Christine slept well with the help of the medication given to her by Erik. When she awoke she panicked slightly, knowing neither where she was nor the cause of the throbbing pain that coursed through her body. Within a moment she remembered what had happened the day before, how Raoul had gone into a rage and struck he, and how Erik had saved her.
She wondered how long she had been asleep. There were no clocks in Erik's home besides his pocket watch, and being five stories below the ground, windows wouldn't give her an idea of the time. She knew that she must notify the managers of her absence. She swung her legs out of bed shrugged on a dressing gown, and tried to move as little as possible to avoid worsening the pain in her side. She glanced mindlessly in the mirror on the way to the door, but quickly looked back.
She almost did not recognize herself.
Her whole jawline was discolored, blues and purples spread across her once milkyskin. The area was raised and inflamed. Her eye was heavily bruised as well, and the red popped blood vessel in her eye stained the white of her eye.
She sighed. She would have to remain out of public eye until the evidence was erased, otherwise she would surely raise speculation and bad publicity for the Garnier. She would have to come up with a reason for her absence…perhaps a trip to visit a distant ailing relation in Spain? It would be an innocent excuse for a three week long absence…however long it would take that rib to heal. She would stay here for a week, and then get well in her flat with the help of her quiet but resourceful maid. She could not disturb Erik during her whole recovery process.
With these thoughts on her mind she trudged into the sitting room to ask Erik for some means to write to the managers. She did not find him there but she heard noises coming from the kitchen. She entered the kitchenette quietly and he did not notice her arrival. His back was to her as he piled crepes, eggs, and a wide variety of fruit onto a tray.
"Good morning, Erik," she said.
He turned around, clearly surprised by the sound of her voice. His surprise quickly turned into anger, and he hastened towards her quickly.
"What are you doing? You should not be on your feet for another fortnight at the very least!"
"I—I just came in to—"
He huffed impatiently. "Did I not tell you that you need rest? You must listen to me if you wish get well." He ushered her into her room as if she was on the verge of breaking and could fall apart like a delicate porcelain doll any moment. Once she was properly situated he inquired if she needed anything else, and promised to return soon with more pain medication, the paper and ink that she had requested, and breakfast. She thanked him again for his kindness and he waved it off with a dismissive hand.
"Do not be so redundant. You have already offered me your thanks ten times too many," he snapped crossly.
She frowned. "I'm sorry my father raised me not to be impolite and ungrateful." She had already made to leave twice but he had all but forced her to stay. She had been sufficiently grateful and asked for little but accepted with gratitude the attentions he gave her. There was no explanation for his bad temper.
His expression softened slightly but he said no more as he returned to the kitchen. He returned with an overflowing tray filled enough for a small family, and a few sheets of fine white paper and a fountain pen with red ink. She accepted them mutely, almost accidently letting a word of thanks pass her lips that would have so irrationally irritated him. He crouched down easily beside her bed, long legs bending with noticeable flexibility. He began to silently administer the creams and drops that he had given her the previous night and gave her the pain reliever. His hands worked smoothly and effortlessly, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else. He finished his work, instructed her to sleep, and left.
She had grown accustomed to his unpredictable mood swings; last night he had been amiable, kind, and helpful. This morning he had been cantankerous and distracted.
She heard the sound of him tuning his violin, and the majority of his strings were sharp as it was rather cold in the cellars. There was a moment of silence and she knew he must have been rosining his bow. She continued to wait in eager anticipation for him to play.
Her patience was rewarded, as patience always is. He began to play a slow melody, using powerful crescendos and decrescendos to lengthen the phrases. By listening she could tell that he was using a mute—her father had been a violinist, after all, and though she could not play the instrument it had been the sound she had grown up with—and it fit the mood of the song wonderfully. His vibrato was slight, his deep, rich sound produced by using the whole length of the bow. She did not recognize the song so she guessed that it must have been one of his compositions.
It really was beautiful. His playing made that of her father sound like a novice. Perhaps it was because of the great amount of impressive technique he possessed combined with the passion that he poured into his music. She supposed that was how he had such a stoic façade, bereft of emotion, because he emptied it all into in his music. She had always wondered how he was able to coax such powerful sound from the humble wooden instrument; her voice was her own and it was easy to manipulate. But instruments often had minds of their own, and they were not always so cooperative.
