the ham and cheese they had bought he lit a paraffin lamp so they would not have to eat in the gloom. She came downstairs and sat at the table. He noticed that she had changed into a more comfortable dress, the green one.
"Did you find everything you need?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you." She whispered. "Only I was wondering if you had any alcohol." He gave her a confused look.
"I have some wine in the pantry if that's what you mean."
"I meant for the cut, Erik, I thought I felt a splinter in it." Of course, she had been hurt, how could he have forgotten. He scrambled out of his seat to fetch the bottle of iodine solution and a pair of tweezers from the medicine cabinet feeling terrible for making her travel halfway across the country while she was in pain.
"Forgive me, I should have realised." He said, trying to sound composed but the way she was blushing was so beautiful that it was incredibly difficult.
"C-could you do it, please. I can't reach it."
He had to remember to keep breathing as she shyly pushed the shoulder of her gown and chemise down to reveal the creamy expanse of pale skin that had seemed so enticing the night before. It was only a patch of shoulder and a ridge of spine, with the red wound curving across it like a crooked grin. He couldn't help running a finger over it in a soft caress, making her flinched away from him slightly and he withdrew his hand as if he had been burned. He wanted to do more than just touch her. He wanted to kiss the wound until the mark disappeared along with every square inch of her skin. But he had to stop thinking of such things; she would never let him do that and he would only frighten her away if he tried. Fighting with all his strength to keep his degenerate mind under control, he checked the cut for any signs of infection, thankfully finding only one splinter of wood under her skin. He cleaned the wound carefully and applied the awful brown liquid and if it stung she didn't make a sound, she only shivered under his hands.
"Let me know if it gets worse." He said once he was finished and set the plate of food in front of her.
They ate in silence, neither of them managing more than a few mouthfuls. Neither of them were exactly regular eaters, but perhaps that would change from now on. Perhaps they could be a good influence on each other and he would stop looking so skeletal and she would regain her rosy colouring. It was a nice thought, but it would be far from easy.
His hands had been cold, and the sting of the antiseptic was nothing compared to the way his touch burned her skin. She had been so frightened, but if she didn't let him the wound might have gotten worse. She hated how his touch made her feel, how it burned, how it brought back memories of that first night when anything seemed possible and how her heart felt as though it might explode as they sang onstage together for the first and probably for the last time. It was beyond her understanding and far too much for her to deal with. And before she knew it, it was all over and she found that her appetite had disappeared entirely.
"I brought you something." He said after what felt like hours and pulled something small from his breast pocket and placed it on the table in front of her. It was the photograph of her father from the chapel, minus the frame. It had been the only image she'd had of him taken on his wedding day back when he was young and healthy and prosperous. There had been another picture once, from the same day, with him and her mother whose face she barely remembered. Surprisingly she had been in the photo as well, and she had always felt a strange embarrassment at the realisation that her parents had married after she was born. Her father had always argued that they hadn't needed a piece of paper to prove how much they loved each other, one only needed to look at them. They had only married later on to appease her grandparents, who had been of stern and sober Lutheran stock.
The thought of a man and woman living together before they were married made her blush. Wasn't she doing the exact same thing? No, this was different, but it wouldn't be seen that way. People would talk. What people? The village looked almost deserted and they weren't in Paris any longer. The house was so cut off no one would even know they were there. Anything could happen behind its walls, and the thought frightened her. She gazed at the black and white face that stared back at her blankly off the paper, then up at the face of her teacher. She had trusted them both so unconditionally and they had both lied and taken a small part of her soul with them. They were all liars; even Mme Gira had concealed the truth from her. Raoul had not even stood a chance, she had been so wary by then, so guarded. But it had been nice to pretend, even if it was only for a little while, that her childhood friend could make everything all right again. It had only been an impossible dream, and perhaps that was why she could never reply when he told her he loved her. How very pathetic.
"Erik? Why have you brought us here?" she asked suddenly, growing tired of pushing her food around her plate and feeling unable to continue this chilly evening without asking the question that had been plaguing her throughout the whole journey. He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.
"I suppose I wanted to try for a normal life, one last time, and I wanted you to share it with me." Was that hope she had seen flicker in his eyes "Why did you come with me?"
