Christine glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time that night. It was getting late and the sun had set. Another late night, she thought wearily. Mr. Murray had yet to find a replacement for Mlle. Varens, so consequently she continued to work both the fittings on the floor and the sewing in the back. She had gotten used to it now; it had been a month. A month since Raoul had come into the tailor shop, and she had yet to see him since. She was in a hurry to finish as quickly as possible, for it was a Saturday night and the crowds at the bars were the roughest on this day of the week. The vast workload in front of her sewing machine steadily vanished and she was free to go. Locking the door, she slipped into the night, alone with only darkness to protect her. It was at times like these when she wished for Erik's forbiddingly tall figure to shield her from unwanted men. She was too poor to be prey for robbers, but there had been a few occasions when she had been mistaken for a whore, and even more times when drunkards had tried to take advantage of her, even though they knew she was not working the streets.
The cold night air bit at her fingers and nose, slowly numbing them. The more reclusive alleys were even filled with rowdy men tonight, and she ducked her head and tried to pass through the shadows unnoticed.
That, however, did not go as planned.
When she glanced up from the cracked cobblestone beneath her booted feet she felt a pair of dark eyes following her. The rest of his body was cloaked in the darkness, but his eyes shone eerily from the blackness surrounding them. An involuntary shiver racked her body and she quickened her pace and returned her gaze to the dirty street. She didn't dare look up again, but she could still sense his purposeful gaze boring through her. Her feet carried her past the men safely, though, and she breathed a sigh of relief, praying a silent prayer of gratitude. Breath that she didn't even know she had been holding in escaped her lips in hurried pants. Humming a sweet little melody now that she was past the most dangerous part of her journey, she let her mind wander.
Accordingly, she didn't notice a man leaning on the brick building she was speedily approaching.
He steeped abruptly out of the shadows and Christine shrieked. One of his hands covered her mouth swiftly, but her eyes continued to express her terror as they stared into the dark ones of her captor.
"Quiet, Mademoiselle," he whispered wearily. "I was hoping you might remember me, but it seems I was mistaken."
He unraveled the wrap that covered his head and stepped into the light provided by a flickering streetlamp.
She had seen his face before, yes, but she couldn't match the face with a name…or anything really.
"It has been a while since I last saw you," he admitted. "We have mutual…friend. M. Erik."
Memories flooded her mind; watching Raoul and this man try and survive the mirrored torture chamber, the same man conversing with Erik in hushed tones once they were out…
"M. Kahn, is it?" she said, stepping towards him. "I'm sorry, but my memory is a little fuddled."
He nodded the affirmative. "Yes, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry for the improper timing, but could I have a quick word? My house is only a block form here and I would escort you back to your flat if you would like."
She consented with a few words. It was late and she should have deferred their conversation to a late date, but he looked uneasy and troubled so she had agreed. Her curiosity had driven her to acquiesce as well. His anxiety worried her and she knew he would not have talked to her had it not been necessary; he had never before contacted her.
He set off, bidding her to follow him. She stayed close to his side, thankful for how his presence quelled the drunks loitering about in the street. They returned their attention to their bottles of whiskey once they saw the tall, dark man that hovered by her side.
They walked quickly and arrived at his home in a few minutes. Upon entering his house, she was overwhelmed with the rich smell of foreign spices. The interior was richly decorated, but not gaudy, with authentic rugs and furniture. She hardly felt like she was in Paris anymore; like the door she had just walked through had magically transported her to Persia.
"Go ahead and sit down, I'll make some tea," he said, nodding at one of the armchairs that was in the room adjoining the kitchen. She perched on the edge of the chair and he joined her shortly with two steaming cups of sweet smelling tea. She took a tentative sip of the unfamiliar drink and her taste buds danced in delight, relishing the ginger flavor sweetened with a bit of honey.
"Doubtlessly you must be quite confused as to why I asked you to join me here tonight. Again I apologize for my timing; I didn't know when I would see you again and the matters which I discuss with you are…important."
She nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"I was going to ask you if you had heard from Erik recently."
Her interest heightened, she replied, "No, I have not."
He sighed, thoughtfully tracing the rim of his teacup with a slender forefinger. "I thought so. You see, I have not either. He often invites himself to my home," he joked, smiling to relieve some of the tension in the room and easing Christine's worries slightly, "but I have not had the honor to be graced with his presence for some time. The last time I saw him he promised to return the following day but he paid me no visit. After not hearing from him for a week and receiving no answer to my letter, I grew worried and let myself in through the Rue Scribe—a liberty which I do not often take for Erik does not like surprises as you most likely already know.