She enjoyed his playing as she wrote a very apologetic letter to the managers, explaining the reason for her absence—a sickly relative on her deathbed demanded her presence. She felt guilty about lying to her managers who had always been so kind to her but there was no way she could tell them the truth. Finishing her letter, she sealed it and left it on her bedside table. The slices of peach perched upon the tray of abundant food looked very tempting and she nibbled on two of them before dozing off again.
Some time passed in the same fashion. She would listen to Erik's playing, read one of the many books he had provided for her, or sleep. She was very comfortable in his exquisite home; everything that was inside it was stylish and of great quality, but not gaudy or flashy. His cooking was excellent and she had to use all of her self restraint not to polish off all the food he gave her and try to politely decline his entreaties for her to eat more. She was constantly on pain medication, but the dosage was not strong enough to eliminate all the pain. He played almost constantly, either on his organ, piano, violin, and she even occasionally heard the deep pitches of the C string on his cello. The hours passed slowly; although she was comfortable she began to grow restless as he still wouldn't let her leave her bed .
With little to do besides eat, sleep, and read, she was left alone with her thoughts—Erik didn't quite stand vigilantly at her bedside so she had no one to keep her mind occupied.
She wondered where Raoul was, if he had disowned Philippe, and how the public had reacted to the news. Did they know about the broken engagement? It was unlikely; he probably would keep it as quiet as possible and move to a different part of the county—word was bound to come out sometime, and he would want to be far away from the Parisians that adored Christine so much. She didn't mind that one bit; she would be able to stay at the Garnier and continue to sing with the people that had become her family and teach the new students when she was too old. The prospect of becoming an old maid had never seemed so delightful—and the absence of her past love would make it even more so.
Despite the pain in her side and on her face she felt quite…happy.
It was so strange. She should be weeping uncontrollably, dreading the life of an unmarried woman before her. The loss of her fiancée should be devastating. But she felt free, happy, and excited for a fresh start.
She saw the good out of his cruelty and was able to rejoice in it. It took that to make her see that she was not in love with him—she never was. And had she married him there would have been no way out even if she did realize it. When she focused on the positives it seemed to dull the pain in her side and make her more eager to begin life again.
After some amount of unknown time she was able to move with much less pain, and although it was still painful, she could walk small distances and dress more easily. She thought it was time to go to her flat now to finish with her recovery and get out of Erik's way. She decided to propose this question while he brought her a steaming bowl of minestrone.
"How long has it been since I came here?" she asked, feigning disinterest.
Erik blinked. "Why do you want to know? Are you eager to leave?"
"No—not at all—well—" she sighed. "I should leave but my stay here has been most pleasant and I couldn't have asked for a better caretaker or environment to get well in. But I know I have imposed on your courtesy far too long and I don't want to overstay my welcome even more."
"It is no inconvenience. You barely eat and require little else." He sighed as well. "But I shall not force you to stay. You have been here a fortnight and two days. Tomorrow you may leave. I shall prepare your medications that you will take with you."
Without letting her get in another word, he left her bedroom. She realized the carelessness of her words. Erik was the type of person who would get offended if you offered to leave, even if you were doing so to ease his burden. He took it personally, which was only a result of low self-esteem and irrational self-loathing.
She wanted to stay, of course. Even though her maid and Erik were equally as silent, Erik was a wonderful doctor and provided beautiful music, and when in a good mood, he could be great company. But it would be rude to stay so long when she was capable of moving back to her little flat. She woke the next morning to a wonderful cup of steaming tea and a moody Erik.
"Since you are so eager to go we can leave as soon as you finish eating," he snapped.
She wanted to tell him that she did not want to leave, but that would be even more impolite since she had already told him she would go. She responded with a meek nod instead.
"Where is your flat?" he asked.
She gave him the address and brief directions from the opera house.
"I will come to check on you in a few days to see how you are coming along. It will not be too long until you will be able to sing again, but you will still need to keep the ribs wrapped up for a while," he finished with a dismissive wave of his hand. "But we can sort that out later."
She nodded again. "Have you heard any news about what is going on in the opera house? Or in Paris?"
Erik looked sheepish. "I did not want to tell you this before because I did not want to discourage you…but your managers are not too pleased with you."
She raised her eyebrows questioningly.