She paused, she couldn't even begin to explain why, and she didn't even know herself.
"Because I couldn't let them hurt you. I just couldn't go through with it." There was a heavy silence in the room. That clearly hadn't been the answer he had been hoping for.
"Liar, you knew what I could have done that night; you only came quietly to save your precious viscount. Well I hope your sacrifice was worth it, mademoiselle." He sounded eerily calm and that frightened her more than his rages ever could.
"I'm not lying." She cried, she was on the verge of tears again, but although she wasn't going to admit it that had been her other reason.
"So you can break a man's soul in two, but you can't come back and finish the job? Is that it?" he yelled suddenly making cower before him like a frightened child. She felt sick. He couldn't have known could he? "You could have been free so easily, it would've almost been an act of mercy." Something snapped inside her then, and all the fear and anguish and anger she had been holding inside of her for god knew how long poured forth as she gripped the empty glass water jug in between them and threw it against the wall behind him with a scream, the glass smashing loudly into a hundred pieces.
She acted so quickly and so impulsively that he barely had time to register what was going on. Christine, his Christine who had never once raised her voice to anyone in the whole time that he'd known her, was literally screaming at him. Screaming "No." He was vaguely aware of something whizzing past his head and smashing behind him. He'd pushed her far it seemed. But why? He was fairly sure he'd accused her of worse in the past and called her things that were far more offensive. He hated doing so, hated the way his temper seemed to veer beyond his control. He knew he could never allow himself to harm her. The thought alone made him seize up with disgust. But his emotions for her had become so strong that his outbursts were beginning to worry him and nothing set him off faster than the knowledge that she'd only spared his life out of pity.
He could only stare at her in disbelief, his anger replaced momentarily with shock as she fled from the kitchen and through the darkened hallway. He didn't move until he heard her door slam upstairs. What had he done? Had he been too hard on her or had he merely touched a nerve. He couldn't help noticing how her expression had changed when he had given her the photograph. Had she been thinking of her father then? He remembered a time when merely mentioning the man had brought on fits of tears. But that been years ago when she was a child. Not that she was much more than a child now, a fact that he could not allow himself to forget. She was so much younger than him; she did not deserve his cruelty. She did not deserve any of this. He had upset her earlier that day when he said she should have let that boy end him in the grave yard. Was it the idea of death in general that upset her so much, or was it his death? Or did it run deeper than that. He just didn't know and it frustrated him. He felt as though he knew her inside and out, as his ill gotten trust had lead her to reveal her innermost secrets to him, her wishes, her childish fantasies, her dreams. There were a few things that she had refused to talk about during those years and almost all of them involved the day of her father's passing. Oh he knew all about her childhood, the summer they had spent by the sea to restore his health. He knew about his relapse and their close brush with destitution, and he knew that Christine had nursed him singlehandedly during his final months. But she had never told him about his final days and out of respect for her feelings he had never asked. Perhaps he would have to ask now, but the thought made him nervous. For knew the trauma of losing a parent ran deeper than any other.
He considered going to her immediately and begging for her forgiveness but decided against it. They were both tired and on edge and it would do better to let her rest and calm down before he approached the subject. He needed rest as well, but it was more than he could hope for. A man who had committed atrocities like he had should never expect to sleep well at night. A man who had taken so many lives he no longer felt anything but a cold detachment, a man who had deceived and tried to seduce an innocent young girl and lured her down to his kingdom. He had not been able go through with what he had been planning that night. He had wanted to, oh god he had wanted it more than anything. But he knew that he could not defile an angel such as her. He deserved to be hung by the neck just for thinking about it, and he should have left her well alone. And for a while he thought he could, just help her silently from the shadows until her career took off and she was offered better contracts from better theatres. That had not gone according to plan either, and he had let his jealousy get the better of him. He had let his anger overcome him, he had killed, he had defiled her father's memory, he had let the beast take hold, he had slipped into the darkness. He truly was a monster to bring her here.
"Lieutenant! For the sake of your career and your family, I can't let you do this! This is most unorthodox!" Verlan shouted in exasperation as he blocked the doorway to the office and his superior, now in his civilian clothes collected his papers together in his leather case and reached for his bowler hat and scarf.