"He was nowhere to be seen and the lair was an absolute pig-sty, everything coated in a fresh film of dust. Some essential items were missing but he left most in neglect. Obviously he had left. I know he is very well capable of taking care of himself, but the haste in which he left made me concerned for his safety; he has done many rash things when angered."
Christine was frightened. "And—and you haven't heard from him?" she gulped, already knowing the answer. He shook his head gravely. "I—I haven't seen him in a very long while either," she admitted, feeling a hard lump form in the back of her throat. Hot tears stung at her eyes. "I don't even recall how long it has been—two months? Or three?" she felt terrible. "I was…sick," she began with a lie, she really had been wounded from Raoul's fit but Nadir did not need to know that, "and he was helping me to recover. It was an acute illness so I hadn't been to the Garnier for quite some time. My understudy had taken on my role and once I was healthy again I arranged to meet with my managers to secure my position as prima donna again. We met, and they told me that they permanently fulfilled the role. I was planning on keeping my engagement with Erik, but when I went to my dressing room my replacement was there and had already converted the room to hers. I was ashamed, in tears, and had no means to meet him so I went to my flat. I secured a job as a seamstress. Knowing he would be disappointed in me I didn't contact him, for I was too humiliated. And I haven't seen him since…" she tailed off tearfully.
The Persian's dark eyes softened. "Do not worry, Mlle. Daeé. Erik has constantly been pulling things like this. With such an unpredictable temper he always makes rash decisions, but has always been fine. I'll find him," he assured her.
She eyed him doubtfully. "How could you know where he is?"
"I know his most frequented haunts, if you will," he said. "It is only a matter of time before I find him."
She nodded, collected herself, and was about to thank him for the tea and head home—it was quite late now—but a fresh wave of tears streamed from her swollen eyes.
"I just—I'm worried. He leaves for no reason—what if it was not of his own accord? What if someone captured him? He has no reason to leave Paris!" she spluttered, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.
"Oh, I do think there was a motive. You see—" here he stopped suddenly, seeming to catch himself before saying something he shouldn't. "Well," he continued evasively "I'll save that one for another day—after I find him."
This did not help to cure her increasing worry and she had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from outright begging to know. Instead she settled with a small nod and said, "I trust you, M. Kahn. I'm just so worried...if anything—if anything happens to him I will be forever tormented by the fact that I left him waiting for me when I shouldn't have, and—oh it's just a mess!" she cried miserable, flinging her hands in the air in distress.
Nadir brought his chair closer to hers and put a hand on her shaking shoulder comfortingly. "Don't fret, Mlle. Daeé. I will find him, I swear."
She nodded, collecting herself. "I'm sorry—I doubt you thought that having me in for tea would involve me crying helplessly did you?"
"Do not think anything of it," he consoled her. "Your account has helped me immensely."
She did not believe it but did not press the matter either. "Thank you for the tea," she said weakly, standing up unsteadily.
"And thank you for obliging me at such an inconvenient time," he replied warmly. "Shall I see you back to your flat?"
"No, it is very kind of you, but I will be fine on my own." She was embarrassed of her current living situation—her measley apartment was In the bad side of town—it was cheap—and the interior was nothing to boast of either. It was shabby and not very well furbished, and it certainly needed a good cleaning that she hadn't had the time to give it.
He was not convinced and she had to persuade him for another good five minutes that she was quite capable of walking a few blocks, and even then he was still rather uneasy about letting her go on her own. She told him that his fretting was only delaying her leaving even more, and he could not contradict that. He helped her with her cloak and saw her to the door with the air of a true gentleman. Parting with the promise to notify her as soon as he caught wind of Erik, he closed the door behind her, still looking apprehensive about the thought of her traversing the dangerous Parisian streets alone.
Thankfully her trip home was rather uneventful—most of the men must have either passed out or found some other girl to entertain them. When she collapsed on her bed after a quick—and cold—bath, she was exhausted. Her mind buzzed with unanswered questions concerning a certain masked man, and the more she thought about it the more worried she became. She tried to clear her mind unsuccessfully, and when sleep finally did rescue her from her agitated thoughts it cursed her with horrible nightmares, all resulting in the end of the life of the man who had occupied her thoughts.
AN: aww, poor Christine. I'm not being very nice to her, am I? She will certainly be rewaded fo going through all of this ^.^