"There is a little chorus girl—Marie Langille—whose father bought her way in to take the role of Prima Donna until you return. The managers have taken a liking to her—or, rather, the influx of money that came with her. Her father is ridiculously wealthy. Firmin particularly did not like your unexpected absence, and was not too impressed with your excuse either. Andre complained that you were too much of a hassle, caused too much drama. He seemed to be the most irritated of the two." He shook his head, disgusted. "I do not know if they will replace you, that Jardin girl is out of the question as she still hasn't recovered her voice but this girl is their new favorite. If they do replace you it is a ridiculous idea. The whole city loves you. They would make some money from her father, but they would lose even more from lowered attendance rates. If they have any sense at all they will welcome you with open arms when you return."
"I hope you are right," Christine sighed. "I do not know where to go if they don't have me back."
Erik looked sympathetic. "Do not worry about it, Christine. They wouldn't think of replacing you unless they wanted to lose all their business."
Pulling herself slowly into a sitting position, Christine sighed. "Let's hope so."
Erik offered her his hand and helped her out of bed. This was the first time she had stood for a while and her knees wobbled weakly. He immediately drew closer to her, placing one hand on her arm and the other around her waist to support her.
"I have your things with me," he said. "And I will escort you to your flat."
She nodded but did not thank him as the last time she had done so he had not reacted favorably.
What had once seemed a moderate journey now felt like a hike up the Alps. They were climbing the five flights of stairs—Erik with his usual ease and Christine with great trouble. The muscles in her legs were weak from days of neglect and she still felt pain every time her lungs pushed against the damaged rib. She didn't want to beg for help though so she toiled in silence until they reached the door.
"I will go hail a cab and come back to get you," he instructed, hesitating as though he did not want to leave her alone, but he left nonetheless with a swish of his cloak, only to return a few minutes later. He held his arm out to her which she clutched for support and he led her to the cab. He told the driver the name of the street of her apartment and the sound of the horses hooves soon echoed off the cobbled street. The drive was short, and after he paid the chauffeur she led him to her room.
She had written to her maid and given her a break but had yet to write her again to tell her that she needed her assistance so they were alone. But that was desirable; her maid would be a little frightened of Erik's tall, forbidding figure. And the mask could be rather unnerving.
He set down the bag he had brought with all her medications. "I trust you know how to administer these?" he asked. She replied with the affirmative.
"Good. I will return in three days to check in on you and restock your medicine if needed. By then I will be able to tell you when you may return to the opera."
She spent those days trying to regain her strength by walking through the streets of Paris, and by doing so she found out all the news she had missed while she was underground by flicking through the papers. The De Chagny's had not disclosed anything about the engagement, and Philippe was no longer a member of the family. Mlle. Langille was a disappointment to the critics who saw nothing in her besides beauty, but Erik was not the only one who thought her position might be permanent. Some speculated that she would take Mlle. Daaé's role permanently with the help of an influential father who doted on his daughter. She only hoped that Erik would allow her to sing again soon so that she could return as quickly as possible to try and persuade Andre and Firmin to allow her to stay.
Her recovery was going very speedily. The popped blood vessel in her eye had mended as the bruises around it, and her jaw only had a bit of a purple hue. Her rib was the only major ailment anymore. It did not take very well to walking great distances, but she was beginning to slowly begin to sing again and reintroduce it to the deep breaths that singing required. By the time that those three days had passed she hoped that Erik would permit her to return to the Garnier.
On that appointed day of his visit she gave her maid a day off again to avoid any complications that would come with them meeting. Her flat was very shabby—and even more so when compared to Erik's extravagant home—but she did her best to clean it and make it look the best. This occasion called for her to bring out her best china and the last of her imported tea, reserved for the most special of occasions. He was in good spirits, a rather rare occasion, that was probably due to the relentless downpour drenching the streets of Paris and few people populating them due to that rain. She told him about her daily walks around the streets of Paris and about how she had started to sing again, testing her ability with simple scales and voice exercises. He seemed reluctant, but he gave her his consent to return to the Garnier and speak with the managers on the morrow. She thanked him with great sincerity, knowing that he would have rather kept her shut up for a few more days before allowing her to go back but had relented because of the threat Mlle. Langille posed. Every day she waited, the more jeopardy she put her career in. He promised to be there with her though neither she nor the managers would be able to see him. They arranged to meet in her dressing room at the end of the meeting, and Erik left.
She dispatched a short note with a small boy asking for their private audience at ten tomorrow morning. She gave him a few coins and he was off. He returned later that night bearing an answer from her managers who were very willing to see her. With this favorable answer in her mind she hoped that they would take pity on her and she would be the prima donna once more.