"For Pete's sake, I'm only going to ask her a few questions, not murder her and wear her skin like a bonnet. Now that's unorthodox. Did I ever tell about that case, lad?"
"Yes, several times. Every time we invite you to dinner in fact. Please stop telling it, it gives my wife nightmares." The younger man replied, his reddish moustache twitching slightly with worry.
"It's a great story isn't it? Now will you please step aside so I can keep my appointment with this rather important witness?"
"I can't do that sir. Even the new recruits know that vigilantism and going absent without leave are a sure-fire way of getting yourself dismissed."
"Oh piffle. I think I'm owed a few days leave at least. You'll cover for me, won't you? Say I was henpecked into taking Mme Mifroid and the girls to the seaside or something."
"In February?" Verlan said sceptically.
"Well you make it up then." Mifroid grumbled pulling his gloves on. "And if it puts your mind at ease, you have my word that I won't do anything rash. I'll just track them down and alert the proper authorities the first chance I get." His colleague raised a ginger eyebrow. "Come on, don't you trust me?"
"No."
"Oh come on!" Mifroid bellowed "I need to do this, you know what happens when these things get left open, Verlan, and La Sûreté could take months to solve this. I can't wait that long and these papers are in the wrong order."
"All right all right. I'll cover for you. Just don't build a yurt out of the paperwork again." Verlan stepped aside muttering something that sounded suspiciously like 'crazy old bastard.' Mifroid didn't have time to scold him though; he had an informant to talk to. The ballet mistress knew more than she was letting on. She had only told them of her employment as the Phantom's messenger, and her knowledge that he lived in the cellars. But there had to be more to it than that. There just had to be.
Erik had finished sweeping up the glass shards from the flagstones when the alarm sounded. Being a rather paranoid sort he had taken the measure of planting various trip wires on the land around the property and used the servants' bells in the kitchen as a makeshift alert system, similar to the ones he had built in tunnels. Someone was near the house, and was heading northwards towards them. They couldn't have been followed so quickly, that just wasn't possible. He had thought travelling through the night would have made them harder to find. Perhaps it was someone from the village, taking an evening walk. That was always a possibility. Or maybe someone had seen them arrive and was poking their nose where it wasn't wanted. He couldn't take that risk and protecting Christine was his main priority.
He grabbed his cloak and slipped out silently through the back door to find the intruder. He noticed that a light glowed from Christine's bedroom and hoped that she wouldn't see him in the shadows below her window. The tower had looked like something out of one of her stories, so naturally he had to give it to her. He had fantasised a few times about serenading her from the garden while she leaned wistfully out her window. But now he would probably get more glassware thrown at him if she caught him lurking there, and there were more important tasks at hand.
All was quiet on the lane that led up the hill as he stalked through the darkness like a silent predator. The intruder was concealed in the shadows, moving steadily towards the house, unaware of his presence, the only sound was the soft crunch beneath the strangers footsteps as he trod upon the frosty grass. It was a man, but that all he could tell at this point. And he was wearing a dark coat of some sort. He clutched the rope in his hands; it could be over so easily, just a flick of the wrist and this obstacle would be gone. He couldn't though, this wasn't the city, people would notice he was missing and others would come to investigate. And what would Christine think of him if she saw him now. He would drive her away for certain if he killed again. He would have to take another approach. He wasn't called a ghost for nothing and country people were known to be a suspicious lot, and sailors were even worse. If the villagers thought the house was haunted, then perhaps they would keep their distance and leave them in peace.
His mind made up he approached the man, thinking of the best way to strike. He could swoop down from a tree perhaps or emerge from the mist. Would his mask be enough or should he unleash the full horror of his face. He began to sing softly. The illusion was always better when he sang and his unearthly voice echoed around his victim from all sides. The stranger looked hesitant but foolishly carried on. His voice became louder, toying with the poor individual who was becoming clearer as he came near. He was old; his hair was thick and a brilliant white. He stepped out from his hiding spot for the final assault but stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with a very familiar figure. There weren't many things that could make the Phantom turn pale but this was one of them.
"Erik?" the elderly man blinked at him in disbelief.
"Father?"